Spider-Man

There is a lot more to this photo than I would have expected.  It was taken with my phone as I jogged down the driveway and wiggled off my work gloves (in-laws are coming home tomorrow and it would be nice to appear to have done something with the flowers while they were gone.)  While you might see a little boy flying a kite as his sister looks upward, I see a boy dancing and screaming, "Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Spider-Man is on the waaaay" with delight because he got his kite to fly, and fly really really high for a really really long time.  I see the triumph of overcoming the disappointment of his previous attempt to launch.  I see pride in his accomplishment and how happy he is to have his little sister running after his kite.  He asks if I see the kite, but he's really asking, do you see me?  Do you see what I'm doing?  Do you care?  And of course, my answer is yes.  I love you so much I will touch meat with my bare hands for you, kid.

You might notice a cute little girl who loves pink and pony tails, but don't miss the fact that she put those clothes on all by herself.  Her shoes are on the right feet today, and she even had the courage to go potty outside all by herself (because peeing outside is better than peeing your pants).  While we thought Matt, who loves nothing more than an outside morning pee, would be quite proud, he was not.  Perhaps a discussion on where it's ok to pee outside and where it is not is in order.  Grass, ok.  Next to Matt's car door, not ok.  The upside: I'm no longer nervous about taking her camping.

You might also notice who's not in the photo.  There are two more and they were busy riding horse in the barn or playing with their friend or watching a volleyball game, who knows?  Keeping track of four is like listening to four songs at the same time and trying to figure out the story line of each song.  It's all a little blurry.  I claim new mom brain.

This photo contains so much more than a couple of kids having fun on a windy day.  It makes me think of the hours I worried about being too hard on them, not being hard enough, the moments I totally failed at compassion, my frustrations with them, their frustrations with me, failing at dinner, when she learned how to write the letter M, when he begged me for a book each night, when the other girls were brave enough to feed the old mare by themselves, and when we heard the first "I love you".  That's a lot of baggage for a kite to carry, but I think with Spider-Man's (and Jesus's) help, we can handle it.

The Things We Hold On To

It's really an ugly shirt.  I don't remember it looking ugly when he wore it, but it was the early 90's.  It's a long sleeved polo shirt in blue and purples and it's something I can't get rid of because my dad wore it, probably with a turtleneck.  It stays shoved in the bottom drawer of my dresser, crumpled up like an old receipt in a purse, reminding you to subtract some money from your budget.  Except this is a different reminder; one of love, comfort, and a big tall man.  Sometimes I think maybe it would make a nice little pillow, but then I couldn't see the sleeves and imagine the long arms that used to fill them.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the things we hold on to, whether they be material or not.  Things from times in our lives or loved ones now gone are precious and help us to remember.  That silly shirt of dad's reminds me of the every-day dad that I miss; seeing him stand over the stove cooking dinner, or picking me up for piano lessons where he sat in the car and planned out those dinners (listening to my piano pounding from the car was music enough).  I can picture him sitting on a gym bleacher in that shirt, his lanky arms holding up a long trunk, shoulders close to his big ears, watching his sons play basketball.  His gaze breaking only to clap after points were scored or a play was made.  This is why I hold on to the shirt and keep it in tact.

What will I hold on to of Grandma's?  Photos would normally suffice, but they just remind me of how she hated getting her picture taken (which is funny because Grandpa was a photographer and I hold tightly to his old cameras).  Maybe it will be the glass funnel she used for canning, or the pair of orange high heels, or just the smell of horses.  I'll hold on to all of it, of course, but I predict as life goes by, some will get lost in boxes, break, or get thrown away, and that's ok.  My goofy smile is certainly my dad's, and that can't get lost in the trash.

Some friends recently lost their daughter, an unbelievable and utterly heartbreaking thing to live through.  What could they possibly not want to hold on to?  How do you decide?  I hold on to a memory of a pretty baby girl who was so secure in a room full of strangers, looked exactly like her dad, and was as cheerful as her mom.

I hold on to student art from my time in Korea because it provided beauty and comfort in my teeny weeny apartment when I was lonely and homesick.  I hold on to photos of Rosa because she was so pretty and didn't mind getting her photo taken (and was creative in her poses, apparently).

I wonder what I'll hold on to from this time in my life.  Will it be memories of walks with my dogs in the pasture, the peacefulness interrupted because I have to yell at the dogs to PLEASE  STOP CHASING THE HORSES!  Will it be pieces of hay that I weekly find stuck in my hair?  Will I hold on to the blood (and tear) stained Carhart coveralls in honor of Tugs' battle with a horse hoof in which he survived (but I nearly died from worry)?  Whatever it ends up being, I hope it reminds me of a time that I learned to give myself some grace when I failed (and left the gate open for Boots to escape), a kick in the butt into jumping (into a business, and off a cliff into Sheridan lake), and a high five when I succeed (I made friends!  I can drive the tractor!  I fixed a fence, sort of!)

Two things are for sure, I'll hold on to this man, who is the biggest part of my life here (and let's be honest, why I'm even in South Dakota).  And may I always hold on tight to the promises of God; that we're forever loved and never alone.

