Insomnia

When your insides are boiling, it isn't the heat that bothers a person as much as all that infernal bubbling. My soul feels restless. This is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but somewhat. Like a confused martini--both shaken and stirred. Such unnecessary overkill. Sleep eludes me most nights, often because I fight it like a stubborn toddler afraid to be alone in the dark. Loud, weighty thoughts stomp around my mind. In a new and unexpected phenomenon, I'm drawn to solitude. Just me and my noisy thoughts that walk, as my mother used to chastise, like an elephant. My passions and anxieties, the restless bubbling, stimulate me in the way a farmer might poke a tired animal with a cattle prod. I want to settle resignedly onto the cool, hay-lined floor of my stall, but I'm repeatedly jolted back into a state of painful hyper-awareness. Despite my fatigue and blatant attempts to numb, thoughts persist, pushing impatiently, demanding to be processed. My gut feels full of butterflies. Or maybe moths with no flame to provide calming focus. Off switch be damned.

I fumble a prayer for peace and quiet. Or perhaps a bit of beauty. Three sips would do, I think. I drink in poignant words from inspired writers, like a soothing hot toddy. I envision a place I have never been with all the splendor it contains, as if God put it there for only me. Gradually, the effect is like rain forest creatures on a sound machine, and my soul is lulled into a few hours of rest.

Tree Hugger

On my hike yesterday, I became wildly tangled in metaphor. Yes, this is another Radnor-themed/inspired post. But this isn't a subtle way to brag about my fitness regimen. Rather, an embarrassing confession of my infrequency and lack of commitment (see date on previous post). But I digress.
It seems the last few weeks have brought a smattering of storms across the Nashville area (spoiler alert: storms=metaphor for trials, go figure). There had been heavy casualties in the woods surrounding the lake. Trees newly fallen and strewn about. As I wandered hiked energetically down the path, I saw large, splintered branches and young saplings that shared the same fate. Sturdy, rooted giants were felled while less established trees nearby defied reason to remain standing. I questioned the fairness and physics. Hearty trunks toppled across the path, but someone had gone ahead of me, carving out a swath of road. Old rotting lumber told the history of previous storms, charred by the flames created by lightning and extinguished by rains from the same storm. New growth sprung from the death...irregular, spongy mushrooms and luscious, green algae. Not pretty, but alive and useful.
This is the post that I wrote (in my head) on the first half of my hike yesterday. Before the winds kicked up, the rain came down, the lightning flashed. There was a lost key, a deserted parking lot, and three hours of waiting in wet clothes. Before long, the romantic notion of metaphorical storms breaks down, and it's just dark, scary, and pouring. But a path is cleared by concerned friends, a warm shower, a good night's sleep and sunshine in the morning. Maybe even something new will grow. It may not be pretty, but alive and useful nonetheless.

How I Wonder

I am cultivating a new theme in my life. Well, not new, exactly, but transitioning from the background to the foreground, perhaps. The clarity of focus is mostly an external force applied to my soul, like someone is twisting my lens to and fro, painfully at times, until the picture sharpens. After the blurring lines resolve, what I'm confronted with is WONDER. By that, I don't mean the sense of questioning or uncertainty. That's the sort of wonder whose fuzzy margin seems to fade, whether by finding answers or being prioritized to a place that allows the mystery to remain. Rather, the wonder I experience far too infrequently is amazement, marvel, and astonishment. I'm reading Brennan Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel for the first time. It has already begun weaving itself into the fabric of my evolving paradigm. His fifth chapter, titled "Cormorants and Kittiwakes," is largely devoted to the subject of wonder, and he identifies the problem I have discovered inside of me.

By and large, our world has lost its sense of wonder. We have grown up. We no longer catch our breath at the sight of a rainbow or the scent of a rose, as we once did. We have grown bigger and everything else smaller, less impressive. We get blase and worldly-wise and sophisticated.

 We get so preoccupied with ourselves, the words we speak, the plans and projects we conceive, that we become immune to the glory of creation. We barely notice the cloud passing over the moon or the dewdrops clinging to the rose petals. The ice on the pond comes and goes. The wild blackberries ripen and wither. The blackbird nests outside our bedroom window, but we don't see her. We avoid the cold and the heat. We refrigerate ourselves in summer and entomb ourselves in plastic in winter. We rake up every leaf as fast as it falls. ... We miss the experience of awe, reverence, and wonder.

