Yearning

I am

two wings,

folded.

Waiting

for a current

of gentle wind

to inspire.

For Today

Enlarge our souls, Lord God.
Show us what we might be.
Walk with us through the suffering.
Bring your healing balm.
Offer us and help us receive Love.
Show us what beauty there is in this world...Amen.

Grace Moments

Weekends are for. . .

:: eating slow meals with old friends, when everyone laughs and eats fried cheese.

:: lots of small peat pots, spread all over our kitchen, germinating colorful hope for spring gardens.

:: wearing your team's sweatshirt as you run errands, and having the store clerk laugh and tell you he shouldn't cash out your order because your team beat his the night before. the grace was in the laughter we shared.

:: forcing forsythia cuttings to bloom early by bringing them into the house and arranging them in an interesting old beer bottle.

:: baking scones and sharing them.

:: small, happy moments of grace.

On! On! U of K

On, on, U of K, we are right for the fight today,
Hold that ball and hit that line;
Ev'ry Wildcat star will shine;
We'll fight, fight, fight, for the blue and white
As we roll to that goal, Varsity,
And we'll kick, pass and run, 'till the battle is won,
And we'll bring home the victory.

The University of Kentucky fight song, On! On! U of K, was written in the 1920s by Carl A. Lambert, first chairman of the Music Department.

I Am A Lone Voice

I am a lone voice in the wilderness of Ohio. . .

crying out, "Go 'Cats!"

{May I be as prophetic as John the Baptist. . .}

Getting Real

I have a love/hate relationship with authenticity.

I crave it. I really, really try to model it. I want to live it.

But lately, I'm kind of realizing that maybe I wear it like a coat made out of razors. I'm too sharp, too pointy and just maybe a bit too raw. There are other words that are descriptors - scathing, barbed, acerbic, sarcastic. Do they sound like me?

See, here's the thing. I grew up in a house where everything was hidden. Anything true that wasn't pretty, shiny and delightful was banished to the basement of our lives. It all lived down there behind the big old scary furnace with the octopus arms. Our emotional detritus collected a lot of dust, but like the boxes of outdated clothes and broken kitchen utensils, it just never really went away. I came from stock that always had on happy faces and we didn't talk about anything that made anyone uncomfortable. And Sundays were the worst.

Like most families we got on each other's nerves. Particularly in the car. I clearly remember one trip to church in particular. We kids were most likely being annoying. My father took the bait and war broke out. I remember crying, holding my breath and silently begging for a ceasefire. The words "please stop" were turning over and over in my head all the way to church. And when we pulled up in front of the house in the subdivision that served as the church building there came the inevitable instructions, "You better put a smile on your face before we get inside."

I wiped my tears. Blew my nose. And pasted a plastic smile on my face so we could walk into church. Together. The pastor and his happy family.

And so I live in the tension of a very complicated relationship with authenticity.

Coming into my own, years later I realized I didn't need to pretend anything anymore. And perhaps I went too far.

The whole world doesn't want to know my truth. Nor does it care. I don't need to say everything I think or feel. Maybe I just talk (and write) too damn much.

I don't know.

I do know that I don’t have a red bow to wrap this all together with. I don’t have a grace-lined ending or some nugget of Scripture that ties this all neatly together. Just an honest confession of my constant struggle to be really real. And to be real in a way that doesn't hurt other people in the process.

I think it boils down to the fact that I want to be loved because I am real. Maybe not so much despite my flaws and failures. . .and sarcasm and sharpness. . .I want to be loved because of them.

Hmmmm

So I am told that the Ohio State versus Kentucky Sweet 16 basketball game is Friday night. When I asked what time it started, the answer puzzled me.

9:45.

P.M?

As in "at night??"

I didn't know the night time hours contained a 9:45. . .

Yes, I Had Her When I Was Twelve & Three-Quarters

You know those tiny moments in time when you have a chance to correct a misconception that someone has and you choose to let it go? Those moments that are sometimes inconsequential but occasionally spiral into something so big you can't possibly go back and correct the misinformation without making someone feel really, really stupid? I had one this weekend.

Ali and I decided to go to get haircuts. I had an appointment with the woman who has cut my hair about three times. She was going to just see if anyone could cut her hair as a walk-in. We were seated across the salon from each other.

