pre-Thanksgiving preparations

“There is nothing more important to true growth than realizing that you are not the voice of the mind–you are the one who hears it.”
~Michael A. Singer, The Untethered Soul~

We’re officially on Thanksgiving break as of noon.  After piano on Wednesdays, the kids and I usually stop by the library.  They picked out three movies–I told you we’re on break–and I came home with a couple of new books.  On the way to Fort Wayne I’d listened to a podcast on the topic of “Forgotten Classics”.  The title I came away with, the one I knew I needed to read, was “Stories From the Old Squire’s Farm”, by C.A. Stephens. The guest, Martin Cothran, called it the Little House books of the Northeast.

He says the best books always are the ones that are regional.  I’m not sure why, but that tidbit stuck with me, though it wasn’t the region that caught my attention.  The story is about six orphaned children who go to live with their grandparents.  The grandparents raise the children, who eventually grow up and move away.  In time, the grandparents get old, no longer able to live on their own.  I’m not sure exactly how or how many, but the children decide it is their moral duty to care for these two, people who took them in and cared for them in their youth.  They move back to care for their grandparents.

I related to this story, even though I’ve yet to read it.  I’ve been watching for months as my grandparents age to the point of needing help.  Only one of their three daughters lives close, and she, for the most part, has borne the burden of caring for them.  Here I am, regions away, wrestling with the guilt and injustice of seeing two people who spent their lives caring for others now literally limping along, needing so many people who aren’t there.  My sister and her husband moved from Minnesota to go live with them.

My grandparents were basically my second set of parents.  Where mom and dad couldn’t, they filled in the gaps.  The spiritual richness of my childhood, the physical provision of a roof and new school clothes, the companionship of someone to spend time and listen–these are the gifts that came to me because of them.  I was five years old when my grandmother inherited her mother’s inheritance, and she and my grandpa took the money and built their house.  I stood in the hole where the house would stand.  I watched grown men with businesses unearth the boulders with their very own bulldozers, pushing them back into a pile by the tree, the same tree where Jessica and Liz and I would play.  The house has not changed from my very first memories of it.

I tell my grandma this anytime we’re back to visit.  “Grandma, your house looks the same as it always has”.  As a woman now, I understand the confusion in wondering whether this fact is a compliment.  The same decorative soaps and even shower curtains are there.  My aunt used to bring back soaps from Walt Disney World, and there were always a few travel shampoos on the side of the sink with the quote from Walt Disney himself,

“Everybody neat and pretty?  Well then, on with the show!”

The other book I got was “The Untethered Soul”.  I’m kind of a sucker for self-help books, and saying it like that gives the sense that I’m ashamed.  I don’t think it’s something I’d be ashamed of if I’d never heard the self-help bashing that happens in the world sometimes. I’m interested in realms of the psyche and the soul. Something about these books makes me feel less alone, like there’s someone else who understands what its like to live with the chronic disruptions that live in my mind and get in the way of me living my life.

Who knows if I’ll even have time to read these.  The family is all coming in for Thanksgiving.  This is the second year my husband and I have hosted, mostly because we’ve got the space, and compared to my sisters and their seasons of life, I’ve got the time.  My parents hosted us for several years, then my sister and her husband.  I’ll admit part that part of the reason I welcomed the chance to take this on is to prove to people that I can be an adult. There were a few years in there, where I was not hosting, and my hands were less tied with my own smaller kids, and I felt, for lack of no other word, free.

I was free to enjoy life, to dance in the kitchen, to go and visit a friend for breakfast.  “I am not ashamed of the Gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation for everyone who believes.”  I’m not sure what that verse has to do with anything I’m saying, but those are the kind of words I wholly wish to live by.  As the holiday Thanksgiving crazy slowly closes in, I’ve got nothing to prove to this family of weary travelers, only two open arms to welcome with love, these fellow humans with whom I have shared my whole life.

the same backyard

Last night I had a dream about a place I used to live.  I’d driven up to the front of the small town parsonage, and out of the car in front of me, which had also pulled over and parked on the street, came the oldest son of the pastor who had lived there before us.  He was only a boy when his family moved away, but now, in the heart of my dream, he is grown.

