Monday, May 13, 2013
when life changes...
It was long. Winter.
I look outside and I see green and smell warmth and feel sunshine and the clothes they dry nice and quick on the line now.
But too, I remember the cold and it doesn't seem all that long ago since snow covered the ground and I shivered collecting the eggs.
I wonder if this is a sign of age? That the memory of the unpleasant really does seep into the now and I can't live quite as freely in the present because I remember the past.
That I somehow know that the future also holds the hard-to-bear, and it's only a matter of time before that reality becomes now.
How could it not?
I watched snow melt, slow and deliberate, day after day. I counted off days until warm weather and planting time. Counted days until life would be warm and sweet and easy again.
Those catalogs that arrived in January, they helped. They reminded that yes, even the cold of winter will pass and spring will come and all will be well.
Sometimes you just need a reminder that life will go on.
That winter doesn't last.
That there will be a planting time again.
The seeds we plant, they change a bit year-to-year.
Each year in the garden is a learning time, a time to tuck in the seeds that we've grown to love.
And a time to try new things. New delights and ideas which we hope will be as wonderful as the dreams conceived in winter, pouring over those catalogs.
But for the new seeds to go in the ground, we must forego others.
Space - and life - is limited. You cannot do everything, and you cannot have it all.
This - this reality which is the hardest of all things to accept, somehow - is really life's reality. And I can't help but laugh somehow at the absurdity of this lesson. That my garden can teach me about life? It seems preposterous.
It is, in fact, ridiculous.
And it is real. And true.
Life IS like my garden. I am continually learning. Planting the new. Replacing the not-quite-working.
Living with a hope that this new crop will be better than ever.
And so, deep breath and closing-the-eyes-to-take-the-plunge, I'll say it: I've enrolled all of my children in public school for the upcoming school year.
Well, and why not? We spend more time there than at home. They are leaders at the school (one is a Drum Major, one is a XC and Track star). They've sung and danced in the school plays - even as one of the leading characters, no less. They've gone on way too many school trips to count, and I've chaperoned many of them.
This? This is just what will grow in our garden this year.
They are, of course, placed in courses that are just a bit above their actual age/grade level. Thankfully our district has plenty of advanced classes, and very dedicated faculty who took the time to actually read through our textbooks in order to figure out placement.
My kids are excited.
And so am I, in a new-garden-hopeful sort of way.
Oh, I've planted before. I've tried seeds and seedlings and even roots. And I know - I know. Crops grow with careful tending.
Even new ones.
I look outside and I see green and smell warmth and feel sunshine and the clothes they dry nice and quick on the line now.
But too, I remember the cold and it doesn't seem all that long ago since snow covered the ground and I shivered collecting the eggs.
I wonder if this is a sign of age? That the memory of the unpleasant really does seep into the now and I can't live quite as freely in the present because I remember the past.
That I somehow know that the future also holds the hard-to-bear, and it's only a matter of time before that reality becomes now.
How could it not?
I watched snow melt, slow and deliberate, day after day. I counted off days until warm weather and planting time. Counted days until life would be warm and sweet and easy again.
Those catalogs that arrived in January, they helped. They reminded that yes, even the cold of winter will pass and spring will come and all will be well.
Sometimes you just need a reminder that life will go on.
That winter doesn't last.
That there will be a planting time again.
The seeds we plant, they change a bit year-to-year.
Each year in the garden is a learning time, a time to tuck in the seeds that we've grown to love.
And a time to try new things. New delights and ideas which we hope will be as wonderful as the dreams conceived in winter, pouring over those catalogs.
But for the new seeds to go in the ground, we must forego others.
Space - and life - is limited. You cannot do everything, and you cannot have it all.
This - this reality which is the hardest of all things to accept, somehow - is really life's reality. And I can't help but laugh somehow at the absurdity of this lesson. That my garden can teach me about life? It seems preposterous.
It is, in fact, ridiculous.
And it is real. And true.
Life IS like my garden. I am continually learning. Planting the new. Replacing the not-quite-working.
Living with a hope that this new crop will be better than ever.
And so, deep breath and closing-the-eyes-to-take-the-plunge, I'll say it: I've enrolled all of my children in public school for the upcoming school year.
Well, and why not? We spend more time there than at home. They are leaders at the school (one is a Drum Major, one is a XC and Track star). They've sung and danced in the school plays - even as one of the leading characters, no less. They've gone on way too many school trips to count, and I've chaperoned many of them.
This? This is just what will grow in our garden this year.
They are, of course, placed in courses that are just a bit above their actual age/grade level. Thankfully our district has plenty of advanced classes, and very dedicated faculty who took the time to actually read through our textbooks in order to figure out placement.
My kids are excited.
And so am I, in a new-garden-hopeful sort of way.
Oh, I've planted before. I've tried seeds and seedlings and even roots. And I know - I know. Crops grow with careful tending.
Even new ones.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
amazing moms
To all of the moms out there who read this little blog, let me just say it right loud and right now:
YOU. ARE. AMAZING.
I know you. I know you've gone without sleep and without time and even without a sense of self some days, to love and to serve and to mother those souls that you love so much. Whether they grew from your own inside, or were amazing grace that entered your life in another way, you've cared and cried and tended and loved through days and endless nights.
You've lost pieces of your heart along the way, I dare say.
And yes we should always say it, but no, sadly, we don't.
Today, we do.
I do.
I don't know you. I don't know your likes or your passions or what drives you or moves you or who loves you. I don't know the shape of your days or the curve of your face.
But I do know one thing.
You are a mother.
And you are amazing.
YOU. ARE. AMAZING.
