More than a Trim

September 2nd, 2010

“The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself…”

~ Jane Austen’s Emma

“Not too much off—just so it’s grazing my shoulders, please,” I said.

“Like hers?” she answered, gesturing at the stylist working two stations down.

“Perfect.”

I watched chunks of hair fall on the floor and knew that the only way my hair was going to reach my shoulders was if I tilted my head to one side and stretched a section as straight and tight as I could. Oh well, I’ll have the cut I asked for by Christmas.

So I have bad hair. It couldn’t come at a better time. I’ve been struggling with two things lately, pride and authenticity. My ugly, short hair is a symbol (I make everything a symbol), a reminder of what does and doesn’t matter.

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Pilgrim in My Front Yard

August 30th, 2010

“Instead of going rigid, I go calm. I center down wherever I am; I find a balance and repose. I retreat—not inside myself, but outside myself, so that I am a tissue of senses. Whatever I see is plenty, abundance. I am the skin of water the wind plays over; I am petal, feather, stone.” ~ Annie Dillard while stalking muskrats at Tinker Creek

There are four small butterflies hovering over the withered, late summer blooms in our little garden in front. At this point in the season, they are the most cheerful things out there.

If I were Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974) writer Annie Dillard, I would’ve looked up what type of butterfly they are, and I could tell you their Latin name. (She couldn’t google back then; I could if I had more of that “holy curiosity” Einstein warns us to hold on to.) If I were her, I would have investigated what these particular butterflies eat and what eats them, their mating habits, whether they carry any parasitic insects and where they lay their eggs. I also would’ve won the Pulitzer Prize.

Alas, Annie Dillard I am not.

Since this merry winged quartet is hanging around only fifteen feet or so from my front door, greeting me several times a day as I cut through the garden lugging in groceries or Sadie or both, I have grouped them in a decidedly non-scientific category, a sentimentalized species called All Things House. For the last few weeks I’ve made pets out of them, sort of, deciding their wild frenzy of fluttering is just for me, an extension of the home I love to come back to. I have an affection for the sound of my step on the wooden porch, the very feel of the pretty but cantankerous crystal doorknob, and, now, the butterflies.

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Farewell to Summer

August 22nd, 2010

“Ah, summer what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” ~ Russell Baker

“Tomorrow at this time it will all be over,” my Nana used to say every year at some point on Christmas Day. I hated that.

School starts in the morning, and as I counted down the weeks, which quickly became days,  and today the days became hours, I didn’t utter a word to my brood, but every bone in my bone was aching with, It’s over, summer’s gone…

No more late-night canasta lessons (the grandparents taught the twins and they’re teaching us), no more pancakes in our pajamas at nine-thirty, no reading marathons that go on all afternoon. We’ve gone through four cans of sunscreen spray and gallons of ice cream and half a box of Band-Aids, and we’re the richer for it.

Usually I am the mom who watches the school bus pull away, trying not to do a victory dance right there in the driveway. Summer with three kids, one of them with special needs, can be tricky, to say the least.  This is especially true for a mother who loves to write to the sound of a clock ticking on the mantel and take long walks alone and can’t stand tripping over toys all over the floor. And I’m no fan of hot and humid—who is by the end of August?

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Making Scenes

August 21st, 2010

“Here at the magic hour
Time and eternity
Mingle a moment in chorus
Here at the magic hour
Bright is the mystery
Plain is the beauty before us
Could this beauty be for us?”
~ from “The Magic Hour” by Andrew Peterson and Don Chaffer

Dipping her toes into the water, Lanier, wearing huge movie star sunglasses to match her Grace Kelly-style bathing suit, sipped her frozen coffee concoction and wondered out loud if 18th century Gothic novelist Ann Radcliff had ever been discussed in a poolside setting.

“Maybe not since the 1930s,” said Jenijoy, who had orchestrated the afternoon at a friend’s pool for our little book club.

“I can’t even see Laura and Lanier over there because of Rachel’s hat!” interjected Louise. The hat, a big white floppy affair, made Rachel look like a “moonflower,” Lanier said.

But it wasn’t Rachel’s fault—Jenijoy is the one who supplied the sun hats. And fluffy white beach towels. And 1960s loungey type music and frozen grapefruit aperitifs and a table set with vintage linens and glassware. And no afternoon at the pool is complete without giant pink caladium leaves and ferns floating elegantly in the water.

We are a quirky assemblage of six that sets out to make pimento cheese sandwiches and 95 degree heat somewhat glamorous. We try, anyways.

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Grandfathered In

August 15th, 2010

My pantry is as respectable as any other youngish suburbanite’s—stocked with whole wheat flour, agave nectar, organic peanut butter, flax seeds. But, from time to time, on the bottom shelf toward the back, I’ll slip in a dirty little secret: Chips Ahoy, Cheetos, even Pop Tarts.

