I was flat on my back with a 103 degree temp and the inability to function for 4 days. Tuesday saw a hint of relief after I took the second dose of antibiotic. And today, Wednesday, I actually ventured to work. It felt good to get back into the routine of normal life after several days of staring at the backs of my eyelids as I couldn't handle much beyond that. I can't remember being that sick in a very long time. And? I hope I'm not that sick again for a very, very, very long time. Thankfully, Roy is a great nurse. Sometimes I think he missed his calling. And thankfully, Jace is mildly independent so he fared for himself for the most part. I think he ate a lot of salad with Olive Garden dressing. (I'm just hoping that salad tipped the scale over dressing but all bets are off.) I'm not sure what else he scrounged out of the refrigerator--but clearly he is still alive so I guess he isn't too much worse for the wear.
I did stumble downstairs one time to make myself a cup of tea but I never drank it once I got it back upstairs. I fell asleep before I had the chance. And Roy convinced me to take some of this cough medicine he has that makes one fall asleep and sleep like a brick for several hours. And so? I did--even though I was already sleeping like a brick. But of course, sleeping even more like a brick sounded fabulous at the time so I took a swig...and then found myself drifting off to sleep, falling off of a bridge, and kicking myself awake. Or...drifting off to sleep, running into a wall, and kicking myself awake. Over and over again--falling asleep only to rudely awaken myself due to a collision.
That, my friends, is why we don't share others' medications.
On Monday, I rolled out of bed mid-afternoon so that I could stumble out the door, slide myself into the car, and ride to the clinic that is downtown and across from where I work. We dodged voters with signs and pleas to please vote for ----"My wife is sick, Ma'am--we're here for a clinic, not to vote"--and I managed to stumble across the road to the door that led inside where I, after what felt an eternity, managed to drop into the heavenly bliss of a straightback chair, lean my head back against a wall, and close my eyes into that heavenly sanctuary of darkness. For just a moment. Until the nurse shattered the stillness and called my name and, again, I stumbled back to my feet and clinched my teeth against the swirling madness.
Okay--maybe swirling madness is a tad bit dramatic. But still--you get the idea. It was miserable.
By late Monday afternoon? Life had split apart at the seams: piles of laundry, dishes sprawled on a counter that apparently hadn't seen a dishcloth in days, a floor that hadn't seen in a vacuum cleaner in awhile...the saga continues. No doubt about it. My allotted time to be sick had run its course. Roy is a great nurse. He can even do that "wife" thing quite well. But housekeeping? Not his strong suit. (And that's ok--I'm not complaining. He does more than his share and keeps my part of the load light in comparison.)
And so by late Tuesday, I managed to pull myself up by my bootstraps--(fancy name for antibiotics), and throw a few loads of laundry in the washing machine. I wiped down the counter tops and even ran the vacuum. What's with all of those ladybugs? I'm so over them. I swept the floors and packed lunches and pulled life together as we women do when life has fallen down around us--even if it's from our own making (or lack thereof--whatever the case may be)--and even when we're running temperatures. And then I sank into bed and prayed desperately that Wednesday would bring a normal temperature as...well, frankly, I am out of sick days with the County.
And thankfully, my wish came true.
I am back in the land of the living:
back to grocery lists
and Sam's Club
and rushed mornings getting out of the house so I can beat the schoolbus
and the blustery winds of autumn
and early morning tea
and bike-a-thons and soccer games
and ball with Piper
and packed lunches
and...oh my goodness...
Who has time to be sick when there's just so much living to do?
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Free to be Me
I have been seeing a lifecoach for the past three weeks; today marked our fourth meeting. On our first meeting, she (Michele) told me that I need to figure out who I am. She, for example, is a guide. And so, my assignment was to define myself in a single word.
Ok--that may sound easy...but I found that rather baffling. Who am I? And so the search began. I scoured the internet for single word descriptors. That proved helpful--I narrowed the field quite a bit.
I am a counselor, I decided. When I was in my senior year of college after 5 years of undergrad, (getting married slowed me down a tad) I met a girl whose major was Guidance Counseling. "Wait--what is that?" I asked. And when she told me, I knew that was what I wanted to do. But? I had just spent the past five years in school; you could not pay me enough to spend any more time pursuing a different degree. And so, off I went with a degree in English in hand to conquer the world of education. I'll get my master's in guidance counseling when the time is right, I figured. And of course, we all know how that goes. During my first year of teaching, I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history.
I still don't have my Master's in counseling.
And so, week two I met with Michele, armed with my new descriptor: I am a counselor!
That's great! she said. I'm so proud of you! You seem so confident, so self-assured!
Ah--job well-done. I know my who.
