Family, Home, Together 

Gratefulness wrapped up in a package of times together. Take the time to pay attention, an attempt to really see, to listen, to be all present with them all.

• Family - together around the table
• re-reading the poem above the sink : Dirty dishes = evidence of blessing (and we have dirty dishes to prove the blessings)
• "Cling to JOY: audacious and unbridled joy, that looks for light in every thing, even in your waiting."  -Morgan Harper Nichols
• R and J - so sweet, so much fun. Grandbabies delight
• Duolingo French - start learning something new
• reading Beth Chatto - Drought Resistant Planting - her plant/word pictures are amazing, love her perspective
• first freeze, first snow - fall days becoming winter
• "While sight is an ability, seeing remains an art." Hidden Half of Nature
• finished two books I've been stalled on - now, on to more interesting reading
• fall leaves dancing, spinning on the freeway like a choreographed ballet
• time with the girls - their stories and challenges and smiles
• concert - Idina Mendez, Josh Groban, wow! amazing, inspiring, beautiful
• diving headfirst into NaNoWriMo - accepting the challenge, willing to make the change to daily writing
• C to vet - simple, easy, except she's so scared, leaned on A
• a fun flute lesson - more play than work
• W's surgery (dog) - long recovery for a recalcitrant patient
• W's reversals - backwards more than forward healing progress
• J here!
• Gift of time thru disappointment (3 day delay in arrival)
• Half-way, NaNoWriMo word count
• P and J here
• SSKB here
• Thanksgiving thankfulness
• full house
• request for gardening articles in PWView
• article in newspaper and From Ground Up out on the same day
• flute rehearsal with professional pianist and pro flutist, fun!
• emails with Jane - appreciate her!
• NaNoWriMo accomplished!
• next day, began new novel
• six broccoli plants still alive, even with the crazy cold
• Cheyenne Mntn Electric Safari with TVES, counting animal shaped lights, found 70, supposedly 85 but didn't ride tramway to the top.

Four Seasons in Rome

No, I'm not headed off to Rome for a year.

Anthony Doerr did, as part of a year-long artist fellowship he won. He, his wife and six month old twin boys traveled from their home in Idaho to an unknown apartment in an unknown city in an unknown culture speaking an unknown language (except the four hour crash course in Italian he took on a Saturday morning before they left). The journal he kept during that year became this book, Four Seasons in Rome.

"A good journal entry - like a good song, or sketch, or photograph - ought to break up the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought to be a love letter to the world."

The stories of their walk through the four seasons there, a few blocks from the Vatican, is subtitled, On Twins, Insomnia, and the Biggest Funeral in the World. Beyond recording the events, the adjustments, and the challenges, the book, for me, is a lesson in How-to-Journal.

"A journal entry is for its writer; it helps its writer refine, perceive, and process the world."

The five senses are recorded throughout - a means he uses to process his memories, and a vibrant way for the reader to be involved in the scenes he records. Sights, smells, tastes, touch, and sounds - all carefully, thoughtfully woven through his words. Standing shoulder to shoulder with mourners as the pope dies, and later, pushing their double stroller through the crowd of celebrants as the new pope is chosen. Describing to a baker, the rich bread smells around them, the focaccia bread he wants to order, misunderstanding the frustration, realizing later he was asking, in his broken Italian, for grapefruit sauce. Discovering new foods, making new friends, listening to the language, learning to understand it. Hunting down those vivid details, linking them together to build a sequence of thought, to "stay alert to the miracles of the world."

"A year is an infinity of perceptions: not just the shapes of starlings and the death of the pope and watching our sons learn to walk, but the smell of roasting meat in an alley, the dark brown eyes of a beggar on a church step, a single dandelion seed settling soundlessly onto the habit of a nun who is riding the train. This year has been composed of a trillion such moments; they flood the memory, spill over the edge of journal entries. What is it physicists tell us? Even in a finite volume, there are an infinite number of points."

In a way, this is discouraging. An infinite number of points? How could I ever catch them all? But that's not the point. Grab one. Grab two. Catch three. Record those vivid details, link together the sentences that help a reader (and me, the writer!) to see, smell, touch, taste and hear a world of beauty and miracles.

Anthony Doerr quotes Marilynne Robinson,

"There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient."

I think of Mary Oliver's poem,

"PAY ATTENTION
BE ASTONISHED
TELL ABOUT IT." 

Keeping a journal has been important to me for years. I have a box of old journals stashed in a closet. Never for publication, but for me to thumb back through if I am looking for notes, or find when something happened, or just for browsing. This book, Four Seasons in Rome, is not only an interesting read of their year as a family, as an artist, as an author, as part of a community, but also of the way he perceived and responded to the world around him, brilliant at capturing those images, and how he stayed alert to the miracles of the world. Now, when I write in my journal, I pay attention - not just recording feelings (as in emotions), but capturing a moment in time, using the senses as a means of paying attention, and searching for the right words.