Wisdom From the Vegetables

It's a humbling experience to bend over in your garden to pick a hard to reach tomato (because your brilliant staking idea was much better in theory) only to hear the "snap!" of an innocent pepper plant, taken out by your butt.  I only mention this because it's happened not once, not twice, but THREE times this year.  A younger and less confident self would have said, "Oh man, my butt is too big," but an older, wiser self with a better self image says, "Oh man, my garden is too small!"

I have had deep rooted garden envy since trying to make a go of it in our new climate.  A recent visit to some friends' Minneapolis gardens left me thinking I should just shut down the farm all together.  And then I remembered my first garden and how wonderful a failure it was.  Because of that failure (nothing survived except Thai peppers and one tomato plant) my neighbor offered to let me jointly garden his plot.  We worked really hard to prepare the soil, plant, weed, water, and watch our garden grow.  And it did.  And so did our friendship.  It was a blessing to share what we grew with friends, neighbors, and strangers alike.

Starting a garden from the ground up is a great metaphor for life; you have to start somewhere and it's usually messy, stinky (especially in the case of burying week old fish remains for fertilizer), and a lot of work.  You can research all you want about what should or shouldn't work, but until you dig in and sweat a little, you're not really going to find out.  And each year you have to reflect, evaluate, and make changes.  I have to gently remind myself of this when I'm surveying my new garden when I'm trying to build a new career, family, and life in our new home.

A few weeks ago was my first birth as a birth doula.  It was the fruit of months of learning, website building, reading, and networking.  Much like planting my kale seeds this spring in hopes for healthy greens, I signed up for training and bought books in hopes of someday supporting expectant mothers and their partners during labor (except my kale plants were brutally attacked by aphids and I had to chuck 'em).  Bad comparison maybe, but things were learned in both scenarios and adjustments will be made for the next client and next year's kale.

Earlier this summer in my new garden

After a long journey of frustration, heartbreak, and disappointment at growing our family, we're signed up for foster care classes.  Growing this "garden" has taken more patience than I think I have.  There are so many ways to have a family and everyone has opinions on how you should do it, or what you shouldn't do, or who you shouldn't adopt, or maybe you should just do this and that and maybe if you just relax and woah, it's really none of your business, people!  Bringing up issues of fertility, foster care, and adoption in conversation is like inviting anyone who has ever eaten a vegetable into your garden for advice on how to make your beets grow better.  Sometimes you must close the gate and sit in your failed spinach plot while the chickens cluck at you for more cherry tomato treats, please.

The mule from whom I fell off  later in the day

We're slowing building our new life; I have friends (even some non-relatives), my horsemanship skills are slowing growing (falling off the mule wasn't an issue, but getting kicked by a colt yesterday has me questioning my dedication), and we're feeling involved in the community.  Oh, and I scored, the first in my lifetime, a goal in our indoor soccer league!  Celebrate the small victories, I say, and forget that your opponent was a woman in her sixties.




I loved watching parts of my garden flourish its first year; its much more fruitful than expected.  Maybe it's time to give myself a little break and expect the same for the rest of my life; although it might look a little hail damaged in parts, fruit will grow and it will be delicious!

Wildflowers near the coop

Mary Virginia Lynn

The barn smells of sweet thick hay these days.  Mixed with the distinctive smell of horses, it reminds me of my Grandma Virginia.  Since her passing earlier this month, it seems my senses have been turned on high and I can't touch a horse without thinking of her.  "Oh I love the smell of horses," she'd say.  "I had a pony; did I ever tell you that?"  "Yes Grandma, a few times.  Didn't you ride her to school?"  And she would tell the story I grew to love so much of her big brothers lifting her up on her pony every morning for her ride to the country school.  At the end of the day, they would lift her up on her pony again, and because she was quite young, little Virginia would often fall asleep on the way home.  "But that pony knew her way home!" she would say with a proud smile.  She loved her pony, who was appropriately named Beauty.  Once, she let Beauty run the whole way home and the poor little horse nearly expired.  When she got home, her father met her and calmly said, "Now Virginia, you need to walk your pony until she cools down before either of you can have a drink."  It was clear that Grandma loved horses, loved animals, and loved people who loved animals.

Before I was married, Grandma called my boyfriend, Matt, my "special friend."  They bonded through their love of discussing investments and she always asked about my special friend, even after we stopped dating.  She reminded me how much she liked him and it was she who unknowingly convinced me to marry that special friend of mine.  We were married in her yard, next to all of the birds, squirrels, and stray cats that came to eat their fill at Virginia's house.  "Look, that squirrel is hungry," she'd say while pointing to the fattest squirrel you'd ever seen.  "I better go put out more corn."  Grandma measured a person's goodness by how nice they were to animals.  After Matt and I were married and adopted a dog, she would say "Oh I like him, he is good to animals."        




A visit to Grandma's house had one guarantee; you would not leave hungry.  Whether it was tenderloins, chocolate mint bars, cookies that always contained walnuts, Diet Rite soda, or the most amazing sour cream raisin or lemon meringue pie, you were going to eat it, and you were going to eat a lot of it.  Even the sandwiches made with mayonnaise and butter.