And then, she told me I needed to figure out what I bring to the table with my who.
How do people perceive you? How do you want them to perceive you?
And so, back I went to google. Google and I? We're buddies. Pretty much best friends. And so I began to make a list of qualities in a counselor and how I can see myself in that role. I met again with Michele, armed with my new array of how. And again, she was impressed with my insight, with my dogged determination to figure out who am I. This time, she sent me home to figure out how all of that fits into the workplace in a single sentence.
And so, I came home and began researching exactly what a counselor does. And that's when I began to question: am I really a counselor? I am not interested in hearing people's problems so much. I'm not a life coach, a guide. I'm not all about the office with the low lights and the waterfall contraptions and the tan couch.
And then it hit me: I am a teacher. Doggone it--I just can't get away from it. I was raised in education. My parents are educators. My husband is an educator. I taught for well over twenty years and thrived in that profession. I am a teacher.
And so today I went back to Michele and, with a shrug, I said I am a teacher.
I just can't escape it, no matter how I try.
And she said, "I thought you were a counselor!"
"Me too." (Shrug)
"Well then, tell me what you have taught."
"English."
"And what did you like about teaching English?"
"Well, I liked teaching literature, but my gift in the classroom was teaching writing. I loved teaching writing."
And so I began to explain how writing brings power. It empowers. It changes people and cities and countries and churches. Writing speaks love and brings connection. It unites and creates acceptance. Writing changes the world, one sentence at a time.
I explained to her how, at the tender age of 7 years old, I sat at our dining room table, pencil in hand, and created stories about the Christmas cards that hung on our wall during the holiday season. When I was a young girl in the throes of insecurity, I escaped the madness by diving in headlong to the lives of the characters whom I breathed life into on paper. I filled notebooks with stories that bulged and gave birth to another until they spilled out of the boxes that housed them. It was as though the world did not contain enough pages to fill with the words that burned within me--I simply could not write fast enough.
"And then I had children," I said. And writing took a backseat to highchairs and squabbles and flying out the door to teach and laundry and vacuuming and grading papers and cooking dinner and grocery shopping and exhausted blank stares at a tv screen at the end of the day only to wake up and do the same the very next day...and the next...and the next...and the next.
And then Michele grinned.
"I do believe you have your who," she said.
It was so simple really. It was there all the time; I just didn't see it. And now that I know? Ah--such freedom it brings! I no longer have to stress about the fact that I never know what to cook when company comes over for dinner. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a cook!
I no longer have to worry myself with the fact that, though I love to knit, it never goes well for me. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a knitter!
I no longer have to worry about the fact that I don't do shopping or large crowds of people or boisterous parties filled with silly games. Why? Because I am a writer who craves peace and bursting flowers and quiet moments filled with the ones I love.
Figuring out my who? It's liberating. It's a beautiful thing really--I am seeing my world through completely new eyes. I am empowered! No more grading or pretending or striving to be the things I'm not.
Let the writing begin.
Ok--that may sound easy...but I found that rather baffling. Who am I? And so the search began. I scoured the internet for single word descriptors. That proved helpful--I narrowed the field quite a bit.
I am a counselor, I decided. When I was in my senior year of college after 5 years of undergrad, (getting married slowed me down a tad) I met a girl whose major was Guidance Counseling. "Wait--what is that?" I asked. And when she told me, I knew that was what I wanted to do. But? I had just spent the past five years in school; you could not pay me enough to spend any more time pursuing a different degree. And so, off I went with a degree in English in hand to conquer the world of education. I'll get my master's in guidance counseling when the time is right, I figured. And of course, we all know how that goes. During my first year of teaching, I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history.
I still don't have my Master's in counseling.
And so, week two I met with Michele, armed with my new descriptor: I am a counselor!
That's great! she said. I'm so proud of you! You seem so confident, so self-assured!
Ah--job well-done. I know my who.
And then, she told me I needed to figure out what I bring to the table with my who.
How do people perceive you? How do you want them to perceive you?
And so, back I went to google. Google and I? We're buddies. Pretty much best friends. And so I began to make a list of qualities in a counselor and how I can see myself in that role. I met again with Michele, armed with my new array of how. And again, she was impressed with my insight, with my dogged determination to figure out who am I. This time, she sent me home to figure out how all of that fits into the workplace in a single sentence.
And so, I came home and began researching exactly what a counselor does. And that's when I began to question: am I really a counselor? I am not interested in hearing people's problems so much. I'm not a life coach, a guide. I'm not all about the office with the low lights and the waterfall contraptions and the tan couch.
And then it hit me: I am a teacher. Doggone it--I just can't get away from it. I was raised in education. My parents are educators. My husband is an educator. I taught for well over twenty years and thrived in that profession. I am a teacher.