There are times that I remember to experience wonder. When I open myself to the sensual beauty I'm missing, life slows down for a moment, my mind quiets, and I can absorb input from the world around me. But the key is not in my becoming slow and quite, only open and spongy. Yesterday, I walked/hiked through Radnor Lake State Natural Area, my favorite unexpected outdoor oasis in Nashville. I felt the moderate air on my skin, listened to the crunch of earth under my feet, observed the utter stillness of the green fuzzy blanket over the water, twirled an acorn in my fingers with awareness of the alternation between smooth and bumpy textures. The dusky sun shone warmly on my face, with enough strength still in her to squint my eyes closed at each peek through the trees. The energy was magical, and I understood what Manning wrote:

Our world is saturated with grace, and the lurking presence of God is revealed not only in spirit but in matter--in deer leaping across a meadow, in the flight of an eagle, in fire and water, in a rainbow after a summer storm...in a woman with windblown hair. God intended for us to discover His loving presence in the world around us.

Jesus' words in Matthew 11:28 are so often quoted that they threaten to become trite: "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." The cliche looms even larger when we attempt to define the rest he offers in terms we find comfortable. Both theologically and experientially speaking, it seems the promise is not always of lightness or resolution. When heaviness persists, and weariness is unrelenting, where is the rest? I came. I'm here. Hand it over. I don't know a lick of Greek, but I wonder how my expectation would shift if my translation were to replace "rest" with "perspective" or "wonder." If given those gifts as alternate versions of rest, could my soul buoy up in the midst of tiring burdens? Perhaps I might echo the words of Rabbi Joshua Abraham Heschel: "I do not ask to see the reason for it all; I ask only to share the wonder of it all."

Hold Me Now

Betty Blue and I are learning a new song by Jennifer Knapp...

From glass alabaster she poured out the depths of her soul.  
Oh, Foot of Christ would You wait if her harlotries known?  
Falls a tear to darken the dirt.  
Of humblest offerings to forgive the hurt. 
She is strong enough to stand in Your love.  
I can hear her say...

Chorus:
I'm weak, I'm poor, I'm broken Lord but I'm Yours.
Hold me now.    Hold me now.

Let he without sin cast the first stone if you will.  
To say that my bride isn't worth half the blood that I've spilled.  
Point your finger and laugh if you choose
To say my beloved is borrowed and used.
She is strong enough to stand in My love
And I can hear her say...

Fan Mail

A few weeks ago, I wrote an email to Sara Groves. As much as I love music (and if you know me at all, you can testify to this extent), this is the first "fan mail" that I have ever written. It's not because I have never appreciated an artist enough to be compelled to prose, but this was different. Perhaps it is the perfect storm of my life and her music, but what she has created as a professional body of work may well have saved my life, or at least my faith, which is probably doubly important. Over the course of my journey, I became (and remain to some extent), disillusioned in my faith. Racked with doubt and lost in anger, there was little in the way of truth that I could find to hold tight. But when my heart was hard and unyielding (ok, really, when is it NOT?), God used Sara's lyrics to penetrate. Her songs speak to me of pain and doubt and FAITH despite and in the midst. Yesterday, my friend sent me this article where she is interviewed about her new album, which is amazing. In the article, she will tell you in her own words why I love her and her music, adding even more reasons that were previously unknown to me. Read, and join the fan club.
http://www.beliefnet.com/Entertainment/Music/Sara-Groves-Illuminates-the-Invisible-Empire.aspx?p=1

The Whole Shebang

Wholeness. It is something I have thought quite a lot about over the last year or so of my life. Perhaps it is because I have felt so overwhelmingly and irreparably broken. The process of collecting the pieces has been long and painful. Nearing the end of it (or maybe still just the beginning), I find myself with these fragmented section that don't fit together sensibly as they once did. Marriage involves so many references indicating partial people: soul mates, a better half, two becoming one. In keeping with a Jerry McGuire paradigm, we are all in search of someone to complete us. As a wife (formerly of man and wife), I appreciated all the strengths my spouse possessed to compliment my weaknesses, and vise versa. But stripped down to an unpaired individual, and a broken one at that, where does that leave me? In search of wholeness apart from relationship (at least on the human level). When God presents the model of marriage in terms of "two shall become one," I don't think He had the same idea that we ran with. What has devolved is one whole constituted from two halves rather than two wholes. And while that makes sense mathematically, I don't believe God ever intended for us to complete each other. Many sincere commitments to that end have meet their demise. This is probably where I should mention that I don't have a neatly wrapped summary to conclude my rambling. I have pieces. And the slightest glimmer of hope for redemption. I have the vaguest inkling to resist becoming defined by any one role or characteristic or desire. I'm struggling to trust and believe that God has a plan and a path for me that leads to wholeness. A solitary, singular, beautiful competed work.