While looking in my own cupboard the other day, I saw only three jars of elderberry jelly and I burst into tears.  Usually, it's full, but now all that's left is the last of the elderberry jelly that Grandma and I made together.  I am thankful she took the time to teach me, because until then, I didn't truly know what a rolling boil was.  Without her instruction, my jelly would have been just juice.

When I received news of Grandma's passing, I had a vision of her with Grandpa Lowell; they were young and beautiful, she had bouffant hair, he had hair, and they were dancing.  I imagine that's what they looked like when they were married, in secret before he left for the war.  She was in nursing school and being married was not allowed.  Grandma didn't care for rules like that, and she held tight to her convictions.  During her nursing career, she once baptized a baby in secret because the baby was not going to live very long.  The parents did not plan for it to be baptized, but Grandma had other plans.  I am proud to have come from a woman who came from this woman.







I am proud to be a granddaughter of Mary Virginia, or Ginny as Grandpa called her.  A woman who loved animals, loved people, and loved to feed them all.




 

Dreaming of a metaphorical dream house

If your dream house is a double-wide trailer sittin' back in the holler on a country road, then baby that's where we'll go.

-Jake Owen

At least once a day for the last few weeks, I've spontaneously burst into singing this country song, usually directed towards Matt, sometimes just singing to myself.  It makes me laugh and smile, but mostly it reminds me of life's possibilities.  Not so much possibilities regarding a double-wide trailer (it's doubtful we'll move any time soon, which is fine by me!) but exciting possibilities regarding life and work and play.  My life dreams have always been pretty foggy, so as not to be too disappointed with any outcome, but they have recently become clearer than ever.  

It went something like this: 

Masters degree completed = (accomplishment +10, desire to teach -10)

Met with childbirth educator to answer questions about doula certification (hopeful +30)

A job interview is gifted to me, followed by some shadowing for work that would probably have been great with the exception of the hours. (uncertain -50)

Worry about money and future work. (worried -40)

Received email that solves money and future work problem temporarily. (hopeful +15)

Turned down job offer above. (fearful -10, hopeful +15)

Decide to fully pursue my own business being doula (clarity, hopefulness, joy +100, fear -3)

And that's where we're are today...+97 of good feelings.  It's a scary road and I don't know what will happen.  A few mornings ago after chores, I was shoveling old hay into the trailer behind the 4-wheeler to use for mulch in the garden.  It was quiet and breezy except for a bird's song coming from somewhere down the barbwire fence.  I stopped for a moment to realize that although my dreams have never specifically involved morning chores or digging up old hay piles, right there was precisely where I wanted to be.  I had let go of trying to hang on to foggy ideals and pressures from nowhere important; I was finally content in my situation.

And then the 4-wheeler wouldn't start, so the feeling didn't last too long.  But this time there were no tears of failure or choice words thrown out to the universe in frustration.  I just laughed and said, "Fail!" and walked back to the house for some breakfast.

I have never imagined an actual Dream House, but my metaphorical Dream House for LIFE now has blueprints, and that is something to be thankful for, +75.

Mia KNOWS she is living her dreams, everyday.

      

Things to Do Before 9am

I have never been been a bright-eyed morning person.  (All roommates and family members say, "Amen.")  It matters not what time I went to bed, the amount of coffee poured down my throat, or threat of getting fired from a job, it has always been difficult to wake up in the morning.  Until lately.

There are 3 things that get me out of bed these days; one is a furry little ball that whines at my bedside with the crack of dawn.  The other two have feathers.  Just knowing they are pecking at their coop window anxiously waiting for the door to magically flip open, coupled with the knowledge that Tugs will in fact, poo on the floor, is enough to roll me off the bed.  My eyes are still closed of course. (this morning I walked straight into a plant container by the door.  Darn near tripped and fell on my face.)  I wiggle into my boots, grab the kitchen scraps, and head outside.

But then this weird thing happens.  I approach the coop and hear the chickens tapping on the glass while the dogs weave an invisible web around the yard, sniffing the morning ground, and let the chickens out.  The stillness of the day, the sunlight peeking over the hill, and the cool air all work to gently coax my eyes open.  By the time I kick off my boots and go inside, I am awake.  Any attempt to crawl back into bed until Matt's alarm goes off, is an exercise in futility.

I get out of bed again, make a smoothie, and make sure Matt has food for the day (I know how he gets when left unfed.  I do this for his co-workers.)  The rest of the morning looks something like this: feed the dogs, feed the horses, walk up the big hill, chase down Tugs and pull out the horse poo from his mouth, keep Mia from seeing the deer in the field, clean Ellie and Elle's stalls, unload dishwasher, load it up with dirty dishes, check email, realize it's only 8:30!  High-five self for being awake and productive.