I can’t help it. I am a child of the seventies, a beautiful time to be a kid, when moms packed things like Twinkies in lunchboxes and Tang was considered nutritious. At least on TV, Stove Top stuffing meant “I’m staying,” and Entenmann’s donuts were, in some houses (alas not mine), considered an acceptable accompaniment to scrambled eggs. Nobody worried (much) about MSG, trans fats or corn syrup. We just ate.

Today, I think if somebody served me, for the first time, a steaming bowl of Hamburger Helper, I’d think it was disgusting. But that powdery, phony beef stroganoff taste rings familiar. It’s grandfathered in.

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Dripping with Holiness

August 10th, 2010

“Christ above me, Christ beneath me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.”
~ from St. Patrick’s Breastplate, 5th century

My head is still reeling from this past weekend’s conference hosted by artists who are Christians. I have a notebook full of scribbling and a full heart, too. My cup was running over. In fact, as my dear friend, L., said, it was like “drinking water from a fire hydrant.”

It got me to thinking… too many things to ever hash out here. But there is one theme that has been echoing through my mind for the last year. The beauty of it breaks my heart. And yet it’s so obvious: God is everywhere.

Most of us learned that in Sunday school when we were four, I know. But somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, we forget. We deny. Or we fail to see.

We are not living in a Godless age. There’s no such thing.

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Kicked Out of the Kitchen

August 10th, 2010

“Remember if you are alone in the kitchen, who is going to see you?” ~ Julia Child

Not all TV is bad. After what I experienced tonight, I would say to those without one: Get thyself to a Best Buy.

The twins are way into the Food Network—it’s the only thing they watch. While I fail to see the entertainment value, my stomach has reaped the rewards.

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Immersion Therapy

August 2nd, 2010

 “The dusky glen laid cool hands on him. He rolled up the hems of his blue denim breeches and stepped with bare dirty feet into the shallow spring. His toes sunk into the sand. It oozed softly between them and over his bony ankles. The water was so cold that for a moment it burned his skin. Then it made a rippling sound, flowing past his pipe-stem legs, and was entirely delicious.”  ~ Jody at the spring in Marjorie Rawlings’ The Yearling

Last night was a victory against my worries over our waning attention spans. I read The Yearling to Emma and Maggie for more than an hour. So engrossed were we that we could’ve kept going, but the spouse came up in his pajamas and announced the beginning of Mad Men on TV. My throat was as dry as toast, and he bribed me with a cup of tea, so I shut the book despite the girls’ groaning.

It’s delicious to be so absorbed in a story. I don’t like what I fear spending time on the computer or playing Wii or even watching the cooking channel might be doing to our brains. The twins know to ask their dad, when possible, to do these things, as I almost always say no. “Go outside!” I bark. But it’s 120 degrees in the shade, so they trudge in after ten minutes and go back to the tower of library books on their bedside table.

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The Waiting Room

July 31st, 2010

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” – Juliana of Norwich

Every time we take Sadie to the hospital for something outpatient and routine and non-invasive, I feel humbled by and maybe a little ashamed of the gratitude I feel. We’re not staying, I think, as I watch bald children in bathrobes being pushed in wheelchairs or parents with worried faces cradling little ones in their arms. I can’t imagine what they might be going through, even though I’ve been there under duress.

The other morning we made one of those ordinary visits. But while we sat in the big waiting room waiting to register, something extraordinary happened. It didn’t start out that way: a hospital employee came up and asked me if I thought it was too hot. Obviously, she was warm and wanted to gather a consensus so the air could be turned up. Was I hot? “Well, let’s just say I’m not cold,” I said, winking at her. She chuckled. Sitting behind me, the lady holding an infant had a different answer: “All is well.” She kept repeating it, chanting it almost.

“All is not well,” the hospital lady said, her tone suddenly shifting. “What if I told you my mother is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s?” My head was spinning. How did these two get here from a conversation about the temperature in the waiting area?

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Our Father…

July 26th, 2010

St. Luke’s

Abwûn
Oh Thou, from whom the breath of life comes,

d’bwaschmâja
who fills all realms of sound, light and vibration.

Nethkâdasch schmach
May Your light be experienced in my utmost holiest.

Têtê malkuthach.
Your Heavenly Domain approaches.

Nehwê tzevjânach aikâna d’bwaschmâja af b’arha.
Let Your will come true – in the universe
just as on earth.

Hawvlân lachma d’sûnkanân jaomâna.
Give us wisdom for our daily need,

Waschboklân chaubên wachtahên aikâna
daf chnân schwoken l’chaijabên.
detach the fetters of faults that bind us,
like we let go the guilt of others.

Wela tachlân l’nesjuna
Let us not be lost in superficial things,

ela patzân min bischa.
but let us be freed from that what keeps us off from our true purpose.

Metol dilachie malkutha wahaila wateschbuchta l’ahlâm almîn.
From You comes the all-working will, the lively strength to act,
the song that beautifies all and renews itself from age to age.

Amên.
Sealed in trust, faith and truth.

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