The Great Divorce

Today marks the beginning of a new book. Fuck the new chapter. We are way beyond that. And yet I realized this morning how many ways this day resembled January 2, 1999. I went to sleep and woke up with a sense of anticipation and anxiety. I slept alone. I knew that today was significant. But what was life that day, was death this day. While I didn't see him that morning, I would never see him today. Never even hear his voice. Instead of preparing hair and makeup and fake finger nails, I wiped sticky mouths, packed lunches, and combed tangled hair...all the most beautiful parts of my life. I had one friend sitting with me where before five stood on either side. Today's oaths were sworn not before God, but man. Did I ask for this? Did I provide true information? Was I fair? Did I want this? I maintained direct eye contact with the woman I paid to ask me these difficult questions, until the last one when I felt my eyes drift up and to the right. When Judge Smith questioned me unexpectedly, my years of answering direct, difficult questions asked by demanding doctors or devastated family members proved useful. "Michelle is great in a crisis." "Michelle stays calm under pressure." Sometimes professional skills can be applied to one's personal life. And then, just like that, it was done. Thirteen years of knot-tying officially severed. For some, it is cause for celebration which I don't understand. I feel only a numb sense of closure. An ending woven from countless failures. And a beginning. Because life is never kind enough to allow us to wallow in our endings. Or maybe that is the kindness--the timeline that forces us forward. "The best way out is always through" and all that zen sort of crap. Big girl panties. Keep on keeping on. Or as God puts it: "and provide for those who grieve in Zion--to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and the garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." (Isaiah 61:3) Now that's how you start a new book.

'Tis the season...let it be

It is Christmas...not the actual day, but the "season." It has gotten me thinking, which is a dangerous proposition since my head is not always a safe place to be. But there is good background music...holiday tunes interpreted by Barbra Streisand and Annie Lennox...so I'm going with it. One week from today, it will be Christmas day. The day we celebrate the birth of a Savior. Or Santa. Or poultry. Or capitalism. It just depends on your world view, I guess. Regardless, December is typically a full month. Office parties, children's programs, church services, shopping, cooking, traveling, and whatnot. In the midst of these busy activities, I often hear people bemoan those things as distractions from the "reason for the season" (which, while I can get on board with loving Jesus, I abhor this particular phrase). It occurred to me in a text sent to a friend who is well-versed in life's juggling act (holiday or otherwise), that our chaos is probably more accurately reminiscent of the first Christmas than the serene event we have pictured on the cards we mail to friends and acquaintances across the country. As describe in the gospels, Mary and Joseph dealt with last-minute travel, sub-par lodging, and mandatory government paperwork (Luke 2:1-7). I wonder if Mary knew that she would have her baby while they were in Bethlehem. Did she pack her bag and a "going-home" outfit for Jesus? And why didn't Joseph make a reservation at one of the local inns for their stay? And what went through the heads of these new parents when perfect strangers showed up to the random barn they found to visit/worship the newborn? I'm sure things like virgin conception and an angelic pregnancy test had alerted them that their experience wasn't going to be typical, but still... It makes me think of lyrics sung so sweetly by Jill Phillips on Andrew Peterson's Behold the Lamb of God: http://youtu.be/SK2PX7hH6io. It was not a silent night, but rather a labor of love. We have tidied up the miraculous birth in order to create a Hallmark moment. But in truth, life is messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. At least it was for Jesus and his parents. Perhaps it would be wise if I adjusted my expectations accordingly.    

Serenity Now

Coffee. Porch. Sunrise.
Sara Groves. Cold ground. Melodious birds.
Anne Lamott. Soft blanket. Solitude.
Chat with Tatee. Warm sun. Falling leaves.
Gentle breeze. Barking dog. Church bells.
Live. Breathe. Pray.

