Yesterday I cleaned out our little chest freezer.
Such a simple sentence for such a monumental task.
I have become more and more frustrated as of late regarding said freezer because it's deep and therefore difficult to find anything. I never know what's in there. And so, I decided that I would organize it. I began to pull each item out and stack it according to type in piles: breads, containers of vegan lasagna, bags of fruit (how did we get so many bags of bananas?), vegetables, etc. Once I had it all out, I asked Roy if he could join me for two minutes and help me with something--now I can't remember what--but of course, once he realized what I was doing, and doesn't believe in halfway, he unplugged the freezer, pulled it out, and proceeded to clean out behind it.
I'll just say this:
Ew.
And then he brought in this blow dryer type thing and blew on the excess ice that held onto the walls of the freezer with a death grip until the ice finally let go and began falling off in sheets, crashing on the base of the freezer. That was gratifying, in a weird sort of way.
Shortly after, I had a newly organized, sparking freezer.
And now my challenge? Keeping it that way.
This was my last major task before August 1 hits. I have deemed the month of August the Make My House a Home month.
I always admire people who have a way of making a home a refuge. It isn't my forte. I am not being critical of me--I do think my home is nice; it's comfortable. But it doesn't stretch out its arms and embrace like some people's home do. And that's what I want: I want that embrace.
We've had some new people move into the neighborhood--Sheri and Bruce--and I visited them shortly after they moved in to just say hi and glad you're here and welcome to the neighborhood!...and I haven't been back since.
Gah!
Maybe I'll head over there this evening.
Anyway, I immediately noticed that Sheri has beautiful furniture, beautiful accessories. She clearly has a decorator's touch.
Tammy? Same story. She decorates her home by the season. The only season I decorate in earnest is Christmas--and even then it's slim pickins.
And so, I am determined that, during the month of August, I am going to plan and create and throw and shift--regarding the semantics of my home. For example, I am going to have Roy hang our television in the living room. I am going to get rid of our bedroom lamps and replace them with something cozy, welcoming. And I am going to hang our family picture that Spencer kindly took for us in June that is still hanging on the hard drive of my computer. My living room is made up of tans and browns--neutral colors--and so I'm going to find a throw that pops. Maybe a louder shade of blue. And some pillows for the couch. And last night, to initiate this month that is dedicated to sprucing up my home, I purchased a comforter set for my bedroom.
Can I just say that it's about time? My current comforter was given to me by my sister several years ago. It was beautiful in its day.
That's the key phrase right there: in its day.
My intention is to not spend an exorbitant amount of money; instead, I plan to just make subtle changes. Pinterest is going to be my new best friend.
We shall see how I do. Maybe I'll post pictures at the end of August to hold myself accountable.
It is so easy for me to let each day slide into the next, to forget to live purposefully. Life is busy all on its own without adding an agenda to the mix. But one thing I know for sure: I don't want life to pass me by. I want to grow, to set goals and accomplish them, to make life count.
One step at a time.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Monday, July 27, 2015
A Perfect Kind of Day
Yesterday was a perfect kind of day.
We did our typical lazy Sunday sort of day where we slept in, took the morning at a slow pace, accomplished nothing. Roy requested stroganoff for lunch and so we hit the grocery store mid-morning where I filled up a cart with items we'll need to survive our week and then headed home to make what I assumed would be enough stroganoff to have leftovers for Roy and Jace at least one--if not two--days this week. But as it turned out, Guerin and Jesse Neilson joined us. I can honestly say that is one of my favorite things in the world--people circled around our dining table laughing it up and eating and talking about everything and nothing. There was plenty of food--absolutely. But leftovers? Not so much. But I'm totally content. I would do that every day if I could.
After lunch, we loaded up the four wheeler and the dirt bikes and headed off to the trails at Sylva which is about an hour away. The drive is breathtaking as we drove through the mountains, the sun shining and the road winding. Roy and I were in the little red pickup pulling the trailer while Savana, Guerin and Jace led the way in the mini cooper. We finally pulled up to this remote gas station and went inside to buy the passes and get directions to the site. And then we were off again, this time winding our way up a narrow two lane road that led up to a gravel road that at last led to a clearing where we parked our cars in the middle of nowhere and unloaded the bikes. We got there about 3:30 which was rather late. Most people were loading up their bikes and calling it a day as we were just beginning ours--which was totally okay, from our perspective.
And then the boys took off, their engine revving, while Savana and I made ourselves comfortable in the back of the little red pickup where we chatted it up about life and her upcoming school year and future plans for her life and such. The weather was pristine; the scenery was stunning; life is good.
A few hours later, after the boys had blazed some trails and such, Roy said to Savana, "Hop on the back! I'll give you a spin!" The words were hardly out of Roy's mouth before Savana threw on her helmet and hopped on behind him, holding on for dear life with a big ole grin plastered on her face. They roared off into the woods, Guerin and Jace trailing behind. When they came back a few minutes later as the trail they rode was not quite a mile long, Savana hopped off, proclaiming how fun that was and Roy told me, "Come on! Let's go! Hop on!"
