Busting Rocks

November 13, 2013 By

 

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In Christian circles, we hear people saying with gleaming eyes that their work is their calling: their daily chores are acts of worship. And yet to all those other people, the ones sitting in mortgage companies and DMV offices and drive-through bank windows, I dare say it’s not always beautiful.

You may feel like it’s just busting rocks, and the best part of the day is five o’clock when the whistle sounds.

We all have times like this, wondering if our lives make a difference.  Thinking we might have made a horrible wrong turn and wishing we could just jump off the hamster wheel and go live in Colorado.  Midlife pushes us down like a class bully and makes us believe the lies that our jobs don’t matter and our lives are forgettable. Work can be monotonous.  The piles of paper never end.  Thursdays make you sigh and plod along to the break room and wish Kathy from accounting would just retire already.

But then I think of Jesus.  He spent twenty-nine years in a hot carpenter shop.  And not the New Yankee Workshop variety. We all glamorize it in our minds, like handsome Hollywood Jesus was sitting in a halo-filled glow smoothing out the edges of a maple sideboard. I’m sure it was really a more mundane job involving tables and benches, having to hear one guy complain about the size or some sweaty schmuck double an order but keep the deadline the same.  I’ll bet Joseph was just constantly snickering to himself, like “Dude. You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

And I realized that there is so much to be gained by the act of work itself, regardless of what we do.  Whether we usher people toward tables or settle financial books or answer phones all day – it’s a time to grow our patience, and treat others the way we would want to be treated.  We can practice our faith by cleaning out the refrigerator and helping someone with a project that was not assigned to us.  And when someone else gets credit for our work, we just smile at pat them on the back, because we aren’t made for this world anyway.  And who freaking cares if people think Bill did it all, when Bill can’t spell his own first name and people will find out in time. Give it to him.  He’s single and hairy.  He needs this.

Work is where we can really practice our faith – not by reading about it or praying on Sunday, but by respecting our elders, and apologizing when we’re wrong. When we get angry, we own it.  When we get impatient, we fix it.  And when you see someone sitting at their desk every day for lunch because no one wants to talk to them, you can stop, and listen, and truly hear their story.

Look around your office.  There are tired, unhappy, overworked people in need of YOU.  They need joy and laughter and someone to come surprise them with a Starbucks card on a Wednesday.  And when you hollah at em at the copy machine – Hey there, Maria! – do it with a smile.  You are lucky enough to be placed in the middle of a worship field.  One ripe with opportunities to display your faith.

There was once a carpenter, years ago, who put his head down and did his job, day after day, table after table, sore backs and all.  He was likely thinking, and creating stories in his mind, and talking to God on a regular basis.  And one day he stepped away from that role and into another, and changed the world.  He needed the years to grow, and mature, and so do we.

So tomorrow, as you get up for work, act in a way you’ve been trained.  Live out what you’ve been preaching to your children.  Rise early, hug your kids, plan dinner in advance, and treasure those two hours at night you have with your family.  It’s all okay, don’t you see?  You are doing well.  When in doubt, friends, hear me loud:

God has you right where you need to be.

 

 

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photo:

Arbeid i Steinbruddet ved Høvringen / Work in the Quarry at Høvringen (ca. 1915)

Filed Under: Career, Inspirational, My life Tagged With: , , , , ,

Confessions of a Messy Housekeeper

October 2, 2013 By

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I have always wanted to be a good housekeeper.  I visit friends whose houses are clean and clutter-free and envy them, like a far-reaching star that I just admire.  My pattern is typically this: a super-clean house for a day, then three days of “oh dear, I really need to get to that,” then a total nightmare where I don’t want neighbors stopping by for muffins.  At that point I drop off my children at school, roll up my sleeves, and clean it like we all just might be licking icing off the travertine.  We go in three-day cycles of sparkling and disaster around here, and when it gets too much I just call in the professionals.  My lovely housekeeper, Esther, doesn’t speak much English and no matter how many jugs of Meyers cleaning spray I set on the counter I still get notes that say “buy more Tilex!!” and “pick up before, maybe?”  I honestly don’t know why she even deals with me anymore.