Hemorrhage

Time heals all wounds. Isn't that what they say? It makes me wonder about the origin of such an empty promise, repeated ad nauseum to the wounded as they writhe in pain. In my experience, it is bullshit. From a physiological stand point, the body has an amazing ability to repair a world of wrongs, progressing through scientific stages of wound healing. But while time is an essential component, other interventions are often necessary. Incision of flesh, cutting out disease, grafting in foreign material to replace inborn errors, pumping carefully dosed poisons meant to kill the sickness and minimize collateral damage. And we wait. After a positive outcome, time gets all the credit. He adds another hash mark to the tally of wounds he has healed. "All wounds"--those are pretty good statistics. We need not look far for data to debunk time's padded numbers. Any health care provider will vouch that we are saving people now who would surely have died just years ago. What we are saving them to is an entirely different can of worms I dare not open. Even with such great advances, not all wounds are healed, no matter how much time drags on.
When one considers wounds of the emotional variety, healing rates seem to decrease significantly. We feverishly paint the silver lining into our darkness to provide lessons and practical applications in order to alleviate the pain. However this does not constitute healing, but rather a means of coping. Varying degrees of emotional trauma are swept under a rug, medicated into silence, dissected through hours of dialogue. All the while, these scars are ironed into the fabric of who we are becoming. If we decide we like who that person is, we consider ourselves healed. But what if the mirror's reflection shows someone unlovely, unacceptable, unrecognizable? The best time can do is diminish the power of the impact. Regardless of the accumulation of years, a population of broken people limping through life reflect the reality that not all wounds will heal.
Bandaged, covered, protected. Festering, faded, forgotten. But not healed.

Alone

There's a reason I said I'd be happy alone. It wasn't because I thought I'd be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone, and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It's easier to be alone. Because what if you learn that you need love, and then you don't have it? What if you like it and lean on it? What if you shape your life around it, and then it falls apart? Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage; it's like dying. The only difference is death ends. This...it could go on forever.


....Grey's Anatomy finale monologue

Body of Work

My body has adapted to life in its many forms.

My body has worked long hours.

My body has borne those of the dead through their last passages.

My body has carried the life of two children.

My body has sustained those children in their first year of life and thereafter.

My body has kept watch over the sick in morning's weest hours.

My body has held the mournful with great empathy.

My body has submitted to mental will long after physical strength is exhausted.

My body has gloried in the joy of human connection.

My body has laid itself like parchment to be written upon by the hand of God.

My body is considered a worthy dwelling for the Creator of the universe.

Maximize Endorphins

Things that happened on my morning run:

• wished I would have brushed my teeth
• surprised myself with how far I got in a short amount of time
• couldn't feel my fingers
• got lost
• underestimated my return run time
• thought I might be late for work
• turned my ankle
• thought I might vomit
• stopped looking at the clock
• watched the sun come up
• felt amazing
• had time to write a blog before work

It's going to be a good day. I'm speaking it into existence.

I Will Change Your Name

[song from church on Sunday]

I will change your name.
You shall no longer be called

Wounded, outcast, lonely or afraid.

I will change your name.

Your new name will be

Confidence, joyfulness, overcoming one,

Faithfulness, friend of God, one who seeks my face.

Three Sips of Beauty

Her right hand didn't speak the truth most often,

So she learned to paint and write with the left.

And learning to create again she softened and loved herself again.

Oh, she loved herself again.

And she sips a bit of beauty.

Each day she sips of beauty.

And the pain grows weak with beauty.

So she takes three sips of beauty each day.

~Sara Beth Geoghegan

A Thousand Words or Twelve Hours, Whichever Comes First

In August, a friend of mine sent me information about a project that I found intriguing. The challenge was to document your day in pictures. I missed the August deadline, but I decided it was interesting enough to carry over into September. All pictures were taken on my Palm Pre. This is what I came up with on one particular Tuesday...

Rousing myself after "sleeping in" while Marc handles the morning routine.

Breakfast and writing on the porch

Snack time calls for J-E-L-L-O!

Watching our favorite movie in the living room tent

Doing dishes during Catelynn's lunch marathon

Playing guitar during nap time

Waking the Beauty from her sleep...sadly a fairly regular occurrence

Least favorite intersection on the school commute.

Eakin pick up, guarded by the trusty Ms. Jackson

After school refreshment

What day would be complete without a trip to Target?!

ZUMBA!!!!!!!!!!

Family night at Blue Coast Burrito

Showers all around

Tackling the mountain of laundry from the week.

Weekly phone date with a dear and faithful friend.

To finish out the day, I spent 30 minutes cleaning my shower. I probably could have used an hour.

And....scene.