I tried to find a good example of how he incorporates the senses in his sentences. It is an overall impression he leaves. I would call his journals, Impressionistic Journaling. Like the impressionist painters that paint in various dots and smudges and blends of color, but leave a distinct image on the canvas, he paints images with his words that leave a distinct image. Powerful, beautiful writing.

"Everything is radiant. Distant trees toss, faraway walls gleam. The mountains at the horizon have switched on like streetlights, stark and defined, giving way to more distant ranges.
Then everything goes dark again, the clouds knitted together, the mountains sucked back into silhouette, Rome sinking into shadow."

The Road Less Traveled

The Road Not Taken

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

This poem, by Robert Frost, is a favorite. I have probably quoted it here, before.

We found this painting at a thrift store, and "had" to add it to our collection of mountain paintings, destined for our cabin walls once they are finished, beyond the stud stage.  

Since the time change, I have noticed new lighting patterns, the shift of the sun's position and the timing of the sun glow across the walls and floors. Right now, the evening sun shafts across this road, framing it in gold, making what is around that corner almost visible.

Our cabin in the mountains could be right around that corner, the road, its invitation to come and stroll, to welcome the quiet, or hear the wind waves through the trees. 

Signed Stanley Awbrey, 1973, it could have been painted on the road we take, the road to our cabin, one autumn day. I imagine a few deer strolled by while he sat and painted, a chipmunk paused a moment to watch, and blue jays chattered overhead at his plen-air intrusion into their quiet world. I have no idea who Stanley Awbrey is, or where he is now, or what he was like, but I am grateful he took the time to create this moment, preserved in time, for us to enjoy years later.

If I could be like Edmund and Lucy and Eustace and jump into a picture, this would be it. Oh, wait. We do jump into this painting when we go to the mountains, creating our place, there. This reminds me what a privilege that is, and I am grateful.

Silly Puppy

I wrote the following clip years ago as part of a novel that now sits in a box in the closet. Yes, I should polish it up and send it out, but that's another story. Anyway, in this clip, Libby is dealing with grief and family conflicts. She begins working with a neighbor, an older woman named Oliver (her last name, but she said her friends call her Oliver, so that's what she wants Libby to call her). Libby helps her around the house and with her home business, after Oliver has an accident.

At that time, I had not experienced a dog with separation anxiety. I made up what I thought a silly, confused dog would do when it was alone and worried. Well, since then, we adopted a dog with these struggles, my parents adopted a dog with challenges, and recently our son and a friend of mine both adopted dogs with these issues. Being left alone is traumatic for them. I guess it is common in shelter, rescue dogs, who have been abandoned for whatever reasons.

Have you dealt with these problem dogs? I asked our vet, and he said, "Give them time and security." Well, that isn't easy if you have to go somewhere and leave them alone. Even for a quick trip out, a short time alone, they panic and do crazy things. One solution I have heard is go for daily walks. The exercise is beneficial on many levels (for the person, too), and they return to the familiar security of their new home. Afraid I am not consistent on this one - this is one of my goals for 2016. Do you know of other, successful ways to deal with separation anxiety?



SILLY PUPPY

Oliver, seeing Libby struggle to keep back the tears, asked if she could tell her a little story.

"Of course," said Libby.

"Once upon a time," Oliver chuckled, and Libby had to smile at the silly beginning. "A young dog came to live with a young family. He worked hard at learning what was expected of him, and found that it was really quite easy to do what he was told. Except for one thing. When they left him alone, he became very unhappy, and very forgetful. He forgot that he wasn't supposed to drink out of the toilet, and he wasn't supposed to chew up the towels (they were so much fun to pull off the rods and rip to shreds), and he wasn't supposed to drag the newspaper all over the house. When his people got home, he tried to show them how glad and relieved he was that they were back, but all they did was scold and punish him. So, he became more afraid of times they would leave him. Not the best doggie logic," Oliver said in digression, "But a dog can't be expected to understand everything."

"Back to the story. One day they left him and didn't come back. Not at his dinner time, not when it got dark, and not when it was bedtime. He ripped up two towels and pulled the rest off the wall. He spread newspaper all the way down the hall. Which came in handy when he needed to do his business. He drank half the toilet water and drooled all the way onto the hall rug. But the newspaper absorbed some of it. He was so bored he took a nap." Libby laughed, picturing the dog's antics through the house.

"He became more afraid, the longer his people were gone. He became more forgetful, and forgot he wasn't supposed to howl in the house. The howling made him feel better. At least it wasn't so quiet anymore. When he stopped howling, it was fearfully quiet, so he howled some more."

Oliver paused, while the sound of the fearful quiet settled around them. "Now, dogs don't think in words, I guess, but they seem to sometimes. He wondered where his people were, and why they didn't come home to him. Maybe they were afraid of the mess they'd find when they got here? No, that couldn't be it. Maybe they got lost? Maybe they needed directions to get back? He howled louder so they could hear him and find their way home."

Libby laughed out loud. The silly dog filled her with a vivid picture of intensity and confusion and loneliness. "Oh, Oliver, what does he do? What does he figure out?"