My ex-husband was very neat.  His sink never had toothpaste residue, his counters clean.  He put his clothes in the hamper and rinsed out his dishes. It just never occurred to him that if you get something out of a certain place that it would be returned anywhere but there.  That is really admirable, if you ask me. And when I stood there smiling and shining with a roast chicken and root vegetables on a platter in my hands, he would glance behind me and see the gravity of what was left behind.  Pans and open containers and a stickiness abounding.  But I made a homemade gravy! And there’s apple pie for dessert! It’s like I couldn’t ever really see it, or was too focused to pay attention, and when I feel the call to write or read or garden or make a care package for a friend on a random Wednesday, picking up the house was just not on my radar.  This life is so short, and making beds seems like an incredible waste of time when there’s mantles to be arranged with pumpkins.

So I sigh and look around me now, piles of papers and cereal bowls in the sink.  There is laundry to be done and things to be folded and I just wish for a moment that I put more of a priority on the business of housekeeping.  That I made a few less banana muffins and a few more runs with a mop over the kitchen floor.  The truth is that I don’t want to be this way.  I wish there was a course at the local community college about how to maintain your house more efficiently, or put as much priority on laundry as one does on reading books, because I am a living example to my children, who see me singing and dancing and writing chalkboard sayings in the kitchen with seven pairs of shoes strung around the floor. And if there’s a dinner party to be had, I’m focused on the table décor without much thought given to the state of the countertops.

When I quit my job a while back, I tried to improve upon this.  I did somewhat.  I had more time during the day to load and wash and sterilize and scrub.  But now that I’m looking to go back to work it’s going to be up to poor Esther again, sighing and telling me to buy more Tilex.

We are all born with certain talents.  Some motivate and others encourage.  Some are good listeners and others lead.  And as women we have this feeling of worth that’s connected with an orderly home, as if we must succeed at this or we are failures in our God-given roles.  Well I’m born with many talents, but keeping a perfect home isn’t one of them. I can barely get my kid’s t-shirts run through the wash, and we are often searching for keys and lost shoes.  But what I have come to accept is that my worth is not tied to the state of my bathroom sink, although it does get gross and seriously, can I not just bust out a washcloth from time to time, or learn to put my make-up in a drawer?

So I’ve started to give my daughter simple chores, and we try to have clean races and sweeping parties, and I’m going to wake up every new day trying to be a better example to my children as a housekeeper.  But I’m going to fail at times, and that’s okay.  Because pretty soon I’m going downstairs to make that kitchen sparkle.  Just as soon as I finish writing, editing, calling my bestie, and drinking coffee.  Immediately after I read a few more chapters, pay some bills, check on how my carrots are coming up, and take a hot shower. Then, really.  You’d be so proud.  It will smell like Pine-Sol and Fall harvest up in here.

Deficiencies are just areas to improve upon with every day, the way I see it.  They are not flaws that eat us alive.  So loosen the grip on guilt at whatever you’re not perfect at, and realize that you make up for it in other ways.  Then roll up your sleeves and get to work, whether it be practicing the violin or making beds or writing or cooking dinner, because there is always some bit of sparkle at the end of the rainbow.  And that holds us over for a while — the constant struggle to improve, the glory of overcoming, and the feeling that you’ve put yourself back together, one dish and folded towel at a time.

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Photo:

Clean house with Sapolio. [back]

Filed Under: Inspirational, My life Tagged With: , , ,

A Fresh Start

September 5, 2013 By

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Today is a new beginning for me.  For those who have also had to start new journeys, I’ll offer this poem from Veronica Shoffstall that speaks for me so well.  I am confident that God does not half-way restore, but restores completely.  We don’t lose in life and are left clutching consolation prizes.  Sometimes when our prayers are seemingly unanswered, we just have to look above in faith. Right around this dark corner might reveal a world we are so much better suited for, and I welcome what God has in store.  Hello, bright new dawn.  Your shine sparkles to me like diamonds.

“Comes The Dawn”

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

photo:

Dawn, Kinnoull Hill Overlooking the Tay

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

Small graces

August 26, 2013 By

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It’s been a long year.  A year I didn’t expect.  Emotions I certainly never thought I’d face.  I know I’m not alone in the pain of Things Coming Out of Nowhere, like a beast in the night.  Whether it’s cancer or the death of a mother or divorce or the loss of a child: you can’t build up reserves in advance to “handle it.”  You are just thrown right in that cold lake without quite knowing how to swim, and you have to just keep gasping for air and thrashing around until you can find a way out.