And so today I went back to Michele and, with a shrug, I said I am a teacher.
I just can't escape it, no matter how I try.
And she said, "I thought you were a counselor!"
"Me too." (Shrug)
"Well then, tell me what you have taught."
"English."
"And what did you like about teaching English?"
"Well, I liked teaching literature, but my gift in the classroom was teaching writing. I loved teaching writing."
And so I began to explain how writing brings power. It empowers. It changes people and cities and countries and churches. Writing speaks love and brings connection. It unites and creates acceptance. Writing changes the world, one sentence at a time.
I explained to her how, at the tender age of 7 years old, I sat at our dining room table, pencil in hand, and created stories about the Christmas cards that hung on our wall during the holiday season. When I was a young girl in the throes of insecurity, I escaped the madness by diving in headlong to the lives of the characters whom I breathed life into on paper. I filled notebooks with stories that bulged and gave birth to another until they spilled out of the boxes that housed them. It was as though the world did not contain enough pages to fill with the words that burned within me--I simply could not write fast enough.
"And then I had children," I said. And writing took a backseat to highchairs and squabbles and flying out the door to teach and laundry and vacuuming and grading papers and cooking dinner and grocery shopping and exhausted blank stares at a tv screen at the end of the day only to wake up and do the same the very next day...and the next...and the next...and the next.
And then Michele grinned.
"I do believe you have your who," she said.
It was so simple really. It was there all the time; I just didn't see it. And now that I know? Ah--such freedom it brings! I no longer have to stress about the fact that I never know what to cook when company comes over for dinner. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a cook!
I no longer have to worry myself with the fact that, though I love to knit, it never goes well for me. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a knitter!
I no longer have to worry about the fact that I don't do shopping or large crowds of people or boisterous parties filled with silly games. Why? Because I am a writer who craves peace and bursting flowers and quiet moments filled with the ones I love.
Figuring out my who? It's liberating. It's a beautiful thing really--I am seeing my world through completely new eyes. I am empowered! No more grading or pretending or striving to be the things I'm not.
Let the writing begin.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
It's Time to Get Up
My two nephews and my son are sprawled downstairs on the living room floor, exhausted from a, most likely, late night of laughter and fun. My girls are both in their respective rooms--one sleeping and one awake as Savana gets up before the break of dawn on a daily basis. As I look out the window, I can see splashes of orange and red as the leaves are turning at a brisk rate.
So much beauty in my life. So much to relish.
This week has flown by at an alarming rate. I'm not sure what happened but time absolutely got away from me as each day merged into the other without boundary. That seems to be happening more and more these days.
This week I've thought a lot about dreams--what are my dreams? What do I want in my life? If I could have anything at all, what would it be?
Oh, the possibilities!
I would own a comfortable-sized home on an acre or two of land that had a shop for Roy to play in and a view that took my breath away when I sat on the back porch with my cup of chai and a book that spelled home.
I would have a new wardrobe.
I would be active in the community in some fashion--help with a nonprofit organization or be part of a local reading circle...
I would plan more getaways--just 3 days or so--to escape the normalcy of life and see different places, have time to just breathe the air of a different setting.
I would go home to Oklahoma more to see my parents (all 3 of them) who have my heart and whom I adore in ways they could never fully know.
I would go hiking more up in the mountains so that I could actually watch the sun set--or the sun rise.
I would go on more picnics because picnics are lighthearted and fun and, somehow, make me feel free.
I would explore more. We live in an explorer's haven--so much to see and do within a short drive from here.
My life coach told me this week that I am just too damned logical. I have a difficult time getting out of my head and dreaming.
Her words took me back. I am? Her words made me cock my head a bit. They stung actually--just a bit. But as I took a step back, I realized how spot-on she was. I am too logical. I spend way too much time killing dreams with practicality.
Jace is only 12 and he needs his mother--I don't have time to be involved or gone chasing my own dreams in the evenings. I need to be with my son...We need to save money! We shouldn't spend it frivolously on trips or clothes--I have plenty of clothes! Hiking takes gas--gas is so expensive! We need to save save save.
And the practicality continues.