"Well, using typical doggie logic," Oliver grinned back at her, "He decided to try to get out of the house. Not to escape or leave, of course, but to go and find his people and help them get home. Get home to him, to his house."

"He jumped at the front door, which was locked and secure. He scratched and dug at the back door, and pushed at the little door he usually used to get to the yard, but the flap was tightly shut and wouldn't budge. He wandered around the house, wondering what to do next. A cool breeze rustled across his ears. A window must be open, but where? He ran upstairs to the little girls' room. The window. It was open."

"He jumped onto the bed, and found he could reach the windowsill with his paws and look out. Hmmm. A long way down."

Libby laughed again the the dog's thoughts anticking at the window.

Oliver continued, "This story is fun. It keeps growing, but I'd better get to the point."

"You've made me laugh and cry because it is so funny. It feels good to have tears, and not because I'm so unhappy. Thanks. I needed that," said Libby.

"Then, mission accomplished. I'll stop now."

"No, no! You have to tell me what that crazy dog does next. You have to."

"As he is looking down the street, lights come around the corner. Of course, they attract his attention, and he watches them. They get closer to his house, and slow down, and then the lights stop in front of his house. He can't see the car from his window, but he hears a familiar voice, then several familiar voices, and realizes it is his people."

"Does he think to run out of the room, down the hall, and to the front door? No. He tries and tries to get out the window, to jump out and go see them. He begins barking and howling, desperate to get to his people. But he can't do it."

"Since he is so busy barking, he doesn't hear the children come down the hall. Suddenly their voices are right behind him, telling him to stop the ruckus and get off the bed. Another rule he'd forgotten."

"He leaps at them, knocking them over and expressing his enthusiasm and joy with all the wiggles and waggles he can muster. The children laugh and tumble with him. When the parents come to the room, it is to remind them it is late and to get ready for bed. He tries to greet them in the same manner, but it isn't received as eagerly."

"The mom lets him out the back door, but now he doesn't want to go. He wants to stay with them, inside. She boots him out, though, he takes care of business and runs back in through the doggie door to greet them all with fresh enthusiasm."

"In his doggie understanding, he just hadn't been able to see that with patience, they would have come home, that it wasn't all his antics that brought them back. All he knew was, that now they were home and he was happy again."

Oliver stopped the story with a flourish of her hand, like closing the pages of a book. Libby smiled, her mind absorbed in the story and mercifully distracted for awhile from her own panic and frustration at life's frightening twists and turns.

our silly puppy

A Messy Thanksgiving

This short story is a re-post from three years ago

Monday

Sandy finished the Thanksgiving grocery shopping in the pet department, piling two ten pound bags of peanuts on the already overloaded grocery cart. She smiled. No one would be able to guess what I am going to do with these, she thought.

At home, she organized the food, checked off her lists. This Thanksgiving dinner for eighteen would appear effortless. But, of course, it wasn’t. The work happened now, before. She had separate lists, all organized and thought out, what preparations needed to be made in what order. Some of the family would be arriving late Wednesday night and she wanted to be ready, then.

With the wood floors swept, the furniture moved back against the walls, she turned her dining room table at an angle, assembled the two folding tables and pushed them end to end at an angle across her dining room and living room.

At three o’clock the stake bed truck pulled up out front. She met the two delivery guys at the door.

“Where do you want these bales, ma’am?”

“In here, by these tables.”

“Inside the house, ma’am?” His eyebrows disappeared under the hair hanging over his forehead.

“Yes, they will be the seats for our Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Inside. Really? You know these straw bales are dusty, dirty, messy, right?”

Sandy laughed. “Of course. Yes, bring them in here, please, four on this side, four on the other side. Thank you.”

“Okay, whatever you say. It’s your house.” The tough delivery guys looked at each other and shrugged.

As the bales were moved, wisps of straw floated around.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“No problem, that’s exactly what I want. Messy.”

“My wife would have a fit.”

Sandy laughed again. She wanted an unusual, a casual atmosphere. Unique. A memory. And they didn’t know about the peanut shells, broken open, scattered around. She felt like a giddy girl planning a surprise party for a special friend. A party where everyone has a good time and laughter echoes off the walls accompanied by the music of happy talk. Okay, she thought, maybe I am dreaming and being unrealistic. We haven’t had a peaceful family get together in quite awhile. Someone takes offense, someone irritates someone else, criticism flares. But, it is worth a try. I will do my part, and hope.

Everything would be white or canvas or gold. Enough color, just in the food. And the people.  The gold colored straw looked pretty scattered across the wood floor.  She pulled more pieces off the bales and scattered them around. Then, she covered the bales with canvas drop cloths, their edges tucked in underneath. They would be heavy enough to prevent straw poking seated bottoms. Another couple of longer drop cloths covered the tables, hanging down the sides. Gold spray painted gourds were placed randomly on the table.