I’ve yelled at God a lot lately.  Maybe not literally, but inside of me there’s a hot place in the middle of my chest that burns, and grows large, and I think things like “you must be on vacation” and “seriously? I’ve been saying the exact same prayer for a year now and I’m getting sick of listening to my own internal dialogue.”  And then I feel guilty, because God’s God and I’m trying to squeeze into his chair and tell him how to run things, which makes me sad again, and it’s a vicious cycle.  But I say the same prayer anyway, because there’s that old story of a relentless widow. I hope God doesn’t get sick of reruns.

Today, a friend told me that every day provides us with small graces.  Look for them, she said. I nodded, because that’s what you do when people say that things will look up or God will redeem all or time heals.  You just smile and nod, but they don’t really know my life.  The vending machine is all out of small graces, because butterflies floating on my lantanas don’t make my heart heal, or pay my bills, or make my soul at peace.  I glare at the monarch in an angry, pity-fueled darkness, and I just want to release my grasp on the log that keeps me afloat and just sink underneath in slow motion. I grit my teeth and say the same prayer that I say every freaking day, over and over again, and hope God will listen. I might not be in his chair, but I’m going to sit at his feet and just keep tapping on a toe until somebody hears me.

I don’t think we would be human if we didn’t go through times like this.  Just psalmists crying out in lamentation about the unfair, cruel, and often confusing place we find ourselves in. I know I should be thankful for a thousand gifts, and see all these small graces fluttering on my nose, but I’ve clenched my eyes shut.  Because as it turns out I don’t run the world, and I can’t see into my future, and I don’t always know what’s best for me.  Like the time I cut bangs and wore acid-washed jeans.  We can’t trust ourselves, people.

I think sometimes it’s easier to rot in our own self-pity than force ourselves to prop open our eyelids and see the protection around us.  The fact that our legs are strong, and the log came floating by, and there’s a stranger fishing for carp that heard our cries.  The fact that the rains stopped, and the boat came, and you looked up to see sunlight streaming like laser beams through the parting clouds.  Maybe God’s the one who’s yelling, and we’re so busy wallowing that we don’t even notice.

So now, my legs are still shaking but steady, and I’m heading slowly to shore in a beat-up old fishing boat.  My arms still clutch an imaginary log in the water, and I’m hoarse from screaming, but I’m humbled.  And quiet for a change.  And slowly, as tears of gratitude well, I croak out the same prayer.  The one I’ve yelled and screamed and whispered and sobbed. The same one I said yesterday and the same one I’ll say tomorrow.  Once, months ago, I said this same prayer and sat there in my bedroom for a solid four hours waiting to hear a reply, like a staring contest with God.  I heard birds, and an airplane, and a squirrel’s chatter, which hardly counted.  And yet now with a blanket around my shoulders it feels suddenly new again, and I know that every single heartfelt prayer has been heard and felt and inhaled like incense to a loving Father. I don’t know the answers, or my future, but I smile at the benevolence I do not deserve.

A butterfly rests on my arm – wings like lace so delicately displayed.  It’s high noon, and the sun that has provided me with such little warmth fuels it’s very flight, all the way to Mexico over fields and river and stale grey condominiums.  It breaks apart from his brothers to land here, just for a moment on my arm, like he’s been waiting for me to come.  It fills that burning hole in my chest with love.

She’s right, my friend. Every day does indeed provide small graces.  Look for them.