I work with a guy named Keenan Lake. Most likely that name means nothing to most people in my circle, but to some people, that name means everything. I met Keenan when I first started working for the county but never really knew who he was until earlier this past week. Keenan is one of those guys who never meets a stranger and from the start, he joked with me about my driving (as he thinks I almost killed him in the parking lot but whatever because I didn't...I swear I saw him despite what he says) and tells me I need to do some work and learn how to type and that sort of thing. But for whatever reason, he sat down on the corner of my desk and just started chatting with me about life this past week. Turns out, Keenan's dad was a Harlem Globetrotter who taught his son to dream and to dream big. Keenan grew up on the basketball court and played college ball and then pro ball for awhile overseas. When he came back to Asheville, he got a job working for the county and one day, a lady walked by and said, "Hey, Keenan. Would you like to be a social worker?" He said, "Never thought about that but I suppose I could give it a try." And so, this boy with a degree in sports medicine became a social worker and saw the need for male role models in the lives of boys ages 12-19. And so? He started a nonprofit, built it up year by year until now he has a full-fledged organization, complete with a newsletter and activities and volunteers that is making an overwhelming difference in the lives of underprivileged kids. He even wrote a book.
Keenan knows how to dream.
When I look back at my list, it makes me laugh. Most everything is manageable. Most everything there is an opportunity that I could have if I would merely get up.
And so, this week? I'm going to build. I'm going to make plans.
I'm going to get up.
So much beauty in my life. So much to relish.
This week has flown by at an alarming rate. I'm not sure what happened but time absolutely got away from me as each day merged into the other without boundary. That seems to be happening more and more these days.
This week I've thought a lot about dreams--what are my dreams? What do I want in my life? If I could have anything at all, what would it be?
Oh, the possibilities!
I would own a comfortable-sized home on an acre or two of land that had a shop for Roy to play in and a view that took my breath away when I sat on the back porch with my cup of chai and a book that spelled home.
I would have a new wardrobe.
I would be active in the community in some fashion--help with a nonprofit organization or be part of a local reading circle...
I would plan more getaways--just 3 days or so--to escape the normalcy of life and see different places, have time to just breathe the air of a different setting.
I would go home to Oklahoma more to see my parents (all 3 of them) who have my heart and whom I adore in ways they could never fully know.
I would go hiking more up in the mountains so that I could actually watch the sun set--or the sun rise.
I would go on more picnics because picnics are lighthearted and fun and, somehow, make me feel free.
I would explore more. We live in an explorer's haven--so much to see and do within a short drive from here.
My life coach told me this week that I am just too damned logical. I have a difficult time getting out of my head and dreaming.
Her words took me back. I am? Her words made me cock my head a bit. They stung actually--just a bit. But as I took a step back, I realized how spot-on she was. I am too logical. I spend way too much time killing dreams with practicality.
Jace is only 12 and he needs his mother--I don't have time to be involved or gone chasing my own dreams in the evenings. I need to be with my son...We need to save money! We shouldn't spend it frivolously on trips or clothes--I have plenty of clothes! Hiking takes gas--gas is so expensive! We need to save save save.
And the practicality continues.
I work with a guy named Keenan Lake. Most likely that name means nothing to most people in my circle, but to some people, that name means everything. I met Keenan when I first started working for the county but never really knew who he was until earlier this past week. Keenan is one of those guys who never meets a stranger and from the start, he joked with me about my driving (as he thinks I almost killed him in the parking lot but whatever because I didn't...I swear I saw him despite what he says) and tells me I need to do some work and learn how to type and that sort of thing. But for whatever reason, he sat down on the corner of my desk and just started chatting with me about life this past week. Turns out, Keenan's dad was a Harlem Globetrotter who taught his son to dream and to dream big. Keenan grew up on the basketball court and played college ball and then pro ball for awhile overseas. When he came back to Asheville, he got a job working for the county and one day, a lady walked by and said, "Hey, Keenan. Would you like to be a social worker?" He said, "Never thought about that but I suppose I could give it a try." And so, this boy with a degree in sports medicine became a social worker and saw the need for male role models in the lives of boys ages 12-19. And so? He started a nonprofit, built it up year by year until now he has a full-fledged organization, complete with a newsletter and activities and volunteers that is making an overwhelming difference in the lives of underprivileged kids. He even wrote a book.
Keenan knows how to dream.
When I look back at my list, it makes me laugh. Most everything is manageable. Most everything there is an opportunity that I could have if I would merely get up.
And so, this week? I'm going to build. I'm going to make plans.
I'm going to get up.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Fully Alive
It is cold outside. Fall has officially arrived as I sit in this chair, bundled in my fuzzy robe with a cup of chai at my side. Savana is in the kitchen, whipping up some sort of "savory" oatmeal that she is really excited about (but sounds really awful). She is singing to herself and I can hear something sizzling in the pan as she busily goes about her business.
Yesterday we snagged Harrison and he and Jace played the day away. Oh my those two have a good time together, giggling and talking and playing the entire day away when they get together. Harrison wasn't able to go back to APCS this year and I know Jace has missed his good buddy. They are still sleeping soundly but I know the minute they get up, Jace will say, "Mom, I am so sad that Harrison has to go home tonight. I hope tonight never gets here."