 Oh, napkins. She forgot to buy white cloth napkins. Well, on Wednesday, when she picked up the flowers, she could go to the store and get the nicer, heavy, white paper ones. They would do. She added them to the list.

Tuesday

When Sandy walked down the hall into the living room Tuesday morning, she wondered what her husband, Jim would think of their house. He was away on a business trip until Wednesday afternoon. By then, she would have it all set up and messy beautiful. Her email invitations said, “Boots and jeans.” But would they imagine just how casual she meant it to be?  The floor needed more peanut shells, just like at their favorite pizza restaurant. In fact, she thought, that is where they should go for dinner Wednesday night. She would take Jim out to dinner. Get a few more ideas. Her son and his wife and the grandkiddos wouldn’t get in until late. She and Jim would have plenty of time to relax over dinner, talk about his trip, and enjoy some time together before the long weekend.

After her coffee and oatmeal, she spread the three lists out on the island, leaned on her elbows, her shirt sleeves rolled up, chin cupped in her hands. One list for what would bake in the oven. One for food that would be prepared and stored in the refrigerator.  One for menus, with added ideas for meals the rest of the weekend using leftovers. The tasks were already in order, prioritized by length of prep time and use of the oven. Normally she wasn’t quite so OCD, but she wanted this Thanksgiving to be easy breezy.  Certain people conflicts in the family had lightened up over the past year and she wanted, desperately, to be sure they stayed that way. But, not to worry. For now, start the pie crusts and mix the pumpkin bread. Turn on the oven.

Between tasks, waiting for the timer to ding, Sandy worked on the table. At each place setting she set out white plates. For place cards, she marked peanuts with a dark brown Sharpie, the letters of each person’s name. If the letters didn’t come out quite right, she smashed the shells and threw them on the floor. It wasn’t easy. She tried to make them fancy, ornate with swirly lines and flourishes. The bumpy shells were not a good writing surface, but she wanted to keep the theme. She decided that messy looked just as good, and it was better to fit each name on one peanut if she could. She experimented. Greg. Kendra. David. The longest name was Jessica. That took two peanuts. As she practiced and improved, the crunched, empty peanut shells deepened on the floor.

All day, the dishes rotated from island to sink full of soapy water and back again. Pie crusts baked. Pumpkin and cranberry breads ready to go in next. Sweet potatoes cooked, mixed, plopped into the baking pan, refrigerated until Thursday. Broccoli steamed, cheese sauce mixed, refrigerated in its glass baking pan. Water boiled, jello mixed with fruit, half of it chilled, then the other layer added and chilled. One by one, the items checked off her list. She wiped up flour and spills and splatters, then made more as she worked.

For a late lunch, she made a sandwich and sat in the big chair tucked into the corner to admire her decorations, absorb the yummy smells. Bake the pies, almost done. She relaxed, imagined the room full of happy, comfortable people. To her, this work, this weekend, was about reaching across the distance that was measured in more than miles.

As she was sliding the last pie shell full of liquid pumpkin on to the rack, her hand slipped, the pie tilted and spilled on the hot oven floor. It sizzled and smoked. Quickly, she set the pie on the counter and reached over to shut off the oven. That would have to cool before she could clean it out, then reheat it. She didn’t want the smell of burned pie overpowering the other wonderful aromas and interfere with baking the turkey Thanksgiving morning. She left the oven door open to cool faster. Well, it won’t take that long, she thought. She checked over her lists again. Almost done.  Not too bad, only one major mess to repair, then finish cleaning up the kitchen.

The cat came down the hall and stepped into the living room. She stopped and sat, looking around at the changes, unsure. She decided it was safe, took a few steps into the room. A peanut shell crunched under her foot. With the foot held in mid-air, she froze, like a dog at point, then turned and ran back to the bedroom. Sandy laughed at her. We won’t have to worry about her coming out here, she thought.

Wednesday

By noon, she felt ready. Almost. A few more tasks on her list, but everything was under control. She had cleaned the bathrooms, made up the guest beds, and swept off the porch, trimming some of the chrysanthemums that still bloomed. The day was cold and cloudy. At least I don’t have to sweep and wash the floors, she thought. She wiped down the front of the refrigerator and the stove and ran a dust cloth over the glass table top next to the couch. She looked forward to seeing the six grandkiddos all together. They hadn’t seen Greg’s twins since June. David, Becky and their two boys lived ten minutes away and they visited often. Jack and Kendra, with their two, Jessica and Ken, lived an hour away, not too far. Greg would be arriving tonight, the others in the morning. A houseful of noisy fun. She liked that.

Three o’clock. One last check of the lists. All crossed off. One trip out. She would stop at the florist to pick up the white osteospermum spoon daisies she ordered. And run into the grocery store to pick up the large white napkins she forgot to buy on Monday. She would tie them into a roll with a piece of twine. Easy and simple.

Later, as she stepped in the door, out of the pouring rain, arms full of flowers and a grocery bag, the phone rang. She set the things down on the table. Dropped her wet coat on a chair.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi Greg. I thought you would be on the road by now.”