My favorite things in life are sitting by a crackling fire while sipping tea and contemplating the deeper meaning of life. Or hanging out on my swing while the fireflies come alive and flit around me. Or hanging out in the back of a pickup truck with a great book while those with adventuresome spirits blaze trails and rev their engines.
But hanging on for dear life while the ground beneath me whizzes by faster than the speed of sound? Eh. Not so much.
Roy, well-aware of my "lack of adventure" spirit, made all kinds of promises that he would go slowly, that the trail was easy, that my life was not in danger, blah blah, until he finally coaxed me out of the pickup and onto the back of that four wheeler.
He didn't keep his promise.
And I absolutely saw my life flash before my eyes. More than once.
When we made it back to the clearing, my hands hurt from clenching his shirt so tightly, and Roy joked with Guerin that he never got out of first gear but his head hurt from my screaming in his ear. I quickly scrambled off that four wheeler and proudly proclaimed I had enough for the rest of my life...and I meant it.
Around 6:30 or so, we loaded up the bikes...okay--Roy and Guerin loaded up the bikes, and we headed wistfully back down the mountain. Savana spied some mountain lion cubs--about 5 of them--so she and Guerin stopped the car so that she could get out of the car and get a closer look.
We didn't think that was the brightest thing she's ever done...but once a kid hits almost 23? Yeah. They don't listen too well. Okay. Kids never listen that well...but once your kids are grown you forget that and pretend in your head that they used to listen and now they don't so it must be an age thing...when really it's just a kid thing...or maybe it's a person thing...but when they're infants and you're holding these precious bundles in your arms, you just know you're going to be a perfect parent and they're going to be a perfect child and that this perfect child will never behave like that obnoxious two year old that your friend has...and then, well, then they do.
Anyway...
Jace proclaimed that he was going to die from hunger at any minute and so we went into town and spied a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall and since Roy and I are always game for Mexican food, the five of us ventured inside where we laughed and joked and chatted it up over chips and salsa and burritos and enchiladas and tacos and such.
On our way home, Roy said, "That was a perfect day."
And it was.
We did our typical lazy Sunday sort of day where we slept in, took the morning at a slow pace, accomplished nothing. Roy requested stroganoff for lunch and so we hit the grocery store mid-morning where I filled up a cart with items we'll need to survive our week and then headed home to make what I assumed would be enough stroganoff to have leftovers for Roy and Jace at least one--if not two--days this week. But as it turned out, Guerin and Jesse Neilson joined us. I can honestly say that is one of my favorite things in the world--people circled around our dining table laughing it up and eating and talking about everything and nothing. There was plenty of food--absolutely. But leftovers? Not so much. But I'm totally content. I would do that every day if I could.
After lunch, we loaded up the four wheeler and the dirt bikes and headed off to the trails at Sylva which is about an hour away. The drive is breathtaking as we drove through the mountains, the sun shining and the road winding. Roy and I were in the little red pickup pulling the trailer while Savana, Guerin and Jace led the way in the mini cooper. We finally pulled up to this remote gas station and went inside to buy the passes and get directions to the site. And then we were off again, this time winding our way up a narrow two lane road that led up to a gravel road that at last led to a clearing where we parked our cars in the middle of nowhere and unloaded the bikes. We got there about 3:30 which was rather late. Most people were loading up their bikes and calling it a day as we were just beginning ours--which was totally okay, from our perspective.
And then the boys took off, their engine revving, while Savana and I made ourselves comfortable in the back of the little red pickup where we chatted it up about life and her upcoming school year and future plans for her life and such. The weather was pristine; the scenery was stunning; life is good.
A few hours later, after the boys had blazed some trails and such, Roy said to Savana, "Hop on the back! I'll give you a spin!" The words were hardly out of Roy's mouth before Savana threw on her helmet and hopped on behind him, holding on for dear life with a big ole grin plastered on her face. They roared off into the woods, Guerin and Jace trailing behind. When they came back a few minutes later as the trail they rode was not quite a mile long, Savana hopped off, proclaiming how fun that was and Roy told me, "Come on! Let's go! Hop on!"
My favorite things in life are sitting by a crackling fire while sipping tea and contemplating the deeper meaning of life. Or hanging out on my swing while the fireflies come alive and flit around me. Or hanging out in the back of a pickup truck with a great book while those with adventuresome spirits blaze trails and rev their engines.
But hanging on for dear life while the ground beneath me whizzes by faster than the speed of sound? Eh. Not so much.
Roy, well-aware of my "lack of adventure" spirit, made all kinds of promises that he would go slowly, that the trail was easy, that my life was not in danger, blah blah, until he finally coaxed me out of the pickup and onto the back of that four wheeler.
He didn't keep his promise.