And I will say, "Just enjoy every minute, Jace. And another day will come when Harrison will visit again. Don't waste today being sad that it will end."
Mindfulness.
It seems to be the buzz word as of late. Recently I went to one of the Lunch & Learns at work and the presenter talked about its importance when we eat--being aware of each bite rather than shoveling it in as quickly as possible so that we can move on to the next before the first bite is even chewed.
But mindfulness goes beyond that to learning to live in the present as well. Taking each moment as it comes and enjoying it to its fullest potential. Getting out of one's head and into the now.
It's so easy to live in one's head...or at least it is for me. Sometimes, and this is embarrassing, but sometimes I ask a question and then forget to listen to the answer. Then later? I wonder that same question but, of course, I don't dare ask and give myself away.
I believe, though, that learning to live in the present, to find the joy in the moment, is a key to living a happy life.
Taking deep breaths
Listening to music
Prayer
Laughter
Engaging in each moment; being present; feeling alive.
Yesterday was an amazing day. I can't count how many times I said to Roy: Today is glorious. And it was. Nothing spectacular happened but I made a point of doing things that I love: I went to church at Foster and was completely engrossed in the music; I made lunch and then dined with some of the people I love the most in this world--all of us squeezed around the table and talking nonstop; Roy and I went on a long motorcycle ride on the winding roads up the mountain...and then back down again; we lazed around for a bit in the man cave; Roy and I walked the track together and then went for a long golf cart ride, stopping along the way to chat with different people. And then before I went to bed? I watched a few episodes of my latest series on my iPad. It was a day filled with goodness.
A perfect day.
But now? Well now it's a memory and a new day lies before me. And it's up to me to make the most of it, to be fully present--fully alive.
Yesterday we snagged Harrison and he and Jace played the day away. Oh my those two have a good time together, giggling and talking and playing the entire day away when they get together. Harrison wasn't able to go back to APCS this year and I know Jace has missed his good buddy. They are still sleeping soundly but I know the minute they get up, Jace will say, "Mom, I am so sad that Harrison has to go home tonight. I hope tonight never gets here."
And I will say, "Just enjoy every minute, Jace. And another day will come when Harrison will visit again. Don't waste today being sad that it will end."
Mindfulness.
It seems to be the buzz word as of late. Recently I went to one of the Lunch & Learns at work and the presenter talked about its importance when we eat--being aware of each bite rather than shoveling it in as quickly as possible so that we can move on to the next before the first bite is even chewed.
But mindfulness goes beyond that to learning to live in the present as well. Taking each moment as it comes and enjoying it to its fullest potential. Getting out of one's head and into the now.
It's so easy to live in one's head...or at least it is for me. Sometimes, and this is embarrassing, but sometimes I ask a question and then forget to listen to the answer. Then later? I wonder that same question but, of course, I don't dare ask and give myself away.
I believe, though, that learning to live in the present, to find the joy in the moment, is a key to living a happy life.
Taking deep breaths
Listening to music
Prayer
Laughter
Engaging in each moment; being present; feeling alive.
Yesterday was an amazing day. I can't count how many times I said to Roy: Today is glorious. And it was. Nothing spectacular happened but I made a point of doing things that I love: I went to church at Foster and was completely engrossed in the music; I made lunch and then dined with some of the people I love the most in this world--all of us squeezed around the table and talking nonstop; Roy and I went on a long motorcycle ride on the winding roads up the mountain...and then back down again; we lazed around for a bit in the man cave; Roy and I walked the track together and then went for a long golf cart ride, stopping along the way to chat with different people. And then before I went to bed? I watched a few episodes of my latest series on my iPad. It was a day filled with goodness.
A perfect day.
But now? Well now it's a memory and a new day lies before me. And it's up to me to make the most of it, to be fully present--fully alive.
Needing More
It is a perfect kind of morning. It is raining out, it is still dark, and a fire is roaring in the stove. Ok--it's fake but still...that's the best kind. And to top that off, Roy and Savana went to Sam's on Friday to stock up on essentials and came home with this pumpkin spice creamer. Oh my word it makes the best chai tea. And so? I have a cup of that sitting beside me. Mmmm...
On Friday, Roy, Jace and I were coming home from Asheville after picking up Harrison so he could spend the weekend with us, and Roy looked over at me and said, "I think I'm getting sick."
I said, "You're fine, Roy. If you have a tickle in your throat, you think you're getting sick."
Yeah. I'm really sympathetic like that.