“Mom. I am sorry. We are not coming.”

Silence. “You are kidding, right?”

“No, Mom, we are not coming.”

Silence. “Do I get an explanation?”

Greg answered in short, nervous, quick bursts. “Janet decided she wanted to have her own Thanksgiving. You know, in her own home, now that we have moved to this house, she changed her mind, said she wouldn’t come, wanted to stay home, keep the kids here, with her, on her time off from work, for the holiday.”

“Well, that is reasonable, except last minute. What can I say? Is this about not getting along with Kendra?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, you know how they are together. She just said she wanted her own Thanksgiving. Mom, try to understand. I know you will understand. Please don’t be upset at me, or her.”

“I will really miss seeing the twins. I’m sure they have grown since we saw them last.” Sandy sighed. She tried to smile, at least with her words, but it was hard. Seemed these conflicts, lately, made family gatherings like walking on egg shells, afraid to offend, afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid, just afraid. She had wanted this to be different. And she thought it would be. Filled with laughter and fun and relaxed. Oh well, what could she do? Holidays could be messy. “Greg,” she said, “Say hello to the twins from me, and Janet, too, and have a wonderful holiday.” She didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way, a little bit.

“You, too, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”

Sandy hung up the phone. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, looked down the length at the plates, already set, the golden gourds, the pile of flowers she had dumped at the other end. Four empty places. Should she rearrange? Wallow in disappointment? No, she thought, I’ll get the flowers in vases and water. No point in letting this ruin it for me, or for anyone else.

Outside, the rain pelted the windows and the wind whipped the tree limbs. Darkness fell early, the storm clouds wrapping a dark thick blanket over the sky. Again, the phone rang. Sandy looked at it, not wanting to answer. She heard her own voice, the cheerful message on the machine. Then, Jim’s voice.

“Sandy. Guess you are out shopping or something last minute. Our flight has been delayed…”

She grabbed the phone, interrupting his message. “Jim, I am here, sorry.”

“Oh, good, glad you are home. This storm is interfering with flights. I hope Greg will be fine on the road.”

“They are not coming. I’ll tell you later. When do you think you will get in?”

“They said about a two hour delay. I will call you when we board.”

“Okay. I want to take you out to dinner, to the pizza restaurant. I will meet you there, after you land.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call you, soon, I hope.”

“Be careful.”

Someone knocked on the front door. Oh, now who could that be, thought Sandy. She opened the door and saw her neighbor, an older woman she rarely talked to. “Evelyn, come in.” She helped her take off her wet coat.

“I am so sorry to bother you. I know you are very busy.” Evelyn looked at the table. “That is, ah, interesting. Straw bales and peanuts?  Rustic. But the table is pretty. I am so sorry to bother you,” she said again.

“That’s okay. My husband just called to say he would be late. Come sit down.”

“Well, we just had a big tree branch fall on the back of our house. Broke through the patio cover, broke two windows on the back side.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Where is Fred, is he okay?”

“Yes, we were in the living room. I wondered if you have some tarp or something we can put up over the windows. Not too much rain is coming in, but the wind is bad. And the cold.”

“I think so, I will go look in the garage.” She stood up. “Evelyn. I just had a great idea. Our son and his family called to say they are not coming. We have extra beds, all made up, and room at the table, ready. Will you and Fred stay here tonight, and join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

“We couldn’t impose on you like that, don’t be silly.”

“It is not silly at all. Like I said, I have the beds all made, the places for you at the table. It will be much warmer here until you can get the windows fixed. Jim can help you, but with the holiday weekend, it may be a few days before they get fixed. Please, stay with us. That is, if you don’t mind a casual meal. And our kids and grandchildren. I thought the straw bales and peanuts would be fun, for a change. Comfortable.”

“I noticed. Wondered why you were doing that. Most people get all fancy.”

“I will get the tarp, then we’ll go over and ask Fred to come. Please, I want you to come. I know Jim won’t mind. He will be glad to help you fix the tarp when he gets home. Oh.”

“What is it?” asked Evelyn.

“Well, we were going to go out to dinner. I was going to meet him after his plane landed.”

“I have a chili in the crock pot at home. Fred and I could still eat that, and come here after you and Jim get home. I would appreciate it, being able to stay here. It will be cold at our house with that wind and the damp. You are very kind.”

“Actually, it helps me not feel so disappointed that our son isn’t coming. I am glad you can stay with us. Very glad. You can see we have plenty of room for you.” Sandy pointed at the table.

“We will be honored. I wasn’t going to fix anything this year. Too much work for just us. Our kids are all busy, or too far away. We will enjoy being with you, being with your family. Much better than sitting by ourselves. Thank you.”

The scattered straw and peanut shells are evidence of my messy life, but even the messes are worth celebrating and sharing, Sandy thought.  I will accept this. An opportunity to help a neighbor, maybe gain a friend. I can enjoy what we have, use what we have, and share Thanksgiving, thankfully, with family and friends.

a million little ways

Have you heard someone say, "She's a real piece of work." Their eyes narrowed, one hand on a hip, the other hand out, finger pointed, their mouth tight, twisted to one side, their nose, elevated.