And I absolutely saw my life flash before my eyes. More than once.
When we made it back to the clearing, my hands hurt from clenching his shirt so tightly, and Roy joked with Guerin that he never got out of first gear but his head hurt from my screaming in his ear. I quickly scrambled off that four wheeler and proudly proclaimed I had enough for the rest of my life...and I meant it.
Around 6:30 or so, we loaded up the bikes...okay--Roy and Guerin loaded up the bikes, and we headed wistfully back down the mountain. Savana spied some mountain lion cubs--about 5 of them--so she and Guerin stopped the car so that she could get out of the car and get a closer look.
We didn't think that was the brightest thing she's ever done...but once a kid hits almost 23? Yeah. They don't listen too well. Okay. Kids never listen that well...but once your kids are grown you forget that and pretend in your head that they used to listen and now they don't so it must be an age thing...when really it's just a kid thing...or maybe it's a person thing...but when they're infants and you're holding these precious bundles in your arms, you just know you're going to be a perfect parent and they're going to be a perfect child and that this perfect child will never behave like that obnoxious two year old that your friend has...and then, well, then they do.
Anyway...
Jace proclaimed that he was going to die from hunger at any minute and so we went into town and spied a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall and since Roy and I are always game for Mexican food, the five of us ventured inside where we laughed and joked and chatted it up over chips and salsa and burritos and enchiladas and tacos and such.
On our way home, Roy said, "That was a perfect day."
And it was.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Open Doors
Life is all about open doors.
We have a cat door in our living room. It's rather comical and our little piece of trailer trash as when one stands outside our house, one can see this little railing that leads up to the cat door so that that cats have a way to enter and leave. Otherwise? The window that holds the cat door is too high up for the cats to reach. Anyway, our kitten, Ajax, has just realized that he can use this cat door. It's the funniest thing--he is totally enthralled with it. So in the morning when I get up, he goes out the cat door, and then a few seconds later? Back in the cat door. And so on and so on. In and out. In and out. Frankly, I'm happy about his discovery as ultimately it means I can get rid of the litter box. Ah--that is a beautiful thing.
So this morning as I was watching him do his gig, I was thinking about how our lives are filled with twists and turns and those curves are all based on open doors and the ones we choose to enter.
My friend Jacque sent me a list: Nine Things Happy People Don't Do. It's a great list filled with short statements of wisdom: Happy people don't criticize, compare, complain, live in the past, waste time, try to change others, forget to prioritize personal growth, worry about people's judgement, and finally, happy people don't overthink.
Wow.
Great list. Tall order.
I sent the list to my sisters and one of them said, "Ah man--but I like to criticize. It makes me feel so much better!" And of course, she said it in jest, but...well, you know...sometimes criticizing does feel so doggone good.
And complaining? That's another feel-good trick that I invest in far too often. Frankly, I am more likely to DO most of things rather than NOT do most those things. Ok...let's be real.
All of those things.
But I am inspired. I am inspired to print out this list, hang it on my wall at work and hang it on my bathroom mirror and on my kitchen window. And for that matter? Maybe I'll plaster it on the screen of my iPad until they become engrained in my very being. Because the truth is, that list appeals to me. People who are genuine and kind and make life better for others and are wholesome and err on the side of love rather than the side of right...yeah. Those are my kind of people. Those are the people that reflect this list. And I want to stand with them.
Those are my open doors.
We have a cat door in our living room. It's rather comical and our little piece of trailer trash as when one stands outside our house, one can see this little railing that leads up to the cat door so that that cats have a way to enter and leave. Otherwise? The window that holds the cat door is too high up for the cats to reach. Anyway, our kitten, Ajax, has just realized that he can use this cat door. It's the funniest thing--he is totally enthralled with it. So in the morning when I get up, he goes out the cat door, and then a few seconds later? Back in the cat door. And so on and so on. In and out. In and out. Frankly, I'm happy about his discovery as ultimately it means I can get rid of the litter box. Ah--that is a beautiful thing.
So this morning as I was watching him do his gig, I was thinking about how our lives are filled with twists and turns and those curves are all based on open doors and the ones we choose to enter.
My friend Jacque sent me a list: Nine Things Happy People Don't Do. It's a great list filled with short statements of wisdom: Happy people don't criticize, compare, complain, live in the past, waste time, try to change others, forget to prioritize personal growth, worry about people's judgement, and finally, happy people don't overthink.
Wow.
Great list. Tall order.
I sent the list to my sisters and one of them said, "Ah man--but I like to criticize. It makes me feel so much better!" And of course, she said it in jest, but...well, you know...sometimes criticizing does feel so doggone good.
And complaining? That's another feel-good trick that I invest in far too often. Frankly, I am more likely to DO most of things rather than NOT do most those things. Ok...let's be real.
All of those things.