He wore a red sweater.  We met in the road and we paused to say hello.  I wasn’t expecting him, nor had I planned on meeting him there.  He barely remembered who I was when I told him, but given his age at the time when he moved, I wouldn’t think he’d remember much of anything of me. We had only both arrived at the same time to come back.

But why does the dream always know where to end?  The alarm went off at 5 AM.  We never made it up to the front of the house, never made it back inside the home where we had lived.  We’d only seen the outside, and the likes of one another, familiar in the fog of the overhanging streetlights, just long enough to know we had found the right place.

~~~~~

the long view

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Well it’s not far down to paradise

at least it’s not for me

-Christopher Cross, Sailing-

Life is too short to drink lukewarm coffee.

I am telling the kids, that if they would like to get me a present for Christmas, to get me a cup that will keep the coffee hot.

I have a high tolerance for things that are not my preference, because I get high satisfaction in knowing someone else is happy. For example, let’s say I love Mexican food, and my father-in-law prefers the more pub-like food options of burgers and fries. I am happy to go to the place where he likes. I like burgers and fries. He also pays for us basically every single time.

“It’s a treat for me, too”, he says, “I enjoy the company.”

Ditto.

This counselor I’m seeing gave me some homework.  He says that every day I am supposed to be intense, my only curb being I cannot be aggressive.  Fearing somehow my intensity might not be enough for him, to match whatever intensity he’s imagined in his mind, I warned him my intensity comes out in loving nature, in being outside and being awed by it’s beauty.  This conversation reminded me then of a book, “Last Child in the Woods: Saving our Children from Nature Deficit Disorder”, by Richard Louv.

“I spent hours exploring the woods and farmland at the suburban edge.  There were the Osage orange trees, with thorny, unfriendly limbs that dropped sticky, foul fruit larger that softballs.  Those were to be avoided.  But within the windbreaks were trees that we could shinny, the small branches like the rungs of a ladder.  We climbed fifty, sixty feet off the ground, far above the Osage windbreak, and from that vantage looked out upon the old blue ridges of Missouri, and the roofs of a new houses in the ever-encroaching suburbs.”

“Often I climbed alone.  Sometimes, lost in wonderment, I’d go deep into the woods, and imagine myself as Rudyard Kipling’s Mowgli, the boy raised by wolves, and strip off most of my clothes for the ascent.  If I climbed high enough, the branches thinned to the point where, when the wind came, the world would tip down and up and around and up and to the side and up.  It was frightening and wonderful to surrender to the wind’s power.  My senses were filled with the sensations of falling, rising, swinging; all around me the leaves snapped like fingers and the wind came in sighs and gruff whispers.  The wind carried smells, too, and the tree itself surely released its scents faster in the gusts. Finally, there was only the wind that moved through everything.”

“Now, my tree-climbing days long behind me, I often think about the lasting value of those early, deliciously idle days.  I have come to appreciate the long view afforded by those treetops.

The woods were my Ritalin.

Nature calmed me, focused me, and yet excited my senses.”

“Go to the edge of yourself and accept it.”

I laughed out loud again.

I mean, for real.

Seriously.

I love Mexican restaurants.

I love hot coffee.

What do you love?

charlotte mason

“Children should read books, not about books and about authors; this sort of reading may be left for the spare hours of the dilettante.  Their reading should be carefully ordered, for the most part in historical sequence; they should read to know, whether it be Robinson Crusoe or Huxley’s Physiography; their knowledge should be tested, not by questions, but by the oral (and occasionally the written) reproduction of a passage after one reading; all further processes that we concern ourselves about in teaching, the mind performs for itself; and, lastly, this sort of reading should be the chief business in the class room.”

Thinking on this one.