The woman cutting my hair made an assumption that Ali was my daughter. I'm not a big talker in the salon. I just like getting my hair cut and getting out of there. When she said, "It looks like Anna was able to fit your daughter into her schedule," I made the fated decision not to correct her.

It went downhill from there.

"You have the most gorgeous natural curls! You know how kids are. . .I bet your daughter says all the time she's glad she didn't get your hair! Anything not to be like their mom!"

a slow nod from me, not knowing what to say

"Does your daughter's hair have any body at all?? How could she not get some of your curls??"

well. . .it's pretty straight all right. . .

{as she was trimming up the hair on my neck} "Do you think you could get your daughter to trim this up once a week for you?"

sure. . .she's usually in the bathroom with me when I'm doing my hair. . .

And then the real kicker {as I was writing a check for both of our cuts} "Ali, how old are you? We have a family discount!"

I don't think that's the kind of family she was talking about though. . . sigh

A Little Conversation

a little text message conversation today. ali went for yet another blood test, hoping for an hCG number between 0 and 5, signaling that this whole thing is finally behind us.

A:: 8.2. WTF? i'm not doing another test.

T:: Ur so close to 0-5. . .

A:: I know.

T:: I hereby and forthwith declare it officially over and done with. Moving ON!!!!!

A:: YES! I second that motion!

T:: Motion carried. It was unanimous. Meeting adjourned!

A:: Lol!

and so this chapter of life ends and we finally are able to look forward with hope

Emerging

“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle;

you can live as if everything is a miracle.”

~ Albert Einstein

I think I'll still keep choosing the "everything" option.

These tiny little emerging dianthus on our little quilt square of the planet are confirmation of the power that lies just below the surface of most things. They manifest energy that we can't see. They ask me to look a little deeper, listen a little closer and look beyond what seems so hard to believe.

Music In the Air

{a song floated down from the top of our walnut tree today}

What Speaks To Me

:: the moon outside my door this morning, begging me to try and capture it

:: the sounds of birds giggling and chitchatting in our trees before dawn

:: the smell of dinner on the grill all over our neighborhood

:: the slightest hint of green in the rose who appears to have survived the winter - much like me

:: red-winged blackbirds, in groups of three

:: crocuses emerging from the blackened mud, whose color is louder than their smell

:: watching delilah fly at the park - at once, both unsure and hopeful

:: moments of solitude. the quietness teaches me everything.

Ouch?

It was pointed out to me last night by my friend, and Delilah trainer, that perhaps the reason Delilah gets under my skin is that Delilah and I are a lot alike.

She is independent. Stubborn. No one is going to tell her what to do. Or how to do it. She is singleminded in going for what she wants. Don't get in her way.

Ouch?

Perhaps.

But I take comfort in the fact that I'm a little better socialized than to go pee on someone's bed when they make me mad. . .

It's Not One Moment In Time

if you ever felt this need to look up the word miscarriage in the thesaurus this is what you would find –
miscarriage: failure, foundering, ruin, ruination, collapse, breakdown, thwarting, frustration, undoing, nonfulfillment, mismanagement

and i always thought it was an event. a thing that happened to people who weren't careful. who smoked and drank or who didn't care for themselves or for others. i thought it happened one day and a day or two later you were ready to begin again.

fuck that.

a month later we're still wondering what's going on. we're still taking blood. we're still making phone calls and desperately trying to extract information from doctors who must think that all women are somehow born with some kind of secret knowledge in our dna just because we are female and because of that they don't have to bother explaining things. you know, they are busy and all. . .with people who are still pregnant. . .

weeks later i'm learning that miscarriage is not an event that happens at a moment in time, despite the handwritten note, scribbled on a post-it while the doctor's assistant gives you a precious 30 seconds of her time. the note reads "miscarriage - February 22, 2011 Level still 20.2"

it's a note that breaks my heart when i see it crumpled up on the kitchen counter, between the bread bowl and the paper towels. and i'm not the one still bleeding.

miscarriage isn't one moment in time.

its a slog. and for now it feels like it just goes on and on.