But I am inspired. I am inspired to print out this list, hang it on my wall at work and hang it on my bathroom mirror and on my kitchen window. And for that matter? Maybe I'll plaster it on the screen of my iPad until they become engrained in my very being. Because the truth is, that list appeals to me. People who are genuine and kind and make life better for others and are wholesome and err on the side of love rather than the side of right...yeah. Those are my kind of people. Those are the people that reflect this list. And I want to stand with them.
Those are my open doors.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
I'm Still Me
Darian flies out tomorrow for Bolivia.
She will be gone for an entire year.
Oh, my heart...
Recently I was listening to this woman (I have no idea who she was) talk about how we need to always focus on the positive. We need to steer our thoughts toward positivity and joy. Every morning when we get up? We should take a deep breath, close our eyes, and say "Abundance flows in my life in surprising and miraculous ways, every day." Throughout our day, we should take moments to remember these words, to focus on them for a moment, to remember...
And so, I've been trying this. When I step into Darian's room and I see bulging suitcases filled with a year's supply of shampoo and toothpaste, when I see her journal out on the floor in anticipation of a year's collection of writings, when I see her newly purchased album filled with pictures that remind her of home and friendship and the place she belongs...well, I am trying to remember to take a deep breath:
Abundance flows in my life in surpring and miraculous ways, every day.
Or this one:
When I don't resist, I'm in grace.
You know...when I don't resist the obstacles life throws my way but, rather, accept them with open arms and a smile on my face rather than with kicking and thrashing and gnashing of teeth. I prefer the latter. I'm really good at the latter, frankly. It's my specialty.
But I'm trying. I'm trying to focus on the reality that my life is here in Candler and it's a good one. No matter that my kids are growing up and moving on; no matter that pieces of my heart go with them; no matter that I am learning a new way of living...the sun still rises in the sky each day; I still have hopes and dreams; I still am me.
Originally Darian was supposed to fly out yesterday, July 20, but then for various reasons that was postponed until further notice. Darian and I assumed she would fly out on July 27 and I relaxed in that knowledge, excited to have one more full week with her at home. I envisioned this upcoming weekend. We were planning to take her tubing down the French Broad--all 6 of us (including Guerin) with our tubes tied together floating down the river, laughing and chatting it up and splashing and stopping midway for a picnic. It was going to be our last hurrah and I was so excited that we were going to get that opportunity after all.
But then yesterday when I was at work Darian called to say--I'm flying out Wednesday morning at 7:00 am. You won't have to take off work after all!
And in that moment, I froze...all of my dreams of our last hurrah vanishing in a split second. I welcomed taking off work to bid her farewell...But I kept my voice light and said, "Well then, we'd better get in gear and finish up your shopping and packing and such!"
But on the inside? Well, I was kicking.
And so, last night we went shopping. We hit Best Buy as she wanted to buy a nice camera so she can chronicle her adventure appropriately. And then we stopped by Dick's for some shoes for Jace as his are ... well, basically held together by shoelaces. And then on to Walmart where she stocked up on some final items for her year. By the time we got home, we were all cranky from stepping on each other's heels and spending too much money and too much close quarters.
So much for living in abundance. So much for not resisting.
This morning is a new day. I am taking a deep breath and remembering that this life is my own and I get to live it as I choose. I can focus on the fact that Darian will be gone for a year and that my heart will bleed loneliness for her; or I can focus on the fact she is in for the wildest adventure of her life; that she will return with stories and and a full heart and a greater knowledge of who she is.
I can focus on abundance; I can choose the path of least resistance.
It's a tall order and I'm not sure how well I'll do. I will probably forget a lot and soak in some self-pity that my kids are growing up and choosing their own adventures that don't include me. But thankfully I'm surrounded by really good people who will keep me looking up.
My life is a beautiful thing and I have so much in front of me.
Abundance flows into my life in surprising and miraculous ways every day.
When I don't resist? I'm in grace.
She will be gone for an entire year.
Oh, my heart...
Recently I was listening to this woman (I have no idea who she was) talk about how we need to always focus on the positive. We need to steer our thoughts toward positivity and joy. Every morning when we get up? We should take a deep breath, close our eyes, and say "Abundance flows in my life in surprising and miraculous ways, every day." Throughout our day, we should take moments to remember these words, to focus on them for a moment, to remember...
And so, I've been trying this. When I step into Darian's room and I see bulging suitcases filled with a year's supply of shampoo and toothpaste, when I see her journal out on the floor in anticipation of a year's collection of writings, when I see her newly purchased album filled with pictures that remind her of home and friendship and the place she belongs...well, I am trying to remember to take a deep breath:
Abundance flows in my life in surpring and miraculous ways, every day.
Or this one:
When I don't resist, I'm in grace.
You know...when I don't resist the obstacles life throws my way but, rather, accept them with open arms and a smile on my face rather than with kicking and thrashing and gnashing of teeth. I prefer the latter. I'm really good at the latter, frankly. It's my specialty.