Sunrise

Blackness fades to gray-blue, transluscent yellow, pale pink.
Light sharpens outlines blurred by darkness.
Chirping duty transitions from crickets to birds.
Windows are illuminated as street lights are quenched.
Dewey coolnesss is warmed into submission.
Sleepy eyes give way to minty-fresh breath.
Night's stillness is factrued by engines ignited for the hour of rushing.
Old mercies are out; new mercies are in.

One Night Stand

A night stand is such a useful piece of furniture. Our bedroom set only has one, and I successfully lobbied for it to be on my side of the bed, primarily because it is the only way I can see an alarm clock without my glasses at night. I wondered the other day what its contents said about me. Not the inside (that's another story), but the pile of things on top laid out for frequent and easy access. It seems that some sort of light source is a staple and an excellent means of expression of style. My lamp was a gift, but it matches my aesthetic perfectly (simplicity with an interesting twist). There is also a large presence of electronic devises. I'm a fan. My netbook (where I'm typing at this very minute from my favorite coffee "Perch"), is the newest welcome addition. While I enjoy the ability to be mobile, my favorite surfing spot is not far from that bedside table and involves pillows. The iPod and speaker dock are quite possibly the best money ever spent and would have paid for themselves many times over if usage and enjoyment were forms of currency. My phone, charged and at the ready, is smarter than I am and contains at least half of my brain (the organizational half, that is). The alarm clock is an unkind, necessary evil whose snooze button I push with great fervor, especially on days it calls at 5:15am. Lastly, there is no shortage of reading materials should I tire of electronics, which has been known to happen. My current pile includes an IKEA catalogue, another Donald Miller title (I have become a groupie), The Catcher in the Rye, and The Three Martini Playdate. The variety represents classic familiarity, spiritual sensitivity, modern flair, and a questionable drinking problem. One could argue there is an indication of indecision and lack of follow through...I mean, really, who reads three books at once?! More often than not, one of the kids' toys or a creative offering makes a presence. But one thing is certain: while a rolling stone has been noted to be moss-free, even the most frequently used night stand will still gather dust!

Hands in the Air

There are a lot of war stories in the Old Testament. Some of them are graphic, some strange, and many are just downright boring. I'm not sure why God thought it necessary to include so many in scripture. Maybe I will add that to my growing list of questions to ask Him. Anyway...there is one in Exodus that I find particularly interesting. My pastor preached on this passage close to three years ago, and I have continued coming back to it frequently since then. In chapter 17, Joshua leads the Israelite army in battle against the Amalekites. I'm sure there are many interesting historical facts to draw out about this skirmish, but I find the war tactics to be of greatest intrigue. Moses, who was more of the political leader to Joshua's military presence, stood on a hill with a stick in his hand while the men fought. I'm sure some kind of modern day parallel could be drawn, but I will resist. But it wasn't just any stick that Moses was holding. It was the staff of God. While I don't believe the actual stick carried any mystical powers, Moses had been toting it around Egypt and the desert for a while, and it had been a part of some pretty big events (ie: that whole parting of the Red Sea thing). But really, the stick isn't the point either. According to Exodus, whenever Moses lifted his arms (and the staff) up during the battle, the Israelites were winning. If he rested his arms, the Amalekites gained the upper hand (boo!). Of course, as the battle waged over the course of the day, Moses's arms got tired. (Wait for it....here comes the good part!!) Verse 12 said that Aaron and Hur, two friends who stood on the hill with Moses, held Moses's arms when they got heavy while he sat on a stone. And that is how the battle was won! Moses's arms were steady until sunset, and Joshua defeated the enemy.
At the risk of sounding like a sermon illustration, I can relate. It may be mellow-dramatic to call life a battle, but hey, sometime the metaphor is fitting. And there are certainly times when I have felt like life demanded something that I was physically (or emotionally) incapable of mustering. But here's the good part: you've got a friend (as James Taylor sweetly sings), or in my case, upwards of 10 to 20 of them, maybe more! It would be impossible to recount the number of figurative arm-raisings my friends have stood through with me. Today as I revisited the Exodus story yet again, I imagined Moses begging Aaron and Hur to let go of him. Even with someone else's muscles doing the lifting, he must have felt pain as all of the blood drained from his limbs and his nerves tingled in protest. Good friends will help you with the hard stuff, even when you wish they wouldn't. God created people to be relational, some more than others. I'm probably more of a "some" than an "other." I'm a person who needs people, and I guess that makes me lucky, if you ask a certain Ms. Streisand. As I look at my life, I'm humbled by the quality, quantity, and variety of people I have to journey with me. "Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you have to do is call...you've got a friend." It is a beautiful thing.