Once we got home, I got busy getting ready for our faculty family kids who were coming over after vespers for hot chocolate and caramel apples and popcorn. Thankfully, Savana had already done most of the work as the house was clean and she was busily chopping apples when I walked in. (Thanks, girlie.) Anyway, in the midst of all of my busy-ness, I ran upstairs for who knows why, and there was Roy, huddled on the couch with a blanket, shivering, and looking as red as a beet.
102 degree fever.
Wife of the Year Award.
That's me.
Oops.
That seems to be a classic Vonda move. One time when Darian was about 5 years old, we went traipsing through the woods and she was lagging behind. "Come on, Darian! Keep up!" I nagged. Over and over and over again, frustrated. At one point, I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as I was tired of stopping the group to wait for her. And then when we finally got home that evening, it dawned on me Is she sick? And so I took her temperature: 103.
Mother of the Year Award.
Clearly recognizing when my family is sick is not my strong suit.
I was raised in a family where we never went to the doctor, and we never stayed home from school unless we were running a temperature--and that's not referring to a low grade temp, mind you. We just barreled through until we got to the other side because, well, in time we'd be just fine. And we always were. And so? Well--that mentality resulted in me. Thanks, Mom. We'll blame you.
Yesterday I watched this video about this guy who did an experiment with 4 people who were very sick: one had cancer, one had Krohn's disease, one had depression and suffered from alcoholism, and the fourth had diabetes. He talked about how he had done research on our antibiotics and healing medicines and realized that they all came from the rain forest. And yet? We've only done research on a whopping 1% of the medicinal plants that are found in the rain forest. So this guy visited the Amazon and talked to a medicine man who comes from a long legacy of medicine men in his family--and he's the only one left. This group of people live in a totally primitive setting in huts built in or in the midst of trees. And yet? They're joyful; happy. Their lives are filled with wonder and they don't long for all of the modern comforts that we enjoy.
Anyway, this guy takes these 4 people down for 30 days to see this medicine man and live a primitive life away from all of our modern comforts...and they are all healed. They are forced to deal with emotional issues as this medicine man works with them, using different plants and concoctions that he gleans from the earth. It is amazing to behold.
I remember my sister telling me about a friend of hers who went to the Amazon as a student missionary. In the beginning, she cried for weeks because she was so homesick and her life catapulted from craziness and business to ... nothing. The people had no time constraints and no crazy schedules to adhere to. She lived in a hut built in the trees. But after awhile, she learned the beauty of that lifestyle and when her year was over, she came back to the States only to find herself depressed and desperate for the Amazon. And so? She went back for another year.
Our schools often take mission trips to various parts of the earth--Belize and Africa and the Philippines--places that don't have the privilege of our luxury. And the one thing that everyone notes is that these people are joyful. Despite their lack, they live abundantly.
It makes me think that we need to find a way to get back to our roots. Technology is fabulous. The comforts that we enjoy here in the States are second to none. And yet? Clearly we are missing a piece of the puzzle. We have strayed from the bounty we were originally intended to have and chosen a different kind of bounty--and found our souls empty because of it.
I love my life. I have no reason to complain. But I want to step back and find some simplicity. I want to marvel at nature more. I want to surround myself with laughter and friendship and family...more. I want to dine on simple foods more.
I need a lot less of first world problems...and a lot more of primitive.
On Friday, Roy, Jace and I were coming home from Asheville after picking up Harrison so he could spend the weekend with us, and Roy looked over at me and said, "I think I'm getting sick."
I said, "You're fine, Roy. If you have a tickle in your throat, you think you're getting sick."
Yeah. I'm really sympathetic like that.
Once we got home, I got busy getting ready for our faculty family kids who were coming over after vespers for hot chocolate and caramel apples and popcorn. Thankfully, Savana had already done most of the work as the house was clean and she was busily chopping apples when I walked in. (Thanks, girlie.) Anyway, in the midst of all of my busy-ness, I ran upstairs for who knows why, and there was Roy, huddled on the couch with a blanket, shivering, and looking as red as a beet.
102 degree fever.
Wife of the Year Award.
That's me.
Oops.
That seems to be a classic Vonda move. One time when Darian was about 5 years old, we went traipsing through the woods and she was lagging behind. "Come on, Darian! Keep up!" I nagged. Over and over and over again, frustrated. At one point, I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as I was tired of stopping the group to wait for her. And then when we finally got home that evening, it dawned on me Is she sick? And so I took her temperature: 103.
Mother of the Year Award.
Clearly recognizing when my family is sick is not my strong suit.
I was raised in a family where we never went to the doctor, and we never stayed home from school unless we were running a temperature--and that's not referring to a low grade temp, mind you. We just barreled through until we got to the other side because, well, in time we'd be just fine. And we always were. And so? Well--that mentality resulted in me. Thanks, Mom. We'll blame you.