This particular morning was extra special. Janna and Dan had a guest for the night and he brought miniature ponies!!!  They are adorable!  Anyone who plans to visit after this guy will have to think of something amazing to bring because PONIES are pretty much the best.  Except they are the worst; if you're over 100lbs, you can't ride them.  All you can do is stare at their cuteness.  The rest of the morning I was a quiet observer of conversations between former farmers and a current rancher about the complexities of planting oats, alfalfa, timothy, wheat, and clover in Canada, Wisconsin, and South Dakota.  It was an agriculture lesson of sorts.  Best morning class I've had in awhile!

Pony 2

Pony 1

These two are not staying here, but they sure made for a pretty exciting morning, despite it only being 8am.  I'll get on with the rest of the day with fresh air in my lungs and look forward to tomorrow's wake up crew.

Where everybody knows your name, except the opposite.

Yes, I love small towns.  Yes, I like living in the country.  And no, I haven't daily put myself out in the community.  But shoot!  The process of making friends and creating community has failed to be a fast moving train.  Everyone knows those big trains take a lot of energy to get started.  It's called Inertia and if you were one of my students, you'd know Newton's 1st Law of Motion describes this property of matter.  Basically, if you're stopped/stalled/not moving, it's going to take some force to get you moving.  The bigger you are, the more force it will take.

In light of the world news, of Boston, Texas, and other places where peoples' problems are way bigger than mine, I feel like complete idiot for even feeling sorry for myself.  I had an especially large self-pity party yesterday.  Boohoo, I don't really fit in anywhere. Boohoo, the Meetup group I was so nervous to join cancelled their event.  Boohoo, I don't have any friends, I don't have a job, and they won't let me get a library card because I live in the wrong county!  (I don't know where the bookstores are either.  Salt.in.wound.  Boo freaking hoo.)

And then something sweet happened.  I checked the mailbox.  In it was a postcard from a friend in Boston (BOSTON, of all places this week!)  It was a reminder that yes, I DO have friends.  I DO fit in.  I am loved.  I mean, duh.  And that's what the end of a pity party feels like - "DUUUUH.  You're fine."

So today I'm grateful for Adam who gave me a big push forward.  I'm grateful for my dogs who know when their sloppy dog kisses are needed, for phone calls with mom, and for Murphy the mule who made it clear that all he wanted in life was to be near me during chores.  And for my husband and his family who keep me laughing every day about stuff that really matters, like even though blowing your nose into a hankie is super gross we should probably use them anyway and how the heck are we going to cut the top off that horse trailer?  Ya know, good stuff.

The good news is that we're all loved, all the time.  God is pretty incredible like that.  (note-to-self for next pity party)

The other good news is, once you're moving, (according to Newton) it takes less energy to KEEP moving.  And you're even harder to stop.  It's all physics.  Nothing special, nothing to get all emotional about, just physics.

For the Love of Small Towns

You know you're in a small town when you can't go to the post office at noon because she's out for lunch. You see, although Rapid City is a bustling and growing city (70,000 people, 100,000 in the "metropolitan" area), we don't live there.  We live in the suburbs, sort of.  We live in Black Hawk, population 2,500.  Actually, I think we live in the suburbs of Black Hawk.  I don't even know.  There's not a comparison I can make like, Maple Grove is to Minneapolis as Black Hawk is to Rapid City - the boundaries are less defined and certainly less important around here.  It seems like everyone is just happy to be from the hills, whether or not you're even FROM here.  If you're here, you're one of us.  If you're not, you should be, and we like you anyway.

I always wanted to live in a small town, but in the country, but with a bigger city that has community and good Asian food.  This combination didn't seem likely, but as it turns out, I got just what I wanted.

Small towns consistently make great storytellers.  While not a great storyteller, I'm able to identify one from a mile away.  Janna's fiancé, Dan, is from a small town in Wisconsin (life is easier with another Sconnie in the house).  His storytelling has excellent delivery, great attention to detail, and amazing Sconnie dialect to boot.  Here is one of his stories, paraphrased and reproduced without permission.

Well, my grampa had diabetes and when he was 80, the doctor wanted to take off one of his legs.  He said, "The hell yer taking my leg!  Goddamn doctor..." and he wouldn't let the doctor take his leg.  So some years later I took grampa out huntin'.  I think he was 94 or something.  I pulled him in on a toboggan to his spot, ya see because the snow was up to here.  We got him all set up and then I went to my deer stand a ways away.  Awhile later, I hear 'boom, boom, boom,' and thought, "Geez grampa's, losin' his touch."  Ya see, Grampa never had to shoot more than once to get a deer.  So I waited a bit, got down and headed over to his spot, but when I got there, he was gone.  But I could follow his steps in the snow, ya see, and it led me to Grampa kneeling down, guttin' a deer.  I said, "Grampa, I heard you shoot THREE times.  Finally got it, eh?"  "Yup, " he said, "and there are two more over there so get busy."    

This is how I've always imagined my life; good stories, comfy nap spots for all, and a warm fire.  All taking place in a small town, sort of.

Things to do at Rockin' J Ranch

Instead of telling people I live with my in-laws, I'm going to tell them I live on the Rockin' J Ranch.  It's true, and it sounds super cool.