Girls with Guitars

I have always wished that I could play an instrument. As a child, I took piano lessons for several years. My talents never seemed to match the number of years I had been plunking away at it. I like to blame the fact that I am left handed. My piano teacher used to always chastise me for playing the bass clef too loudly. I quit in middle school, and I have never regretted it (like many people say they do). Perhaps it is because I don't really care to do things that I'm not very good at, but I can't say for sure. Just after college, I decided I should learn to play the accordion. This was almost entirely inspired by the Indigo Girls and their use of the instrument in some of their songs. It is possible that I had a secret hope that they would hire me as the band nurse/accordion player. I may or may not have had a dream along those lines at some point. It seemed a natural progression since the piano had been such a success...but alas, as far as I ever progressed in that endeavor was holding the instrument (I even took a picture!). Just over a month ago, I asked Marc to teach me to play the guitar. He started me off with a few chords, then I started tracking down charts on the internet to learn more. What I lack in aptitude, I make up in commitment. It has been amazing to start learning to play songs that I love. For Mother's Day, Marc and the kids got me a guitar. This is the first instrument that I have ever actually owned. So now I can't give up. I will almost surely never play in public, but I'm officially learning!

Juxtaposition

Juxtaposition: noun, the act or instance of placing two things side by side, often in contrast or opposition to one another.

Sometimes mommies get to go out. Excuse my soapbox, but it bothers me when parents say that they don't get to do the things they love (or used to love) after they have children, as if they are under the tyrannical rule of these small people. I am quite familiar with the added challenges of enjoying extra-curricular activities after offspring enter the picture. But I choose to believe that I'm a better mother, not worse or less devoted, because I go see my favorite band every time they are in town (or anywhere in the tri-state area). I hope I'm not stepping on toes, but hey, it's my blog, so I'm saying what I think! Tonight, I went to a concert to benefit the fight against ovarian cancer. I even dragged along another mommy. As most people know, I am not a very tall girl. In the course of getting dressed for the evening, I put on a new pair pants and realized that they were definitely too long, even with my tallest heels. It is also fairly well known by most of my acquaintances that I am neither crafty or domestical. But I was determined to wear the pants, so I set my mind to hand stitching a hem, a task I had never attempted but had seen done many times over. After a painstaking period of time with needle and thread, a long search for my ever-elusive iron, and absolutely zero injuries between the two jobs, I had one pair of very nicely shortened pantalones. About an hour later, two mommies headed out to an event we both deemed too cool for us, arriving fashionably late (but probably still too early). Music was played, drinks were consumed, and a good time was had by all. Just before I left the house tonight, I realized that I forgot to make the dessert I was supposed to drop off at Wesley's school in the morning. Refusing to admit complete defeat, I set out on a quest at midnight to procure the ingredients of the delicious dessert bars I had promised. I came home from the concert, shed my beads and lacy tank, and exchanged white linen pants for jean shorts and black Barbie doll heels for less precarious flats. Two Kroger stops later (they actually really do close at midnight...all of them), I pulled in to Walmart. This is a BIG deal. I am not a fan of the super store and probably shop there about twice a year. I bee-lined for the baking aisle, resisting the overachieving mommy instinct to gather ingredients for the made-from-scratch bars I had intended to make. Humbly, I scooped up the box mix to make an almost identical treat in half the time.

And that, my friends, is what I like to call juxtaposition. One part blossoming seamstress, one part cancer fighting concert goer, and one part cheater dessert baking PTO mom. Stir them all together and you get...well, me.

Village People

While I do have a slight obsession with the YMCA, that is not the village to which I refer. Lately, I have developed at rather strong affection for Hillsboro Village, a lovely little subsection of Nashville proper. I have frequented that part of town for a number of years, since it is home to Vanderbilt Children's Hospital. However, a twelve hour shift with a 30 minute lunch break does not allow for much in the way of neighborhood exploration. Since Wesley started going to school at Eakin Elementary, the Village and I have had a chance to become better acquainted. I think we have a future together. There is a seamless mixture of hip stores and restaurants with semi-historic establishments, ripe with character. Add to that the stark contrast of city life in the midst of urban homey-ness, and you have something rather magical, if you ask me. Yesterday I took a few pictures while jogging through the area in question. Upon seeing them, I feel certain you could fall in love along with me.