Yesterday I watched this video about this guy who did an experiment with 4 people who were very sick: one had cancer, one had Krohn's disease, one had depression and suffered from alcoholism, and the fourth had diabetes. He talked about how he had done research on our antibiotics and healing medicines and realized that they all came from the rain forest. And yet? We've only done research on a whopping 1% of the medicinal plants that are found in the rain forest. So this guy visited the Amazon and talked to a medicine man who comes from a long legacy of medicine men in his family--and he's the only one left. This group of people live in a totally primitive setting in huts built in or in the midst of trees. And yet? They're joyful; happy. Their lives are filled with wonder and they don't long for all of the modern comforts that we enjoy.
Anyway, this guy takes these 4 people down for 30 days to see this medicine man and live a primitive life away from all of our modern comforts...and they are all healed. They are forced to deal with emotional issues as this medicine man works with them, using different plants and concoctions that he gleans from the earth. It is amazing to behold.
I remember my sister telling me about a friend of hers who went to the Amazon as a student missionary. In the beginning, she cried for weeks because she was so homesick and her life catapulted from craziness and business to ... nothing. The people had no time constraints and no crazy schedules to adhere to. She lived in a hut built in the trees. But after awhile, she learned the beauty of that lifestyle and when her year was over, she came back to the States only to find herself depressed and desperate for the Amazon. And so? She went back for another year.
Our schools often take mission trips to various parts of the earth--Belize and Africa and the Philippines--places that don't have the privilege of our luxury. And the one thing that everyone notes is that these people are joyful. Despite their lack, they live abundantly.
It makes me think that we need to find a way to get back to our roots. Technology is fabulous. The comforts that we enjoy here in the States are second to none. And yet? Clearly we are missing a piece of the puzzle. We have strayed from the bounty we were originally intended to have and chosen a different kind of bounty--and found our souls empty because of it.
I love my life. I have no reason to complain. But I want to step back and find some simplicity. I want to marvel at nature more. I want to surround myself with laughter and friendship and family...more. I want to dine on simple foods more.
I need a lot less of first world problems...and a lot more of primitive.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
That's How It Came to Be
This past weekend was Parent Weekend at our school. That translates into a whole lot of fun out on the field Saturday night. It was freezing outside and so I bundled from head to toe: scarf, heavy coat, gloves--the works. I sent Jace and Harrison, who was visiting, ahead of me and they, too, were dressed for an evening out in frigid temperatures. (Well, frigid as far as North Carolina is concerned--maybe not Wisconsin. Or Alaska.) So as I am huddled around a fire talking to a group of people, I look out at the field to find Jace who was playing soccer. And there he was--running like a crazy boy...in shorts and a t-shirt. I did a doubletake: what? I know I sent him out here dressed like he has a mother!
Awhile later, he saw me huddled over the fire and ran up to me, shivering: "Hey, Mom. Harrison and I are going home now."
"Jace! You're going to be sick!"
"No, I won't. When I got cold, I stood by a fire for a minute."
And that's how it came to be that Sunday morning Jace woke up with a raging cough and a fever. Yesterday morning (Monday), he wasn't any better and so, I headed for work and asked if I could work through my lunch hour so that I could head home an hour earlier. And that is how it came to be that yesterday afternoon I was home by 3:30 for a very long evening inside while rain poured down outside and Jace lay on the couch soaking up all of my attention. He had all of his supplies on the floor by the couch where he lay: a glass of water, crackers, kleenex, the remote control (he is definitely of the male species), and a book.
I hung out with him for a couple of hours. We watched tv, I cooked for him and I brought him water when his glass was empty. But after awhile, he decided he was tired and went to the bedroom to sleep for a few. And that's when I got the bright idea to cook.
Somewhere in the midst of hanging with Jace, Savana sent me a text saying she was going to make a red lentil curry soup when she got home for her lunches this week. Send me the recipe--I'll make it, and so she did. And so I went to the kitchen and chopped carrots and celery and onion and threw them into the pot. And while that was sauteing, I got the bright idea to make a casserole for my lunches. It's a casserole from my childhood that spells comfort to me--made with Rotel tomatoes and corn tortillas. Mmm...And since nobody in my family likes it but Roy and me, I figured I would have my lunches for the week prepared as well.
And then Roy came home.
That smells good. What are you cooking?
And that's how it came to be when I pulled the casserole out of the oven, Roy ate a whopping serving of it. And then I packed a bowl for myself for my lunch today, leaving just enough for Roy's lunch.
Oh well.
So hopefully today Jace will feel better and be ready to head back to school. Hopefully today my electric "gas" stove will come in...
And that's how it will come to be that this evening you will find me in the living room, soaking up the warmth of a "fire" while I lazily hang in my glider and watch Netflix, sipping from a tall glass of water, rather than cooking in a kitchen...