Have they said it to you?

Are you searching for value, for dignity? For someone to notice, appreciate you and what you do?

http://bit.ly/15zptkk  (click to see the 1:34 video trailer for her book)

In the brand new book by Emily Freeman, a million little ways, she speaks in her quiet, gentle, graceful (grace full) voice. Not a to-do list of a million things to do. I'm sure you don't need help making that long list. Not lists of ideas of what is art and how to craft it.

 Instead, Emily offers a glimpse into the heart of art. The Creator. A life. A masterpiece. A beautiful creation by a loving Lord. Yes, that would be you.

"...I hope to prove myself a worthy companion, an intuitive observer of the art of God. Still, there is one thing I know for sure: I know you are an image bearer with a job to do. And the simplest description I can come up with for what that means is this: You are art and you make art.
And the only place to begin uncovering what your art looks like is to start right where you are."

She says, "Now, look at Ephesians 2:10. 'For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.'...The English words used in this text - masterpiece, sometimes translated workmanship - these are translations of the original word...poiema. Our English word poem comes from the same Greek word. Workmanship, masterpiece, poem - all these words in Scripture are used to describe God's work - you and me.
"God calls you his workmanship, his poeima. What happens when God writes poetry?
"We do. We happen.
"We are walking poetry, the kind that moves, the kind who has hands and feet, the kind with mind and will and emotion. We are what happens when God expresses himself."

I desperately want to do justice to Emily, to convey to you the heart of her message and encourage you to pursue and learn what she has to offer. The words have layers, like an onion. Peel them back, work deeper, uncover the hidden meanings. And, maybe cry while you are cutting to the heart. One line I particularly appreciate, because it is filled with freedom. "You are a poem, not a robot." Yes, poems have patterns and rules and structure. But also the freedom to create and breathe, heart and soul, within those words.

I could go on quoting, but it would be better if you read the book yourself.

What does this mean for me? How does this change my day, my attitudes, my actions? My art is here. This home, this family, these relationships, as I go through my days, freedom and excitement happen as I create art. Not one perfectly brushed canvas or one perfectly worded manuscript or one perfectly weeded garden, but an expression of who I am, in a million little ways.

Are you a piece of work? Yes, in a wonderful, amazing way.

Thank you, Emily.

The book is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Dayspring.
Emily's blog: www.chattingatthesky.com

I forgot to mention, Bloom Book Club with (in)courage is hosting a series of interviews with Emily, two days a week, now through Nov 21. You can listen in anytime to hear Emily chat about her book and share her inspiration.

Hello There

Hello There! I am new around here.

I love to keep everyone very busy. Then I sleep for awhile.

We went to the vet. That was okay. She was friendly and gave me hugs and a treat. But she said I was only three months. Hmmm, thought I was bigger than that.

The other dog here, she is okay. We are learning how to play together, but sometimes she is grumpy and doesn't want me to sleep next to her. So, when I see her going to lie down, I race to the blanket and lie down across it first. Then, she doesn't have to lie next to me. Aren't I nice?

There are two cats, too. One just sleeps all the time. The first day she hissed at me and I got the message, "Leave me alone." The other cat is more interesting. He hisses at me sometimes, but he is more fun to follow around, kinda chasing him. I guess he doesn't know I'm not going to hurt him, I just want to herd him. Maybe I'll grow up to be a famous cat herder. I'm a Border Collie mix, but haven't found any cows or sheep around here. Guess it will have to be the cats.

They buy me cool doggy toys to keep me busy. But the best toys? A golf wiffle ball - I guess someone is supposed to be practicing their golf game - but I love to toss them off the couch, run and catch them. They are noisy when they bounce on the wood floor, which makes them even more fun.

My people say they love the wood floors. Easy to clean up my accidents. At first, we had trouble. They would open the back door and say, "Go to the bathroom." So, I'd go outside and play, come back inside, run into the bathroom and piddle. They didn't seem to like that. But we are coming to a better agreement now. I do my piddles outside - almost mostly - and they smile and cheer me on. It's a big deal, I guess.

Oh, another really cool toy. It's this box on a small table I can reach. These white paper things stick out of it. I can grab the edge of one with my tiny teeth, pull it out, run to the couch and tear it up. Then, when I go back, there is another paper waiting for me to grab and play with. Perpetual toys, pretty cool entertainment.

Oh, and I am supposed to tell you. The lady here is writing a post about some book, a million little ways, by a cool lady called Emily Freeman (I think she is cool because she has a dog, too). But she (the lady here, that is), is having trouble writing it because she is taking care of me (and the other people and animals in the house) in a million little ways. She'll get it done eventually, bye for now - gotta run - I smell a stinky shoe!