This week will feature what there is to do at the Ranch.  Here are your guides:

Tugs (novice ranch hand)

Katie (master chicken killer)

Mia (deer chaser, extraordinaire)

Hank, who is still pouting over the arrival of other dogs, is currently keeping his distance from the camera.

Play hide and seek with new friends to keep your senses sharp.  

Chase as much stuff as you can.  The deer are aplenty but Tugs will do for practice.  

Check on the horses.  Don't chase the horses.  

Although it must be tasty, eating too much horse poop will get you in trouble.

 Run whenever you feel like running.  Take care when running through fences.  

Enjoy the sunshine.  Be joyful, always. 

Depressing post with a hopeful ending

When I signed up to move to a new state, I was hoping for an adventure but was skeptical.  When moving into your mother-in-law's basement, how crazy can it really get?  I should have known better.

Adventure:  noun.  An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity  

Hazardous?  Until last week, "adventure" just meant something fun.  Probably should have Googled it earlier.  Here is how this particular adventure went.

Friday - day before moving
- find out Rosa is sick, nothing we can do until we get to South Dakota
- on the phone with Matt:
"Matt, so I went to check our UHaul reservation before I picked up the truck today and guess what?  YOU SCHEDULED IT FOR TOMORROW!'"  (crying ensues)
"Oh, whoops.  Sorry honey."
"I can't do this alone anymore!  I need you here!" (more crying)
"Ok, I'll call them.  It will be ok."
"ARE YOU SURE?!" (more crying)
"Yes."
(it was ok)

Saturday - moving day
- lots of rain, pack a chicken coop into a UHaul & chickens into the car, leave our first home.  (no crying)
- more rain
- detour
- snow/blizzard
- headache/runny nose
- 8 hours of driving = half way (total distance should = 9 hours)
- take 2 dogs, 1 cat, 3 chickens to friend's house to spend the night

Sunday - 2nd moving day
- blowing snow
- fishtail and spin off road ('whippin shitties' as we call it Up North) into ditch against the guard cables
- crying
- more crying
- conversation with Matt who has to turn the UHaul around to get his wife out of the ditch:
"I don't want to move here any more!  I hate this State!" (sobs)
"Oh honey."
- reevaluation of previous statement after stranger runs through the snow to help push us out
- State doesn't seem so bad
- Matt insists I drive the UHaul.  It's loud, wobbly, and big.
- 2 hours worth of crying
- blowing snow continues (still evaluating the State)
- sky turns blue, air becomes warm
- arrival at new home
- chicken coop unloaded with love by smiling family
- State seems a little nicer

Monday
- Rosa passes away
- lots of crying
- State definitely has it in for me

 Fast forward to Thursday (Tuesday and Wednesday were boring and contained a fair amount of crying).

Thursday
- wake up with the house for smoothies and coffee
- feed horses alone during sunrise
- walk with mother-in-law and doggies
- no crying
- person and State accepting one another






It's been said that what is important is the journey and not the destination.  I call shenanigans!  While the journey here kept getting worse and worse, the destination is getting better and better.  And that is where we find the hope, as promised.

The memories of a hoarder

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a hoarder.  Not enough of one to have a reality TV show, but enough of one that you might look at my house, pause briefly, and raise your eyebrows.  I say this because today, as boxes were assembled to the rip-ripping of packing tape and belongings were carefully packed into them, I started to cry.  It wasn't because we're moving to a new place and won't have many friends, or fear that my body will reject South Dakota in a fury of mucus and itchy eyes, or even because at 31 years of age, I'm moving in with my mother-in-law.  I cried because I love my stuff and won't see it for awhile.  And that is why I think I'm a hoarder.

My stuff isn't just a collection of material things; it is a collection of memories attached to physical objects.  My memories are precious to me; to be surrounded by goodness is what makes me feel at home.  The blue and white tiled side table next to our couch was a Craigslist find when Matt first bought his house and needed some furniture.  It held leaky pens for bill paying, my thyme plant from which many meals are seasoned, and the stud finder for house projects.  I like to try and give Matt an ego boost when I sweep it in front of his body, make it go beeeep and say, "Ooooh!  Found a stud!"

Two canvas paintings are carefully packed away; they are reminders of a Halloween party we hosted where guests painted and sculpted in the garage.  It was also the Halloween that Matt dressed as a Flag Girl (to accompany his Band Nerd wife).  That is something I definitely don't want to forget.  But will I forget that he is brave and willing to try anything, especially if it makes me laugh?

Little green shelves were packed too.  They were handed down from Kara, who always inspires me to keep sewing.  Will I be inspired when it's not on the wall next to the sewing machine?  While in college, Anna was studying in Tanzania and picked up a beautiful wooden figuring of a mother and child dancing.  She knew I wanted kids someday and wanted me to dream about them.  Will I forget her thoughtfulness because her gift is now wrapped in the comic section of the Sunday paper stuffed in a box?  And then there is that cozy blanket given to me by someone I hurt in the past.  Will I forget what it feels like to be mean?  Will I forget what humility and forgiveness looks like?  What about pictures of friends we're leaving?  Will I forget them if their faces are not looking back at me each day?