But I'm trying. I'm trying to focus on the reality that my life is here in Candler and it's a good one. No matter that my kids are growing up and moving on; no matter that pieces of my heart go with them; no matter that I am learning a new way of living...the sun still rises in the sky each day; I still have hopes and dreams; I still am me.
Originally Darian was supposed to fly out yesterday, July 20, but then for various reasons that was postponed until further notice. Darian and I assumed she would fly out on July 27 and I relaxed in that knowledge, excited to have one more full week with her at home. I envisioned this upcoming weekend. We were planning to take her tubing down the French Broad--all 6 of us (including Guerin) with our tubes tied together floating down the river, laughing and chatting it up and splashing and stopping midway for a picnic. It was going to be our last hurrah and I was so excited that we were going to get that opportunity after all.
But then yesterday when I was at work Darian called to say--I'm flying out Wednesday morning at 7:00 am. You won't have to take off work after all!
And in that moment, I froze...all of my dreams of our last hurrah vanishing in a split second. I welcomed taking off work to bid her farewell...But I kept my voice light and said, "Well then, we'd better get in gear and finish up your shopping and packing and such!"
But on the inside? Well, I was kicking.
And so, last night we went shopping. We hit Best Buy as she wanted to buy a nice camera so she can chronicle her adventure appropriately. And then we stopped by Dick's for some shoes for Jace as his are ... well, basically held together by shoelaces. And then on to Walmart where she stocked up on some final items for her year. By the time we got home, we were all cranky from stepping on each other's heels and spending too much money and too much close quarters.
So much for living in abundance. So much for not resisting.
This morning is a new day. I am taking a deep breath and remembering that this life is my own and I get to live it as I choose. I can focus on the fact that Darian will be gone for a year and that my heart will bleed loneliness for her; or I can focus on the fact she is in for the wildest adventure of her life; that she will return with stories and and a full heart and a greater knowledge of who she is.
I can focus on abundance; I can choose the path of least resistance.
It's a tall order and I'm not sure how well I'll do. I will probably forget a lot and soak in some self-pity that my kids are growing up and choosing their own adventures that don't include me. But thankfully I'm surrounded by really good people who will keep me looking up.
My life is a beautiful thing and I have so much in front of me.
Abundance flows into my life in surprising and miraculous ways every day.
When I don't resist? I'm in grace.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
35 Years in a Landfill
I have always loved journals. I can't remember exactly when I purchased my first bonafide journal, but I do remember writing with pen and unbound notebook paper for many, many years. As a young child, I wrote more pages than I can count while lying on a lumpy mattress in my grandparents' upstairs bedroom, where pale wallpaper fell in sheets off the walls and the a warm breeze blew through the open window. As I got older, I wrote in notebooks, college-ruled. I kept all of my writings, throwing them in a box that, with time, bulged from all of the filled binders and folders and scraps of paper with scribbled ideas on them.
Sometimes, on lazy days, I would lug that box out of storage and rummage through the writings, laughing at my childish 7 year old self and my dramatic 14 year old self and then, at my 20 year old self who was falling in love and dreaming of marriage and adulthood and all of those things that young people on the cusp of adulthood think about.
Much of my writings were autobiographical; however, the bulk of it was creative. Oh how I loved to experiment with stories--inventing characters that struggled with love and relationships and insecurities. I rarely, if ever, let anyone read my writings--they were purely for my own eyes. But no matter: I could and did spend hours inventing and experimenting and exploring.
And then I grew up and got married and finished college and had my first baby and then my second baby and then my third baby and then my fourth baby and juggled marriage and children and a job and a household and...well, writing became a distant memory.
One day, when we lived in Wisconsin, I decided to declutter our home. I'm not sure of the source of my inspiration--maybe it was growing kids which, of course, means outgrown clothes and outgrown toys. Or maybe it was the promise of a summer garage sale that we participated in on occasion. But whatever it was, I made my way downstairs to this large room that was basically storage and held long shelves that Roy built and we loaded down with boxes of books and old photos and canning jars and clothes for the kids to grow into and a variety of other miscellaneous, some usable and some...well, some not so much.
I sat down on the cold cement floor and began to pull boxes out and open them up. I rummaged through the contents, sorting and considering and and boxing some back up, and eliminating the contents of others, and then combining...and so on and so on.
And finally I worked my way to the very back wall and found a large, dilapidated box. I pulled it out, puzzled as to what lay inside. The top was folded in an alternate pattern that kept the contents safely inside, and it was evident that it had been opened many, many times through the years. I quickly pulled the flaps up and there before me lay notebooks and looseleaf pages filled my handwriting and folders and 3 ring binders and stories and journals and ideas and feelings and memories.
Thirty five years crammed into a cardboard box.