Random Rambles, Part Two

I planted zinnias from seed last spring in the basement. The seeds were saved from our son's yard, collected in the fall. Finally, they are blooming like crazy in pots and in the garden. Bright colors, scattered around the yard, or cut and stuck in a jar in the kitchen, they make a long-lasting arrangement (I stick the flowers in a jar - calling them an arrangement is a very loose term). I remember reading somewhere that zinnias were a favorite for the pioneer women. They would carry the seeds with them, grow the flowers outside their door, nurturing them for their cheerful colors and memories of home, creating a new home where they were.

We are having a blast reading aloud two books I found at the library. The End of the Beginning, and A Beginning, a Muddle, and an End, by Avi. He plays with words, creatively twisting them while he weaves a story about two unlikely characters, "a small snail and an even smaller ant." I love to hear our son giggle when he gets the plays on words. We laugh together, enjoying the light-hearted story.

The ant, Edward, teaches Avon, the snail, a song to sing while they are on their adventure.

 " "One of the better things about it," Edward pointed out, "is the fact that it can be sung from either end. I sing it from the beginning, and my father sings it from the end."
     "Can it be sung from the middle?"
     "Absolutely," said Edward. "That's how my mother always does it. As you can see, we are a family of individuals."
     "Ah, but at least you're all singing the same song," said Avon."
from The End of the Beginning

And, from the end of A Beginning, a Muddle, and an End,
"Avon found a new piece of paper and was about to start writing again when he sighed and said, "I have to admit my thoughts are still in a muddle."
     "Avon!" cried Edward. "That's exactly where a writer should be. After all, creatures generally have nothing to do with their beginnings. And it's not often they consider their ends. But in between there's all that muddle. The writer's job is to write about the muddle."
     "Are you saying," said Avon, "that since I'm always in a muddle..."
     "It proves you are a writer.""

Orange Glazed Carrots
adapted from Fix It and Forget It Lightly, by Phyllis Pelman Good

32 oz. pkg baby carrots (or thickly sliced)
1/4 c brown sugar
1/2 c orange juice
1 tbsp butter
3/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
2 tbsp cornstarch
1/4 cup water

Combine all ingredients except cornstarch and water in slow cooker.
Cook on low 4 - 6 hours, or until carrots are done to your liking. For my slow-cooker, I have to turn it to high for a couple of the hours.
In small bowl, stir together cornstarch and water until smooth. Add to carrots, cook a few minutes until sauce thickens.





Here's to our in-the-muddle days!

Two Cool Summer Fun Ideas

Need some fresh ideas for summer fun? Put together some creative people and ideas are bound to flow. One asks, instead of a water fight, how about a paint fight? The idea grows. I listen, wondering just how far these ideas will take flight.

A trip to the store for washable paints, squirt guns, face paint (for drama), cheap shorts and flip-flops. Dad's old t-shirts, destined for the rag bag will work as wearable paint targets.

They dilute the paint with water in soda bottles rescued from the recycling bin - next time, they will use more paint. Without funnels the squirt guns are tricky to fill, but they figure it out. (Need to put funnels on the list for such occasions). Cardboard pieces are set up as shelters, in theory anyway.

Ready. Set. Go!

Eventually, they escalate to bigger guns, the type that attach a small soda bottle to the high powered squirt gun. They aren't wet enough. Yet.

An afternoon made for memories.

The battle aftermath.

Another idea: the game, Qwirkle

Have you played this game? Good for a variety of ages and abilities - the brilliant and the not so brilliant. I have not managed to win - yet. What category does that put me in? Oh well, the game is fun without a victory.  Lots of color and a different look to each game as the blocks are combined in sets of color or shapes. A great game to build creative thinking skills. And have fun.
Amazon has Qwirkle, sometimes Target (not affiliate link, just FYI).

We Had a Blast Last Week

One daughter flew in from another state. Two daughters came to stay for days. When you live in an all guy household, some girl time is delightful. Don't get me wrong - I appreciate and enjoy all the guys, but the conversation topics are, well, different. I won't tell you how many times J rolled his eyes at our goofy conversations (because I lost count, or actually, didn't bother to count).

What do we do? Besides enjoy the rare minutes together...

We wander around the Scout Camp where one son works for the summer, appreciate the mountain air and scenery, inhale the resin smells of the pine trees, drink in the quiet.

We explore a hand-built castle, complete with a smoke breathing dragon when the huge fireplace is lit. They climb higher than I do, but are only half way up when they decide it is high enough for them.

We follow the path along the river, lush with cottonwoods and undergrowth, the desert moonscape like another planet just a few feet away. The desert becomes a close reality when one gal says, "Doesn't that stick over there look like a snake?" Another gal says, "Oh wait, it is a snake!" The snake poses for us, attempts to look inanimate, his head held high mid-air. We chase it away (I stand the farthest away) and find out later the Red Racer is known to have an aggressive attitude. Glad this guy decides we aren't worth the trouble.

We celebrate a birthday on the Fourth, with fireworks bursting over the roof of the house across the street, the city display a few blocks from our house. We have a burn ban after all the recent wildfires, and are grateful they can still do the fireworks - it is a birthday tradition for our July Fourth birthday girl.