If I'm without all those memories, who am I?  Who am I to become?  That is probably what scares me the most; not knowing what life is going to be like after all the material stuff is gone (in storage).  Will I be able to stand on my own two feet on someone else's kitchen floor?  (because mine was put in lovingly by Matt and although it's cold, it's beautiful.)  When I can feel secure about the unknown future and am content to be without my stuff, that is when I will call myself a healed hoarder.

For now, I'll throw the fear about moving into the recycling bin (it will come back in a different form soon enough I'm sure).  I'll wait until the last minute to wrap my favorite coffee cup (it has a picture of my nephew Zachary on the side), and when the tears start to fall, I'll pack them carefully into a box with the rest of my beloved stuff.

A (melancholy) birthday poem

The leaves on the (dying) trees are brighter today.
The air from the (toxic) sky is crisper today.
The rays from the (UV laden) sun are warmer today.
Your (barely aging) face is still sweet.
Your (nearly graying) hair is still messy.
Your (bleeding-from-work) hands are still gentle.
I'm glad today (you were born.) is your birthday.
You make (the death in my) days bearable.
You bring joy to my (dull) life.




It was Matt's birthday last week.  This means it's October; the beginning of falll, the end of any possibility of just one more glorious summer day, and the end of my beloved garden...(insert stifled sob).  I start to think about Matt's 32 years of life so far and I mourn for the ones I wasn't a part of.  It sounds silly really, because he might not have turned out to be my awesomely wonderful Matt, had we met previously.  But I start to think about our future as a couple and understand that we might not always be in good health.  One of us will probably outlive the other by a number of years.  One day we will wake up and realize that our bones ache, our steps have slowed, and one of us has lost most of our hair (and I'm really hoping that "one" is not me).  We will no longer be able to run marathons, stay up late for hammerschlagen at bonfires, and our bodies will have changed into, um, less sexy versions of ourselves.  It all sounds so terribly morbid and depressing and oh my gosh how do you get up in the morning, Meredith?!

Don't worry, it's all good.  Because I'm a total sentimental mental case, I totally and fully, love every single second with this man (except those single seconds that I don't but they're in the minority and so they DO NOT COUNT!)  I am grateful for things (like fall, and death, and change) that remind me to appreciate the people I love, to be thankful of how life turns out (or doesn't turn out), and to look bravely ahead, semi-optimistically.

It's October; time to snuggle into my sweet little house, tidy up my dirty fireplace, and enjoy the warmth of my furry and non-furry favorites.

Colors of a summer kitchen

                                                              

I've been really in love with my garden this year.  So in love in fact, that I have failed to properly document it, like a good parent should!  Photos have been taken but not posted, dated, or labeled.  Ah well.  More to come, but for now, a taste of a few hours in my summer kitchen.   

I feel much like a 50's housewife might have felt, and it feels good.  It feels good because it is a choice, not an expectation.  I am grateful for all of the women (and men!) who have made that choice possible.  This afternoon there was a screech of tires outside and to check to see that everyone was ok, I ran out in my polka dot apron, hair pulled back with a headband, hands red from the beets.  I may as well have been carrying a meat cleaver and dragging a dead goat because the totally chic metropolitan woman walking by was taken more aback by the sight of me than the sound of the screech.  Such is life in my neighborhood.

But the neighborhood has been good lately.  After our block party for National Night Out, neighbors have been out and chatting one another up more than usual.  We received smiles and waves from the folks that live in "that problem house".  Tonight is another neighborhood concert.  Let's hope the sweetness from this lasts through the cold autumn days when we start to mourn the long, warm, sidewalk chats about the status of the cucumbers, how many miles we're running today, the latest yard project, and oh did you see that suspicious vehicle parked here this afternoon and I called the cops too.  

To help the summer love last all year, today I canned beets, made pesto, and pickled peppers.  There is so much to learn about something it seems we should be brought up knowing how to do.  I love learning from my grandmother and love using jars she has probably used for decades.  It just seems right.  I also love thinking about feeding my prized produce to my beloved this winter.  WINTER.  Ack.  That pesto, though, will remind us to enjoy our days, whether they be warm or chilly, because they go by oh so fast.

For now, I'll grab my dog and go for a run before the concert in the park.  Maybe I'll see some neighbors and ask about the cucumbers.

Twenty Twentysomethings Lessons

It is the last day I will spend in my 20's.  (If I were Korean, I'd actually be considered 31 already and this list would be much less exciting).  I have dreaded, feared, worried about, and looked forward to this day, to this season of my life.  I'm always looking forward...when I was a teenager, I couldn't wait to "have it together" and start my grown up life, only to find out we're always trying to grow up.  Matt said it best in a letter written in 6th grade to his future self.  "Open when you are 25" it says.  Because we for sure will have it together by the time we're 25.  Here are a few lesson learned, observations about, and goals set in this wonderfully tumultuous decade:

1.  I didn't have it completely together when I was 25.  In fact, I don't think I'll ever really have it completely together, and that's OK.