My Bracket

{the bracket. cost me $10 to fill out. nearly killed me when i had to write "ohio st." over "kentucky." my only consolation is that i have morehead state winning two. . . we shall see! could be worth $70 in a few weeks! the only thing that would be sweeter than the cash would be a wildcat win in that second round. . .}

Birthday Cake – Revisited

Delilah wanted cake. So she got herself on the counter and helped herself. My one-sided conversation with Delilah:

Me: Was it good?

D: wags tail

Me: I hope so. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs. . .

D: wags tail

Me: Good-bye Delilah. Say hi to Jesus for me!

{she was still alive and well this morning. . .}

Things I Didn't Do This Weekend

{my surprise birthday cake! see the heart in the candles??}

:: I did not stress that I haven't posted anything since Thursday. I haven't taken any pictures either. Just needed a little break I guess.

:: I didn't act shocked when I came home from Arlington this evening and Ali had made me a birthday cake. From scratch. With candles. She likes to believe she can't cook, but she's learning! It was a really nice surprise to come home to!

:: I didn't drink any wine. Even though one of my closest and oldest friends brought me four bottles that she chose just for me. I have a terrible cold and I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to taste it very well. Thanks Nancy! Seeing you was the best gift ever!

:: I didn't mop my kitchen floor before Nancy arrived yesterday. Even though it was full of doggy tracks all over the place.

:: I didn't color my hair. My grey roots are showing but that's just life.

:: I didn't mind losing an hour of sleep on Saturday night. I can't really describe how much I delight in an extra hour of light in the evenings.

:: I didn't beat Delilah senseless. Even though she needs it.

:: I didn't cry when we learned that my beloved Kentucky Wildcats are in the same region/bracket as Ali's beloved Ohio State Buckeyes. Please dear Lord, don't let them play each other. . . let Ohio State lose first. . .

:: I didn't lose any weight at this week's weigh-in. I was very disappointed. I was so sure I was going to hit the -10 mark. Maybe next week. . .but I kinda doubt it with it being my birthday and all. . .

it was a really good weekend full of things i didn't do. hope yours was too.

It's All About the Kindness

I read someplace the other day that if you type "Why Are Christians So" into the Google search box you might be surprised. Their predictive search function will automatically fill in the most popular queries based on this phrase.

The results are astounding. I guess. Or maybe they aren't? Here's what came up for me.

Maybe these answers are completely on the mark. And that's kind of depressing.

I've always thought that anyone who calls herself a Christian ought to work a whole lot harder on kindness than love. We spend quite a lot of time in churches spouting things like, "God is love," and "Love one another," while most of the time we have no clear idea what that actually might look like. It's just this vague phrase that has no real context or presence in our dealings with each other.

Even worse, there are whole flocks and denominations of Christians who use the word love to justify being harsh and exclusive. Love becomes doing what is "best" for you and, by the way. . . you don't get to decide what is best for you. I do.

Maybe we should go back to the beginning and start small. Work on kindness first and then graduate on to love. If you are a methodically kind person in your day to day interactions with others, odds are you have a great shot at becoming a loving person. But if you skip the lessons of kindness it is very unlikely you'll learn how to love. It's about baby-steps. And they start with kindness.

Today is the first day of Lent. I've got some work to do on kindness. And just maybe, 40 days from now I will also be a little bit more loving.

Ash Wednesday

{i'm all about Lent. i'm weird like that. this was the altar display we used at church tonight. after receiving the ashes we each painted a cross on the altar cloth which we will use through the remainder of Lent. pure awesome.}

Please Use Your Imagination

{today is R.'s birthday. i made him a cake – white with white frosting, his request. i took him a pizza for dinner. i gave him a puzzle as a gift. i took pictures of him blowing out his candles while i sang. and then i left my camera at his apartment. gas it too expensive to drive all the way back out there again so i will be camera-less until thursday night. i will post the picture when i get my camera back. in the meantime, talk amongst yourselves. . .i will go hang my head in shame for being such a dunce.}

The Chickens and the Eggs

{baby chicks for sale at our local Quality Farm and Fleet}

I grew up raising chickens. I wish I could have them still. . .

Random Chicken Memories

:: Going every spring with my mother to Southern States to pick up our chicken order. We loaded them in the back of our station wagon and listened to them peep all the way home.