Yummy lunch (handmade pizza with figs and goat cheese) at Fido, one of my favorite coffee shops

Local home with a swing where the kids play after school

The Clothing Xchange, full of second hand treasures

The dragon at "Dragon Park"

(which is actually a sea serpent at Fannie Mae Dees Park :))

The Belcourt Theater, my current favorite Nashville concert venue due largely to general admission. I have seen Jennifer Knapp, Ingrid Michaelson, and Brandi Carlile grace its stage.

Eakin Elementary, the site of Wesley's primary education

Guten Morgen

Good morning, mess of wispy curls and popsicle toes belonging to my favorite almost-three-year-old girl who simply must be cuddled.

Good morning, bright sunshine through my bedroom window promising 70 degree temperatures begging to be met with a tank top.

Good morning, favorite fuzzy slippers shuffling along chilly wooden floors.

Good morning, scrambled eggs prepared by my newly-reintegrated husband before leaving to take my favorite kindergartner to school.

Good morning, lemon curd delighting my tongue with the perfect fusion of sweet and sour.

Good morning, Patti Griffin lilting your favorite downtown church songs.

Good morning, bold coffee in my favorite over-sized mug with just the right splash if creamy half and half.

Good morning, inspiration for blog posting and good day having.

Or shall I say, "Guten Morgen"?

Mommy Purse

When I became a mother, it wasn't the size of my purse that changed, so much as the contents therein. I have enjoyed a spacious hand bag for a number of years. In fact, one of my long-time favorite purses is a plaid, flannel-like lovely from the Gap that I affectionately call "my Mary Poppins bag." This references both its funky style and its freakish ability to be crammed full of objects, including but not limited to a potted plant. The contents of a woman's purse have traditionally been regarded with reverence. No one dares to enter that secret trove. A mommy purse is something else entirely. It is a rare thing that a mommy purse is actually even closed in the first place. Between being filled past capacity and a the complete disregard by small people for the previously stated rule against trespassing, the mystery of the mommy bag is gone. But oh the random treasures that one may find! Aside from the necessary staples of a mommy purse, such as band-aids and tissues (which I never seem to have!), a great many other discoveries await!

Below you will find a list of objects that I have ACTUALLY had in my purse...

• white summer sandals for my infant, who I insisted on putting shoes on despite her insistence on taking them off. Since the shoes were in my purse, you can see who won that battle.
• children's socks (sometimes clean, sometimes dirty) for any impromptu trips to a bounce house or play land at a fast food restaurant
• snacks...possibly for the children
• coupon organizer (though I am not very good at actually using the coupons!)
• Crystal Light on the go drink mix. This was a brilliant idea that my friend KJ shared with me. Unfortunately, one of the packets opened and turned everything it touched into a rosy shade of fruit punch.
• fabric bag containing a plastic baby spoon, bib, diaper, wipes (condensed version of a diaper bag that I adopted with the second child).
• breast pads (if you don't know, don't ask)
• a Bakugan, trains, board books, baby dolls
• toddler underpants, mostly clean

*This list is by no means comprehensive and does not include items that are too large and must be carried, pack mule-style.

Sick Day

Every mommy knows there is no such thing as a sick day. In a severe case, perhaps one's husband can stay home from work. But alas, this option is currently unavailable to me. In the last 10 months, I have been debilitating ill 5 times (ie: unable to remain vertical for any length of time). This is an unusually high number for me. I have had strep throat, pneumonia, and 3 separate bouts with a stomach virus. Below, I will attempt to break down the math behind today's "sick day" (which actually started yesterday around 4pm)
meals cooked...0
oven pizzas eaten...1
leftovers reheated...2 (one of which was leftover oven pizza)
unneeded snow days that I was thankful for since I couldn't possibly drive...1
movies watched...1
hours of Wii played...? (I choose not to count)
NPT shows watched...2
books read once the room stopped spinning...4
naps taken...1 (if you only count the sleeping done in a bed)
perfectly wonderful children neglected for the day...2
limbs broken...0
successful sick day...1
Perhaps a resolution to take a daily multivitamin is in order?

snOMG

This probably makes me a bad mommy, but I still think it was awesome!

TGIF

before 8am....