2.  My failures were mine to make, mine to suffer through, and my responsibility to learn from.

3.  I am never alone in my suffering through #2.

4.  Karaoke will always bring out the best in people.  

5.  Being right feels nice for awhile but being humble feels better.

6.  I have too much stuff.

7.  Dumpster diving is the key to material happiness.

8.  Sleep cures colds, soothes anger, and is essential for happy relationships.

9.  Lack of sleep fosters colds, increases anger, and leads to the inevitable end of relationships.  I will try to be nicer during periods of reduced sleep.

10.  God is a mystery who reveals Himself in beautiful ways.  Science is an exciting mystery that we are privileged to discover.  We cannot know everything about either.  One does not explain, un-explain, prove, or disprove the other. 

11.  I will shut up and listen more this decade.

12.  I will finish my masters degree.  Because my husband wants me to and he really is right about this one.

13.  There are things in my control and things out of my control.

14.  I will not worry about things out of my control.  Letting that gray hair grow was a good start.

15.  I will acknowledge and be thankful for beauty and love and loyal animals.

16.  Keeping up with the Jones' is a bunch of baloney.  I will try to keep up with my dreams.

17.  Processed foods may lead to the death of domesticity but I will fight!  With tomatoes!

18.  Following through is not my forte, but I'll work on it.  Check back in 10 years when I'm forty.  (Ha!  Get it?  Forte, Forty?  Addendum to #18 - keep telling dumb jokes.)

19.  *People will always disappoint me but I should love them anyway (because I will always disappoint people and I'd like to be loved anyway, too).  *even though I sometimes don't refer to them as people, 9th graders are included in #19.

20. It is important to live the life intended for me.  It is also important to remember to enjoy it now, even if I am eagerly looking down the road to the next season of life, when I'll for sure have it together.

Super Squash Soup!

It's been requested that I share my squash soup recipe.  I would be happy to...except that I don't really have one.  I cook by the seat of my pants and Matt seems to think that is a gift, rather than mere procrastination and luck.  We'll go with what he said.

All of the ingredients are up for discussion, substitution, or complete disregard, except for the squash if you really want squash soup.

SUPER SQUASH SOUP!
Put your big old soup pan on the stove on medium-low and add this:
One small chopped onion
some olive oil (so your onions don't burn)
2 crushed garlic cloves

Put the lid on the pot to keep the moisture in while you prepare the following:
2 carrots diced
2 celery stalks
1 potato/sweet potato diced
& any other veggies in your fridge you need to get rid of

When those are all chopped, add them to the pot, stir, and replace the lid.

Take your washed squash - I use butternut - and peel it with a vegetable peeler.  This is a huge pain, but I think you waste the least amount.  If you have another type of squash, a veg peeler might be out of the question and you'll just have to cut off the outside with a knife.

Cube the squash, being sure to remove the seeds and gooey part in the middle.  (Oooh and ahhh over the bright & brilliant beauty of the inside!)  Add it to the pot and replace the lid. 

(Keep the moisture in the pot - if there is not enough coming from the veggies, just add some water)

You might have to turn up the heat a bit if it's going too slow.  You want the pieces of squash and carrots to be tender so they can get pureed easily.  Cook for 15 minutes or until the squash is tender. 

Carefully scoop your soup into a food processor, add a handful of cilantro, and puree it to your liking. (I have to do this a few cups at a time since my processor is small).  Some people will only process half of the soup so it remains chunky.  If you have an immersion blender thingy, use it right in your pot.

Return soup to pot on low.  If your soup is too thick, add some water*.  If it's too runny, take the lid off and cook for a bit.  Add salt and pepper to taste. 

*If you can handle dairy, instead of adding water you might try cream.  I bet it tastes GREAT!

This would not be possible without the CRATE full of winter squash and zucchinis from my neighbors.  They are generous with their bounty and tolerant of oversize wood piles in our yard.  I am very grateful for these people. 

Happy Super Squash Soup making, friends!

waiting for a little life

Spring is something else, eh?  We wait and wait and wait for the teeniest bit of green to lift our spirits from the bitterness of winter and when it comes, we say, "I can't believe it!  It's finally here!" and yet we knew it would be here sometime.  Part of what makes these signs of life so exciting is that we KNOW it's coming; we think about how wonderful it will be, how it will smell, and how it will make us feel when we wake up each day knowing the goodness of life is all around.

Our house is showing signs of life, too. 

Even though outside snow may come and cover up peeking tulip/lily/iris bulbs that prompted some landscaping daydreaming this week, inside things are growing.  A plant survived a winter with me.  Not only did it survive, it's BLOOMING!  It's a Spring miracle, I tell you!  Mom better read this because she will be very proud that a plant in her daughter's care has finally stayed alive.  I don't even know the name of this gem but I plan on getting at least five more this summer to fill my house to make visitors think I have a magical green thumb.


The Seedling Adventure has also begun.  The first chapter goes something like this:

       ....she carefully placed each seed in their respective nook, gently covered them with precisely mixed soil, gave them a blessing, and waited for the sun and water to do its work.  Sometime during the night, the cat, who was irked there was neither catnip nor cat grass planted, decided to take matters into her own paws.  The gardener woke up, cursed the cat, and the romantic dream of planting and nurturing seedlings until they bore fruit, died.