We take hundreds of photos. No exaggeration. Of each other, of flowers, of trees, of clouds, of antics, of water, of the guys when they will cooperate, of whatever. Fun to watch what catches each other's eye, what captivates attention, what photo ops we create or notice. Lots of creativity at work, each an artist in her own way.

We play games, put puzzles together, attempt to cook healthy food (balanced with yummy desserts), watch old movies and a new one, relax and talk. Did I mention we eat?

Time with these adults, these children that once filled our house, makes me feel rich and full. Content. Grateful for who they are. Our unique history, our story as a family, written in the good times and the bad, built on memories and time, like this week, together.

thanks to G and H for great photos!

Useful and Beautiful

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."

- William Morris

This is probably a familiar quote.  I have a version of my own that I attempt to apply.

Have nothing in your house that is there because it was put there six months ago and never moved or that you do not know where it is (like what is in that box or drawer).

Intentional is the key word here. Choice. Did I choose to put [that] there or is [it] there by accident?

More wise words (bear with me, here). The best way to organize and clean an area - drawer, cupboard, shelf - is to completely clear it out. Empty. Nada. Then, clean it, and replace only what you use, love, appreciate, enjoy or think is beautiful enough to adorn your house.

So, I sit here at my desk, surrounded by piles, and That Voice says, "So, Miss Phoney Baloney. What do you know about cleaning things up and organizing? Look at this disaster! You call it productivity, creativity. I call it a mess. What a joke!"

And I have to admit, That Voice is correct. Insulting, intimidating, but correct.

Act Two: The Nester, for the month of June is going au naturel - sans accessories. Nada. She cleared off all her surfaces, plunked all the stuff in their guest room, and will go without for thirty days. With the one rule, if they are using it, it can be out, like candles, computers, a book you are reading, plants, things alive. Her boys were not relegated to the guest room for the thirty days. They all still live there, and whatever is involved in that busy family life is good. But not all the deco, pretty, cute stuff.

So, I sit here at my desk, surrounded by piles, and That Voice says, "Why don't you do this with your desk? Clear it off completely, except for what you really truly handle and use every single day, keep it bare and maintain it that way for thirty days?"

And I have to admit, That Voice is correct.

My desk is my personal disaster area. Much in need of a drastic diet. A fast is in order. A clutter fast. A time to be honest with myself. Instead of calling it creativity and productivity, call it what it is. A disaster, a mess. I have cleared up and organized much of our house, but my desk - sigh.

The Nester is doing a linky party, so others can share their progress, demise, fears, successes. Perhaps my desk is more about the amount of stuff on the surface. Way too much. The challenge to go without. To begin with the minimal basics, for the rest of June.

Life is not about stuff. What freedom to sit at my desk and not be afraid to knock over a pile when I reach for the coffee. I am thinking this will give me inspiration to focus on one project at a time. That it will give me more productivity and creativity.

For some of you, this may come naturally. Not me. This is a process. The Nester is taking on her whole house. Me, just my desk. This is my Everest.

Breathing room. I did leave my calendar, my computer and my devotional books.  And my coffee.

The pile that was on my desk - embarrassing.

I want what is on my desk to be useful and beautiful.

Traveling Lighter, not buried in stuff.

Switch it Around

We have lived in this house for eleven months, almost. A few months ago I felt like the kitchen arrangement just wasn't working. The kitchen isn't that big, but there were a lot of unnecessary steps. For several weeks, I thought about how I used the pots, the baking stuff, the pantry goods (we don't have an official pantry space here). How could I make it better, more efficient, more practical?

The end result? I turned the kitchen over on its head and switched around the contents of  the cupboards, drawers and cabinets. The silverware went into the drawer closest to the table, reversing spots with the measuring cups and spoons, moving them into the drawer on the island. The pots and pans went into the deep corner cabinet with the turny thingy. The pantry goods moved from the turny thing (I'm sure it has a better name), to under the island where the pots and pans had been and where my smart husband added metal wire shelves supported by blocks of wood on either side. Impermanent, flexible, made from pieces we had in the garage, cost, zero. And it doubled the storage space in that cabinet. The cereal drawer switched with the flour and baking supplies.

 The next few days I heard lots of, "Where did the coffee go?" "What did you do with the cereal?" We all settled into the new placings quickly, showing how much better organized it all was. Once in awhile we do still go to the island drawer for the silverware. Old habits die hard.

Every time I open the corner cabinet for a fry pan or a pot, I smile and think, yes, this is where these should be. When the cans and boxes of macaroni and jars of whatever were in there, something would fall off when I spun it around. This is much better.

What things in your life could benefit from switching them around? Maybe the stuff on a closet shelf would work better somewhere else. Or, even better, thinned out and headed out the door. In the months we have been here, I have enjoyed the results of all the thinning out we did when we moved. But the time has come to go through things again, eliminate, clear out, and enjoy more empty space. So much better to have space to breathe, space to grow. What could you switch around?