I have no idea how long I sat there, rummaging through that box--reading and laughing and remembering. But I do know that I spent several hours down there over the course of several days, sorting through the years of my writings. Suddenly all of my good intentions to eliminate and declutter and downsize got lost in my walk through memory lane. But then, I came to the bottom of the box, read through the very last page, and crammed it all back inside, folded the top back in criss-cross fashion, and shoved it to the "to keep" pile. I didn't throw a single page as each page defined a stage in my life, a piece of my true self. It all stayed, contained in the dilapidated box.
And then? Well, then I got back to work and completed the process of sorting and decluttering and downsizing. I had a "keep" pile, a "garage sale" pile, and a "throw" pile. I distributed it all appropriately and went back to my regular life. Neat and organized and compact. Confident.
Job well done.
I'm not sure when I realized it. Maybe it was within a few days? Months? Maybe it was when we moved from Wisconsin to Texas? At this point, ten years later at least, if not more, the timeline is dim. But here is what I do know:
Somehow that box of writing got shoved into the "throw" pile.
Thirty five years in a landfill.
When Jace was two years old our computer crashed. Our computer held all of his photos from the age of nine months to about 24 months of age. I was devastated. We realized every photo was gone--GONE--just before my Senior English class started, and I went to class with red eyes and tears streaming down my face. I just couldn't believe it. Photos from our camping trip and summer fun and cheesy grins and Christmas gifts and birthdays and family.
Normally I could contain my emotions when I was in front of a class and I switched into a completely different gear. But this time? I was raw and didn't even try to put on a brave face.
Gone. Poof. Just like that.
I am taking an online class with Brene Brown called The Power of Imperfection. It's six weeks in length but, of course, one can take it at a relaxed pace so that, in the end, it can take as long as one likes. Anyway, I listened to the first session this evening as she explained the first assignment: a journal entry.
Just my speed.
I got out my permanent markers with a fine tip--14 colors in all, my water paints, my colored pencils, and my journal with 100 pound paper so that it doesn't bleed through. Can I just say, I'm about as artistic as a slug? But that's okay. I'm experimenting. Dreaming. Inventing.
And who knows. Maybe someday this journal that I'm creating will inhabit a landfill. Maybe the photos of sending Jace off to camp or our summer fires for roasting hotdogs or the ones I treasure with my parents will vanish into thin air. Our remnants of yesterday can be fleeting...except in our hearts.
In our hearts? Well, those memories and experiences and life lessons...they burn brightly. They don't flicker. They define us.
Sometimes, on lazy days, I would lug that box out of storage and rummage through the writings, laughing at my childish 7 year old self and my dramatic 14 year old self and then, at my 20 year old self who was falling in love and dreaming of marriage and adulthood and all of those things that young people on the cusp of adulthood think about.
Much of my writings were autobiographical; however, the bulk of it was creative. Oh how I loved to experiment with stories--inventing characters that struggled with love and relationships and insecurities. I rarely, if ever, let anyone read my writings--they were purely for my own eyes. But no matter: I could and did spend hours inventing and experimenting and exploring.
And then I grew up and got married and finished college and had my first baby and then my second baby and then my third baby and then my fourth baby and juggled marriage and children and a job and a household and...well, writing became a distant memory.
One day, when we lived in Wisconsin, I decided to declutter our home. I'm not sure of the source of my inspiration--maybe it was growing kids which, of course, means outgrown clothes and outgrown toys. Or maybe it was the promise of a summer garage sale that we participated in on occasion. But whatever it was, I made my way downstairs to this large room that was basically storage and held long shelves that Roy built and we loaded down with boxes of books and old photos and canning jars and clothes for the kids to grow into and a variety of other miscellaneous, some usable and some...well, some not so much.
I sat down on the cold cement floor and began to pull boxes out and open them up. I rummaged through the contents, sorting and considering and and boxing some back up, and eliminating the contents of others, and then combining...and so on and so on.
And finally I worked my way to the very back wall and found a large, dilapidated box. I pulled it out, puzzled as to what lay inside. The top was folded in an alternate pattern that kept the contents safely inside, and it was evident that it had been opened many, many times through the years. I quickly pulled the flaps up and there before me lay notebooks and looseleaf pages filled my handwriting and folders and 3 ring binders and stories and journals and ideas and feelings and memories.
Thirty five years crammed into a cardboard box.
I have no idea how long I sat there, rummaging through that box--reading and laughing and remembering. But I do know that I spent several hours down there over the course of several days, sorting through the years of my writings. Suddenly all of my good intentions to eliminate and declutter and downsize got lost in my walk through memory lane. But then, I came to the bottom of the box, read through the very last page, and crammed it all back inside, folded the top back in criss-cross fashion, and shoved it to the "to keep" pile. I didn't throw a single page as each page defined a stage in my life, a piece of my true self. It all stayed, contained in the dilapidated box.
And then? Well, then I got back to work and completed the process of sorting and decluttering and downsizing. I had a "keep" pile, a "garage sale" pile, and a "throw" pile. I distributed it all appropriately and went back to my regular life. Neat and organized and compact. Confident.
Job well done.