So, yeah, we'll see how it goes.  So far the onions are going crazy.  I think onions might be one of those invasive species you have to gather and light on fire if you don't want it to spread.

The other thing that is growing in our house is a SCOBY for making Kombucha.  It's a big glob of bacteria and yeast that eats tea and sugar and somehow balances your intestinal flora.  Kombucha and I so far have a love love, hate hate hate relationship.  I loved it, carefully prepared it, waited 3 weeks (quite impatiently) for it to reach the right pH, only to find out it had mold!  You would think something as gross as a SCOBY could tackle some mold, but it couldn't.  Dumping out 3 weeks' worth of fermenting tea, I felt defeated.  This batch is going much better, and I'm being much more patient.  In fact, this photo was the only time I've uncovered it to look at the disgustingly beautiful alien being. 

Waiting around for life (and sometimes being disappointed) has been a bit of a roller coaster.  But I'm still waking up, hopeful. 

Blogbattical: a year without blogging

Sometimes we need to break away from things because they are unhealthy, sometimes because of time constraints, sometimes for reasons we don't know.  The last year required me to take a break from the reflection that blogging offered.  I would only later come to understand why.  The break freed up time (as sabbaticals often do) and I wish I could say I used my time to write a book (or at least read a bunch of them), knit a grown-up sweater, or sew something really difficult.  Yeah, well, none of those things happened.  I just got older.

I used to think I would accept age humbly and joyfully.  What a load of crap.  This year I found (TWO!) gray hairs and didn't get carded buying wine at the liquor store.  I cannot stay up past 10pm without pacing around the house groaning, "it's so laaaate!"  This winter, I begged Matt to grow a beard so he would look older (and not like a kid I was babysitting).  I now enjoy and PREFER to stay home on Friday night.

Despite my aging crisis, the year did not pass without gain and triumph.  In that extra time, I did some stuff  I'm quite proud of.  I finished all but 2 credits towards my Masters and started my research project.  A 9 month old was entrusted to me each weekday for half of the year.  I ran a marathon.  I rode a horse into the mountains and then climbed the mountain.  A teenager showed up, needing our love, time, and home cooking.  I started teaching again.  We found a church.  I found the perfect pizza crust recipe.  I finally learned how to tame my (graying) hair.   
   

The year was not a total loss. 

But I'm back to the familiar 'click click click' that puts ME out there to YOU, whoever, wherever you are.  My blogbatical is over.  The trees are aching to show us that they are alive, and I'm aching to let go of things I should have done and open up to the possibility that this year, too, will age and better me.

I'll always be younger than you...but not necessarily cooler...

To my dearest brother, Matt who turns 37 today:

For your birthday, I'd like to sing you a song because you showed me how to have performance composure and how to really enjoy dancing and singing while wearing sequins.  Thank you for sharing with me your musical gifts; one of my favorite memories of you is watching you sing in your bedroom to the Beach Boys (or was it Huey Lewis and the News?) sporting your neon green sunglasses.  I thought you were sooooo cool.  In fact, I thought you were so cool that I wanted to do everything like you, including playing the trombone.  It's even documented in a 6th grade video that this was my main reason for picking the trombone.

Your present this year is SmartWool athletic socks to help your icky sweaty feet when you run.  I know they get gross because we have the exact same feet DNA.  I promise these socks will change your life, just like basketball changed mine.  You showed me how to really play hard and love the game.  It took me awhile to get off of the gymnastics bandwagon and I wouldn't have done it without your awesome defense and rad looking basketball jersey.  I loved listening to Dad yell during the games and talk (yell?) with you afterward.  I learned a lot.

My google calendar just popped up a reminder that it's your birthday.  Remember when I forgot?  You thought I was mad at you.  I felt like the worst sister in the world so I sent you twice the presents.  You've never forgotten mine and always call with a "Heeeeey, Happy Birthday.  Did you get some cake?"  In fact, if I were to tally all of the phone calls I've ever received, EVER, you would be on the top of the list for sure.  (Don't tell Mom she's not on the top...)  When I went to college, you called to check up on me all the time.  I might have acted like I was too busy for you, but felt really really loved when you called.  So, sorry and Thank You. 

I have so enjoyed watching you with your family.  You are a great husband and father and your kids love the snot out of you.  I saw you come home after work one day when Zachary was a little guy.  You kissed Zachary on the head and your smile was so familiar.  I figured it was the same smile that Dad had when he got home from work. 

You are such a cool brother; you always watch for the best electronics deals making you an awesome resource, you are not above the go-karts and arcade games (and you don't even make fun of how much I suck at the driving games), you play tanks with my husband until 3am (you set high goals for yourself), you text me silly stuff (like a picture of your toilet bowl containing poo and one of your childrens' toys) which makes my day, and you still call me a lot to check up (and it still makes me feel really really loved). 

So Happy Birthday big brother.  Wish I could be there to sing you a song, give you a hug, and eat your cake.

Love you!