:: Hooking up the heat lamp in the kitchen and putting it over their pen, which we housed in the kitchen until they were big and strong enough to survive outside.

:: Scrubbing poop off the eggs. They were still warm and in a basket. I always thought it was gross. Today I wouldn't mind at all.

:: Being a little reluctant to reach under a chicken on her roost to get her eggs because I thought she might peck me.

:: Watching them peck around, eating bugs and scraps from our kitchen.

:: Listening to my dad talk about seeing a rat in the 55 gallon barrel we used to store the chicken feed. I never opened that lid again.

:: The summer my mom went all Little House On The Prairie on us and decided to butcher all the chickens and freeze them for the winter. She did it. All by herself. But we never ate a single chicken. A couple years later she threw them all away.

:: Hearing our rooster crow on summer mornings through my bedroom window.

:: My dad putting eggs in his coat pocket and forgetting they were there. He took us to breakfast in town and when he went to pay the bill his pockets were dripping.

{sigh} Do you think the neighbors would mind if I just bought a chick or two??

It's So Large!

{driving down main street today i was shocked to see a design i did on a billboard. i mean, i knew it was coming. i did the work on it about a month ago. but i was still shocked when i saw it so LARGE. never designed a billboard before!}

Things I Can't Believe I Actually Said {And Meant}

{we were walking the dogs yesterday morning. it was icy. really, really icy. i had delilah, who is still horrible on a leash. she was pulling. i was going slow. ali and oliver were way ahead of us on the sidewalk.}

Ali:: Be careful right there! It's terrible!

Me:: I know. . .

{i continued waddling along. slowly.}

Me:: The last thing I want to do is fall. . . You know, I'm about old enough to end up in the nursing home!

Ali::{cackling with evil laughter} You could be my gramma's roomie!

{at what age and condition could you really land yourself in a nursing home?? it's something i'm beginning to consider!}

Two Kitties

{ali painted the guest bedroom today. the mirror was on the bed and izzy thought seeing another cat was kind of cool!}

Falling Slowly

{the ground in Findlay is saturated. this is the same park as the snowball softball team and then the water. now the trees seem to be slowly falling to the ground. the roots didn't come up. it just slowly leaned to it's death. i'm guessing this tree remembers the Civil War. makes me kind of sad.}

The Magic of Words

"I think one of our cardinal, crazy fuckups is how we insist that even vicious, whimsical, crazy shit needs to make sense, add up, belong to a reason. We lay this pain on ourselves – there must be a reason behind all this horror, there must, but I ain't adequate to findin' it, and that's my fault, so torture me some more."

~ Tomato Red by Daniel Woodrell

I just finished the book Tomato Red last night and the writing blew me away. The magic of good writers, stringing words together in a way that gives meaning to life will never cease to amaze me. I've never read descriptions like I read in that book. This guy is one phenomenal writer.

"The church was bright white and pointed and seemed like a structure that would rough me up with scolds and lectures and ghastly passages from the Book if I ever walked on

that side of the street."

"God damn, " she says, "you know, that big rotten gap between who I am, and who I want to be, never does quit hurtin' to stare across."

It's not a long book, but it's writing that demands to be read slowly so that the images can become fully formed in your mind and stick with you days afterward. That's what happened to me with that first quote. Mind you, Ali and I are nowhere near the kind of desperation being given voice to there, but we look at the events of the last two weeks and try to assign them some kind of meaning, something of significance so that it doesn't feel so random and unequal.

It doesn't really help much that there is still no resolution. Her hCG levels are still hanging near 200 two weeks later so it looks like it was possible that this pregnancy was ectopic and her body is still trying to resolve the issue. {by now her number should be 0-5. . .not nearly 200} So we sit in limbo. Waiting for another blood test in a week and half. Waiting for doctor bills from the fertility clinic to arrive so we can pay them off and start again.

And mostly we sit and wonder why. And what to do differently next time.

The Birdbath

{our next door neighbor's backyard. i love his style. the old woodstove stands in for a firepit on summer evenings. he filled the birdbath with herbs.}

Every time I look out my bathroom window into my neighbor's garden I think of my parents and how little events can be spun into legends that are remembered for a lifetime.