I'm not sure when I realized it. Maybe it was within a few days? Months? Maybe it was when we moved from Wisconsin to Texas? At this point, ten years later at least, if not more, the timeline is dim. But here is what I do know:
Somehow that box of writing got shoved into the "throw" pile.
Thirty five years in a landfill.
When Jace was two years old our computer crashed. Our computer held all of his photos from the age of nine months to about 24 months of age. I was devastated. We realized every photo was gone--GONE--just before my Senior English class started, and I went to class with red eyes and tears streaming down my face. I just couldn't believe it. Photos from our camping trip and summer fun and cheesy grins and Christmas gifts and birthdays and family.
Normally I could contain my emotions when I was in front of a class and I switched into a completely different gear. But this time? I was raw and didn't even try to put on a brave face.
Gone. Poof. Just like that.
I am taking an online class with Brene Brown called The Power of Imperfection. It's six weeks in length but, of course, one can take it at a relaxed pace so that, in the end, it can take as long as one likes. Anyway, I listened to the first session this evening as she explained the first assignment: a journal entry.
Just my speed.
I got out my permanent markers with a fine tip--14 colors in all, my water paints, my colored pencils, and my journal with 100 pound paper so that it doesn't bleed through. Can I just say, I'm about as artistic as a slug? But that's okay. I'm experimenting. Dreaming. Inventing.
And who knows. Maybe someday this journal that I'm creating will inhabit a landfill. Maybe the photos of sending Jace off to camp or our summer fires for roasting hotdogs or the ones I treasure with my parents will vanish into thin air. Our remnants of yesterday can be fleeting...except in our hearts.
In our hearts? Well, those memories and experiences and life lessons...they burn brightly. They don't flicker. They define us.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Filled Up
I am home.
Roy and I flew out this past Thursday and ultimately landed at my sister's house in Arlington, Texas. Tami and I got up on Friday morning and headed to Oklahoma where we spent the weekend with Dad and Jo, Mom, and my other sister Lori. Chas and Roy joined us Saturday evening and then the four of us headed back to Texas late Monday morning. That is the skeleton of our trip.
We ate like pigs. We ate blackberry pie and apricot pie and homemade ice cream and barbecue and fresh garden veggies and Huhots and homemade bread and homemade cinnamon rolls and the list just keeps on rollin'. Hey! My stomach isn't hurting anymore from all the food I've shoved down my throat! I should eat some more! That seemed to be our theme song. But my word...it was all so delicious and it's a good thing I don't live there or I might be literally rolling my way around.
I am filled up.
Dad and Jo built their house on the property my dad grew up on and that we, as kids, grew up on as well. I spent practically every weekend at my grandparents' home as Dad farmed on the weekends--wheat and cattle. My grandparents spent the bulk of their married life in a small, A-frame house with blue siding, surrounded by a chicken coop and barns and wheat fields and cattle. It had an upstairs and we could hear the mice running in the attic at night when we slept. I always envisioned them pulling chains along the floor up there as it was loud and clanging. I used to worry that I would wake up with a nest in my hair, built by the mice, as I read about that happening in one of the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Dad sewed wheat and ran cattle on the Moore Place which was, in the beginning, my mom's grandparents' land--the Moore's. This piece of land is about ten miles from my grandparents' and we spent many many hours over there working fence and running cattle and taking Dad jars of iced tea and sandwiches while he drove the tractor. As a little girl, I would ride on the bales of hay as my sisters would throw them, one by one, up on the flat-bed trailer as we went 'round and 'round the wheat field. The Moore Place holds so many good memories for me--hiking down red dirt trails and swimming in the creek that runs through it, riding horseback on Snip and Red, racing the four-wheelers down country roads, the dust swirling up behind us.
Every time I go to Oklahoma, Dad drives me in his pickup to the Moore Place and it always touches my heart in ways that nothing else can. That land is home and family and tradition and sunsets and golden wheat and grazing cattle and hard work and full hearts. It all is, really. Oklahoma? It's just Home.
On Saturday night, the five of us (Dad, Chas, Tami, Lori, and me) played Rook, call-partner style. We played three games and I can safely say I haven't laughed so hard or so much in a very, very long time. Oh my word--it was so much fun. Dad is a genuine Rook player as he can hang with the big guys who play for blood down at the Co-op every week. Chas is a thoughtful player who gives utmost consideration to every play. We three girls? We just play by the seat of our pants and the combination of it all proved rather hysterical.
Of course, spending time at Mom's was its own respite for my soul. One of my mom's sweetest features, I think, is how she sets a table. She uses her best dishes and always has matching placemats and cloth napkins. All of the food is in nice dishes--no pots and pans for her. And she served the most delectable fare from the garden. My mom? She's a workhorse and one would never dream that she just turned 80 years old. She waits on us and is as spry and sharp as someone my age. She's simply amazing.
Going home just gets sweeter and sweeter. I loved every second of my time there.