Because one night of cooking per week is plenty enough for me.
Awhile later, he saw me huddled over the fire and ran up to me, shivering: "Hey, Mom. Harrison and I are going home now."
"Jace! You're going to be sick!"
"No, I won't. When I got cold, I stood by a fire for a minute."
And that's how it came to be that Sunday morning Jace woke up with a raging cough and a fever. Yesterday morning (Monday), he wasn't any better and so, I headed for work and asked if I could work through my lunch hour so that I could head home an hour earlier. And that is how it came to be that yesterday afternoon I was home by 3:30 for a very long evening inside while rain poured down outside and Jace lay on the couch soaking up all of my attention. He had all of his supplies on the floor by the couch where he lay: a glass of water, crackers, kleenex, the remote control (he is definitely of the male species), and a book.
I hung out with him for a couple of hours. We watched tv, I cooked for him and I brought him water when his glass was empty. But after awhile, he decided he was tired and went to the bedroom to sleep for a few. And that's when I got the bright idea to cook.
Somewhere in the midst of hanging with Jace, Savana sent me a text saying she was going to make a red lentil curry soup when she got home for her lunches this week. Send me the recipe--I'll make it, and so she did. And so I went to the kitchen and chopped carrots and celery and onion and threw them into the pot. And while that was sauteing, I got the bright idea to make a casserole for my lunches. It's a casserole from my childhood that spells comfort to me--made with Rotel tomatoes and corn tortillas. Mmm...And since nobody in my family likes it but Roy and me, I figured I would have my lunches for the week prepared as well.
And then Roy came home.
That smells good. What are you cooking?
And that's how it came to be when I pulled the casserole out of the oven, Roy ate a whopping serving of it. And then I packed a bowl for myself for my lunch today, leaving just enough for Roy's lunch.
Oh well.
So hopefully today Jace will feel better and be ready to head back to school. Hopefully today my electric "gas" stove will come in...
And that's how it will come to be that this evening you will find me in the living room, soaking up the warmth of a "fire" while I lazily hang in my glider and watch Netflix, sipping from a tall glass of water, rather than cooking in a kitchen...
Because one night of cooking per week is plenty enough for me.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Thankful Indeed
A challenge is sweeping over Facebook at the moment: 5 days of thankfulness. So here's my thankfulness list:
1. My job. How many times can I say this? I love my job. I love getting up in the mornings and heading to work. Time flies while I am there. I love my co-workers--all of them. I even love Mondays. And the paycheck? Fabulous.
2. Seasons. I am so excited that it's fall--changing leaves and brisk weather and sweatshirts and cozy fires and toasty drinks...Honestly, I get excited at the beginning of each season but by its end, I am weary and ready for the next one. But that doesn't ring true with Autumn. I don't think I ever tire of its bounty. If anything, it is fleeting.
3. Today. Because Roy is meeting me for lunch and I absolutely love it when he comes and spends that hour with me. Ah. And? I have this professional counseling gig that is offered by the County and so it's free for 5 weeks and I am participating and I have absolutely no idea what it's all about but I met the girl who is the counselor and she's spot-on amazing and so I just can't wait to participate. Yeah. Today is going to be a great day.
4. Opportunity. I think life is filled with opportunity. A wealth of information is at the tip of our fingers. We can learn new skills and educate ourselves and dream and make life is beautiful as we choose. And I love that. That's not to say that life isn't challenging or difficult because sometimes it leaves us barely hanging on. But despite it all, life is a gift and each day brings its own unique bounty.
5. A good ink pen. One of those ink pens that glides when it writes. I have a few favorites around the house and I cherish them. Kind of selfish with them really. Like when i see someone using one of my pens, I always think...Hm. Hope they don't snag my pen.
6. Paint. I love how paint can bring home to a room. A couple of summers ago Roy and I painted the kitchen, dining room and living room of this house and wow did it make a difference. It brings a whole new feel to a room, and I think that's a pretty remarkable thing.
7. My plants. They just make me so happy. I have this little guy that sits next to me (Thanks, Tammy) and it's blooming these amazing little purple flowers. So beautiful. Every day when I sit in this chair I check it out:Are you blooming? Yep. You are. And it makes me smile. Every time.
8. Technology. Oh my word I love technology!! Ipads and cell phones and the Internet and gadgets and computers and Netflix and Hulu and Youtube and the list continues. So much fun. So much knowledge. So much opportunity. So much challenge to be disciplined!
9. My husband and my kids and my sisters and my parents (all 3 of them) and my God and my pets and my heart-friends and my close friends and my friends.
Thankful indeed.
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