• wake up 30 minutes late, thankful that my son (who is fully dressed and ready to walk out the door) has a more reliable internal clock than I do
• make him cereal for breakfast and a ham sandwich for lunch
• drop said ham sandwich on the floor
• enact 5 second rule
• watch Wesley become a man while he takes our trash can to the curb for me
• wake Cate and spend more time on her hair and outfit than I did on my own
• feed Cate a deconstructed bowl of cereal (banana in a peel, Cheerios in a ziploc, milk in a sippy cup)
• drive 17 miles to Wesley's school
• drop him off 3 minutes earlier than I do on days that I remember to set my alarm and have time to put on make up

Cheating

This really isn't a blog post. It is a link to someone else's blog post. But it is a profound and stirring entry from a good and wise friend of mine. Please, please, please read it!

http://michaelkelleyministries.wordpress.com/2009/10/19/leukemia-reflections-year-3/#comment-2134

Time Flies...

....when you're raising children, among other things. With the passage of years, Marc and I often comment that we cannot believe the kids are X years old, yet we can't even remember life without them. It seems like just yesterday, they looked like this...

and this....(or that we looked like this, for that matter....)

The older I am, the faster time moves and the more objectionable I find it. It is some kind of strange mathematical formula that could make a very interesting graph of some sort, I would think. But I know that I am not alone in these feelings. Parents are forever lamenting the relentless transitions of their babies on the path to independent adulthood. We are not planning to have any more children [note to self: edit this post should a third child make an unexpected entrance], so looking at baby pictures of Wesley and Catelynn does stir a certain amount of nostalgic longing. Any sadness, however, is trumped by my eager desire to know my children. I love the bits of behavior and conversation that allow me to peek into their personalities. I wonder about what qualities I will say, "You have always been that way. I remember when you were little you would..." It excites me to witness the formation of who they are becoming. As they grow, I feel less of a pull toward the stage they have completed and more anticipation as the next building block comes into view. The challenge in parenting (and life in general) is to remain present. To strike the perfect balance between retrospect and expectancy. Time will continue to fly. It behooves us to have fun.

09/29/2009

Thirty years of life seemed like a significant accomplishment. Thirty-one just seems like another year. Celebrating birthdays as an adult can be difficult. I'm not one to dread the prospect of aging. I rather like the idea. Yesterday I was listening to a friend of mine describe the comfort, confidence and wisdom that is acquired with the passing of years. I feel it....the steadily decreasing angst of dwelling in my own skin. It is nice.

But as each year brings another September 29th, there is expectation. The day has a lot to live up to. Will there be parties? culinary decadence? raucous tomfoolery? On Sunday, some wonderful friends surprised me with a dinner gathering. There was sweet fellowship, yummy food and drink, laughter, and kind sentiment. It was glorious. But Tuesday still begged for its share of recognition, insistent on greatness. Friends prompted me to do something fun, fabulous, self-indulgent, wild.

The alarm clock showed no appreciation for my special day. Nor did Wesley's empty Star Wars lunch box. Nor Catelynn's dirty diaper. As far as the universe was concerned, it was just a regular old Tuesday. And that is how the day played out. Regular. Routine.

And yet as I watch the last few minutes dwindle from today, I feel overwhelmingly blessed and loved. Maybe it was this message from Marc:

"You're the most interesting person I know, the best thing to come out of Florida EVER, and the only person I would ever let buy me clothes. You are solely responsible for making my all-time favorite sounds, smells and tastes. You are the only grown-up I've ever really wanted to hug, yours are the only eyes I've ever noticed to be "especially blue today," and you're the only person about which I've ever thought, "I can't wait to find out what she thinks about..."

You're the only person who's ever made me wish I liked to dance.

You're the person I'd pick Wesley and Catelynn to grow up to be just like.

You're the only earthly thing that I really couldn't do without.

I love you.

It's the 29th here. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Or this gift from Wesley that he hand picked on a special trip to Target with Sharon:

He decorated the gift bag with two stick people. The one labeled "me" has what Wesley calls a spit bubble declaring "I heart you" to the taller, mom-ish figure. He used a Target sticker for closure at the top. The treasures inside included a purse, chocolates, earrings and a random pink tumbler (not pictured as it is in the dishwasher in preparation for usage at breakfast tomorrow). When I showed up at his school today to have lunch with him, he noticed and complimented that I was wearing the earrings and carrying the purse.

Or maybe it was the phone call from my dad tonight to tell me how he was so proud of me and thought I had become such a wonderful woman. Or maybe the beautiful weather and my children's faces on our impromptu visit to the park. Or maybe countless other people who took 30 seconds or more to visit my Facebook wall, send a text, call by phone, or share pizza buffet for dinner. On further consideration, the day was neither regular nor routine. It was splendid. And though it ended five minutes ago, I know I will be just as blessed and loved when I wake up tomorrow.