When Jace was 18 months old, he absolutely adored airplanes. One time during that period, we flew to California and I was so concerned about a three hour flight with a baby. But he was absolutely perfect as he was so enamored with being on a plane. We managed to sit by a wing so he could stare out the window and see as Roy explained to him what was going on. As other people's babies fussed and cried, I gloated in pride as mine sat perfectly still and stared out the window.
And then we landed.
As other babies were ushered off the plane, their sobs subsided, my baby had a full-on meltdown. He was absolutely devastated that the plane ride was over and his little body thrashed and kicked and hollered as though the world was ending.
When I said goodbye to my family to head back home? I wanted to be Jace in that moment. I wanted to thrash and holler and kick. I wanted to hold on tightly and never let go.
I am, of course, home now. And I am alive with the memories of the most amazing weekend with family, with those I love the most in this world, at the place that speaks home like none other.
I am filled up.
Roy and I flew out this past Thursday and ultimately landed at my sister's house in Arlington, Texas. Tami and I got up on Friday morning and headed to Oklahoma where we spent the weekend with Dad and Jo, Mom, and my other sister Lori. Chas and Roy joined us Saturday evening and then the four of us headed back to Texas late Monday morning. That is the skeleton of our trip.
We ate like pigs. We ate blackberry pie and apricot pie and homemade ice cream and barbecue and fresh garden veggies and Huhots and homemade bread and homemade cinnamon rolls and the list just keeps on rollin'. Hey! My stomach isn't hurting anymore from all the food I've shoved down my throat! I should eat some more! That seemed to be our theme song. But my word...it was all so delicious and it's a good thing I don't live there or I might be literally rolling my way around.
I am filled up.
Dad and Jo built their house on the property my dad grew up on and that we, as kids, grew up on as well. I spent practically every weekend at my grandparents' home as Dad farmed on the weekends--wheat and cattle. My grandparents spent the bulk of their married life in a small, A-frame house with blue siding, surrounded by a chicken coop and barns and wheat fields and cattle. It had an upstairs and we could hear the mice running in the attic at night when we slept. I always envisioned them pulling chains along the floor up there as it was loud and clanging. I used to worry that I would wake up with a nest in my hair, built by the mice, as I read about that happening in one of the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Dad sewed wheat and ran cattle on the Moore Place which was, in the beginning, my mom's grandparents' land--the Moore's. This piece of land is about ten miles from my grandparents' and we spent many many hours over there working fence and running cattle and taking Dad jars of iced tea and sandwiches while he drove the tractor. As a little girl, I would ride on the bales of hay as my sisters would throw them, one by one, up on the flat-bed trailer as we went 'round and 'round the wheat field. The Moore Place holds so many good memories for me--hiking down red dirt trails and swimming in the creek that runs through it, riding horseback on Snip and Red, racing the four-wheelers down country roads, the dust swirling up behind us.
Every time I go to Oklahoma, Dad drives me in his pickup to the Moore Place and it always touches my heart in ways that nothing else can. That land is home and family and tradition and sunsets and golden wheat and grazing cattle and hard work and full hearts. It all is, really. Oklahoma? It's just Home.
On Saturday night, the five of us (Dad, Chas, Tami, Lori, and me) played Rook, call-partner style. We played three games and I can safely say I haven't laughed so hard or so much in a very, very long time. Oh my word--it was so much fun. Dad is a genuine Rook player as he can hang with the big guys who play for blood down at the Co-op every week. Chas is a thoughtful player who gives utmost consideration to every play. We three girls? We just play by the seat of our pants and the combination of it all proved rather hysterical.
Of course, spending time at Mom's was its own respite for my soul. One of my mom's sweetest features, I think, is how she sets a table. She uses her best dishes and always has matching placemats and cloth napkins. All of the food is in nice dishes--no pots and pans for her. And she served the most delectable fare from the garden. My mom? She's a workhorse and one would never dream that she just turned 80 years old. She waits on us and is as spry and sharp as someone my age. She's simply amazing.
Going home just gets sweeter and sweeter. I loved every second of my time there.
When Jace was 18 months old, he absolutely adored airplanes. One time during that period, we flew to California and I was so concerned about a three hour flight with a baby. But he was absolutely perfect as he was so enamored with being on a plane. We managed to sit by a wing so he could stare out the window and see as Roy explained to him what was going on. As other people's babies fussed and cried, I gloated in pride as mine sat perfectly still and stared out the window.
And then we landed.
As other babies were ushered off the plane, their sobs subsided, my baby had a full-on meltdown. He was absolutely devastated that the plane ride was over and his little body thrashed and kicked and hollered as though the world was ending.
When I said goodbye to my family to head back home? I wanted to be Jace in that moment. I wanted to thrash and holler and kick. I wanted to hold on tightly and never let go.
I am, of course, home now. And I am alive with the memories of the most amazing weekend with family, with those I love the most in this world, at the place that speaks home like none other.
I am filled up.
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