When I look out my window every morning I see a concrete birdbath. It's a massive old thing with a fluted top shaped like half of a clamshell. The three pedestals that hold it up are seahorses, standing on their tails with their heads holding up the bowl. As far back as I can remember one just like it stood in my mother's flower garden. No matter where we lived it was there. According to my father it was ghastly heavy, but my mother loved it.

When my father decided to quit his job, sell our house in Georgetown and move us out in the country the concrete birdbath was loaded into the moving truck with everything else. When my mother realized that there was not going to be a place at the new house to put up her beloved birdbath it was stored in the barn down by the pond.

This new house with the pond wasn't really all that great. It sat way up on a hill which made it very difficult to get to. It was small. We were poor. I was a teenager and only one of our little clan was happy living there – and it wasn't me. One day the pump in the well that supplied all of our water quit and we went weeks without water. My dad's solution was to haul water from the pond below the house by the bucketful so at least we could flush the toilet.

He had a small pump that he tried to submerge in the pond to make filling the buckets easier. The problem was that it wouldn't stay submerged.

So he took my mother's birdbath and sunk the whole kit and kaboodle in the pond.

It was summertime and the pond was low so it didn't seem like a big deal at the time.

Time passed. We hauled water. Eventually my father got the well pump fixed. The rainy time came and the pond rose. The birdbath disappeared. My mother mourned. She pestered, hounded, hassled and deviled my father about her birdbath. Over the next few years the birdbath appeared and disappeared with the whims of Mother Nature and her temperaments.

But my dad never made the great birdbath rescue.

When it came time for us to move out of that house and to the tundra of northwest Ohio the pond was high and the birdbath was nowhere to be seen. And my mother was not happy. She didn't want to move to Ohio and she certainly didn't want to go without her birdbath.

You know already know the rest of the story. We went. It didn't.

And that birdbath became a thing of legend. There were family jokes about it. There was goodnatured and not-so-goodnatured ribbing. But way down deep I've always believed that my mother was hurt. Something she valued was taken, used and left behind. How could she not have felt disrespected?

I wouldn't be so arrogant as to speak for her, but I will say that for me, that birdbath represents many of the ways my father made decisions for our family. He did what suited him at any particular time without a lot of input or regard for the implications for the rest of us.

But when I see one just like it every day out my bathroom window, that birdbath makes me smile. This morning when I saw it, I thought of my mother. I thought of all the things she has sacrificed over the years.

Just the sight of that hunk of concrete in my neighbor's garden reminds me that I can never put my own wants and needs above someone else's just to have my way.

And then I wonder if that birdbath is still in that pond near Sadieville, Kentucky. Or if my neighbor would like to sell me his.

Deja Vu

{it seems like i've taken this picture before. when i asked R. why he had march 8 circled in red on his calendar he grinned slyly. "because it's my birthday!" he said. "and why do you have march 15 marked?" i asked. "cause it's yours!" and he grinned for all he was worth. i couldn't believe he remembered. we talked about it all of once, about three weeks ago. . .he's such a sweetheart. . .}

What A Difference A Few Weeks Makes

Remember the Snowball Softball pictures from a few weeks ago? If not, go look.

Here's the same field today.

{overlooking the entire field}

{that center fence in this photo is the catcher's backstop. you can just see the peak of the dugout floating on the left side of the photo, in front of the telephone pole. if you click on the photo to enlarge it you will just barely see the top of the bleachers rising out of the water.}

{to take the flood photos today i was standing up high, between the left and center fielder in this photo}

This and That

:: I'm wearing Ali's pants!!! Yay me! This "diet" thing seems to be working. . .slowly but surely. What is it they say – slow and steady wins the race??

:: Delilah needs a new home. Or owners who can break her stubbornness. Or a house with a taller fence. Now does she not only jump the fence every time we let her out, she has taken to actually leaving the premises. Chasing her down Hurd Avenue was not the exercise I wanted this morning. That was after I washed the quilt on the bed where she peed on it. Again.

:: I got to help plan Ash Wednesday services last night. Worship planning is my bliss. This year's service is going to be cool. . .

:: I am welcoming March with my whole heart. February breaks it every year and I can't say good-bye to it fast enough!