I know you. I know you've gone without sleep and without time and even without a sense of self some days, to love and to serve and to mother those souls that you love so much. Whether they grew from your own inside, or were amazing grace that entered your life in another way, you've cared and cried and tended and loved through days and endless nights.
You've lost pieces of your heart along the way, I dare say.
And yes we should always say it, but no, sadly, we don't.
Today, we do.
I do.
I don't know you. I don't know your likes or your passions or what drives you or moves you or who loves you. I don't know the shape of your days or the curve of your face.
But I do know one thing.
You are a mother.
And you are amazing.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
it all started with Lent
This little space has been silent for a while.
It all started with Lent.
This slowing down. This need to find space and time and myself, really, again.
And then, it seems I just up and disappeared for a time.
I've not disappeared - not really. I've just been hiding in my life.
Living in the daily, fully. The laundry and cooking and cleaning and teaching and reality of what it means to be mother and wife to the most amazing people I've ever met.
Living in obscurity, but not in shadows at all.
Living in His light.
Sometimes you have to stop and savor. Stop talking so much (or blogging so much?). Sometimes you just have to receive gift and feel blessing and see Light true shining.
Sometimes you just have to stop and breathe in deeply of this life.
It may seem like a stop. Like the punctuation at the end of a sentence, or like a book closed at the close of that final chapter. Done. Finished. Complete. No more needed.
Put that book up on that shelf and just walk away.
It may not be that.
It may just be a comma.
A pause.
The setting down of a fascinating tale which you pick up again when it's right to do so.
It all started with Lent.
This slowing down.
But it's time to open up that book again.
And I can't wait to share what I'm reading...
It all started with Lent.
This slowing down. This need to find space and time and myself, really, again.
And then, it seems I just up and disappeared for a time.
I've not disappeared - not really. I've just been hiding in my life.
Living in the daily, fully. The laundry and cooking and cleaning and teaching and reality of what it means to be mother and wife to the most amazing people I've ever met.
Living in obscurity, but not in shadows at all.
Living in His light.
Sometimes you have to stop and savor. Stop talking so much (or blogging so much?). Sometimes you just have to receive gift and feel blessing and see Light true shining.
Sometimes you just have to stop and breathe in deeply of this life.
It may seem like a stop. Like the punctuation at the end of a sentence, or like a book closed at the close of that final chapter. Done. Finished. Complete. No more needed.
Put that book up on that shelf and just walk away.
It may not be that.
It may just be a comma.
A pause.
The setting down of a fascinating tale which you pick up again when it's right to do so.
 |
It all started with Lent.
This slowing down.
But it's time to open up that book again.
And I can't wait to share what I'm reading...
Monday, April 15, 2013
when tragedy hits home - Boston
 |
| (photo credit wcvb.com) |
Thirty-seven minutes into my daily violin practice, I break to grab a glass of water. Things are not going well today. I'd forgotten to rosin, my pegs loosened during tuning, and I'm having issues with my shoulder rest.
So I head into the kitchen to de-stress, grab a cold glass of water, and breathe in some relaxation.
I don't make it to the ice cube tray before a son, two, three - call me to come into the living room. They say something has happened. A bomb, or two, they think. Something at the Marathon. I run in.
Scenes flash on the screen and it seems like a movie, but it's really only a race that I watch every year because it's here and I'm here and it's part of life, really. When you live in or near Boston, you watch. Or at least you watch some. Or at least you know it's Marathon Monday. Because that's part of life here in Massachusetts - watching the runners or not caring at all about the race - you know it's going on.
It just is. Because it's Patriot's Day.
I was well into my twenties before I learned that Patriot's Day was really just for us Massachusetts folk. The year I packed my little sports car with dog and cat, a few jean-and-t-shirt combos, and half a dozen water bottles to drive a thousand or so miles and try out life in the "sunshine" state, I learned that for pretty much the entire rest of the country "Patriot's Day" didn't really exist. No day off from work or school. Mail was delivered as usual. And no one ran a marathon, or watched one on tv.
But today a new memory of this day was created.
A memory that I'd like not to have. That we'd all like not to have.
In the moments after the realization hit, I ran to phone and facebook, as did my kids. We have friends who run Boston each year. Friends who live in the city. My friends' children go to school there, and watching the finish line is a tradition. So many to worry about.
And thankfully we learn of this one's safety, and that one's decision not to run this year.
But there are those who did run, and their family and friends who did stand there waiting to cheer on their loved ones and who did suffer horrible injuries, fear, and yes even deaths.
I don't know them, but I do know pain. I do know heartache. I do know shock.
I attend a dinner in honor of a selfless woman who gave so much to serve her church, and we do laugh a bit about memories and kids. But there is a somber mood too, and we all talk about who we know who was there. A child, two. A friend's daughter. A colleague.
Cellphones are checked regularly, and updates given of the latest news.
We follow the thread of information, because it's here - in our backyard.
Back home, the news is still on. The number of casualties has risen since I turned off the radio on the car ride home. No one seems to know who did this, or why.
My brain reels and I don't want to think. Don't even want to say that all will be well, and that His plans are for good. My study of Jeremiah mocks me - a future and a hope? Really? Did I just type out these words this morning?
Hours can change a perspective. A life.
I don't want it to. I want to believe that He is a good God. That He has those plans for a future and a hope and not just for me. But how to say that when a child dies or a man's leg is cut clean off by a bomb?
Clearly, I do not know.
So I cling. I just cling to the promises in His Word which I don't really see happening, simply because I believe that in some way I don't see - don't understand - He is a good God.
It's really all that I can see to cling to.
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