 

Photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lunasinestrellas/6837600442/sizes/m/in/photolist-bqduoN-bqduoC-bqduoh-bqduo5-bqduo9-967Big-6ztEK-6ztEQ-6ztEN-98d3Gw-98d3wL-5XNCMz-bnTDMq-9i7PuY-9i7PJ3-5BXznK-5C2TtW-5qM4SP-8h1NXX-8h55hj-9TMBRR-9i7HiL-uAEFU-7NQDoi-7ytQYj-7t2sBb-kVoGs-az4Xif-7hZY3A-7hZXVC-7hW3zv-9i7Gxd-f3oCg-f3ozF-f3oyk-f3oD2-f3oyG-f3oDp-f3ozu-djfj6c-f3oz2-8tNLVo-f3owh-8Bdm47-8yK4xo-8Dy3vu-8Dy3Ew-8DuTo8-8DuWCB-3imQ1i-f3oA5/

 

Filed Under: Inspirational, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , , ,

Life is like ice cream

August 19, 2013 By

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Sometimes life feels like a root beer float. You just don’t know which direction to turn and whether to eat the ice cream first or suck out the soda and if you dawdle too long you’re left with a half-flat syrupy melted mess of calories that makes you want to throw up.  Nobody likes wishy-washy. Be decisive: life is short and the world needs more leaders that can make decisions.

But sometimes it’s like a banana split, where there’s a healthy mix of fruit and flavor wedged in between.  But I never eat the banana and I can’t stand strawberry ice cream so it’s all just for show and you might as well ditch the ice cream altogether and go for yogurt with granola.  Or perhaps you could just dive right in with chocolate almond fudge and be sure to have a salad for dinner, drink water, and run on Tuesdays.  Be true to yourself: do what you love.

Oftentimes, I find life resembles vanilla.  Not the from-scratch version with condensed milk your grandmother used to make that can totally hold its own, but the generic kind that comes in a box that tastes a little bit like cardboard.  And as the days plod on you just eat it because, well, it’s better to end with bad ice cream than have broccoli lingering in your mouth.  Some days are like that.  Be grateful for what you have: better days will come.

But there are times – oh the beautiful times – that resemble Italian gelato on a hot steamy night, when your breath is short and your hand brushes up against his and you feel so very lucky to be alive.  These moments might stay or they might vanish with the seasons of life, but let them roll around on your tongue so that you won’t ever forget them.  Be reminded from time to time of these special memories, even if they disappear: at least you had them and took a little break from cardboard vanilla.

I hate the vegan frozen yogurt phases, when you try so very hard to do the right thing but it’s all mucked up and funny-tasting and you just wish you could go back in time and just buy the damn sherbet.  You’ve wasted money and wasted time and it all feels so futile.  Be forgiving of yourself: we are all human and make mistakes and you need grace to start over.

And then there are the Sundaes, where things are sloppy and hot fudge is melting and we are all just lazy and droopy and sit around thinking of doing laundry but instead watch entire seasons of Homeland.  That’s a good refueling time, and necessary to counterbalance our hectic pace, and sometimes we just need to sit and hold the people we love without getting all Italian about it.  Be careful to schedule time to rest and gather your strength for the race ahead.

The crazy thing about life is that we all have our own precious identities that we cling to and people get all weird about it, like if you’re in Austin you go to Amy’s but if you’re in Upstate New York you might lick a cone at Stewarts and it’s all good because it’s ice cream, for freaks sake. Try new flavors and new stores and new ways to eat it.  It’s fun and sweet and usually not eaten at funerals. Be creative: you might be surprised at what you’ll learn about yourself.

In my sights ahead, though, is always a double scoop of gold medal ribbon and dark chocolate, because dreams are meant to be large and bold, and life should be lived with hope and expectations of great things to come.  If you constantly think Wednesdays will be filled with soupy floats there’s no being friends with the likes of you.  The weekend is coming, my friend.  The taste of salted caramel and the smell of baked waffle cones and the thrill of what is yet to come is what we live for. Be bold: there are dreams to be realized, and lived out, and embraced.

Life is like ice cream, only better.  It’s stressful, and at times we melt, but we can harden again.  We do not diminish but grow richer with time and experience.  There are so many colors and flavors to choose from, and ways to serve and enjoy them, and at the end we all go down smooth and mesh into the earth and our goal really should be to try to make a child happy on a hot summer day and have Jesus be pleased with our efforts. Be an example of a life well lived, full of richness and sweet.

Don’t live life half-way. Ain’t nobody likes low-fat buttered pecan. Trust me. Nobody. 

 

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Photo:

2012-57 Out for Ice Cream

Filed Under: Creativity, Inspirational, Love, My life, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

Yin and Yang

August 1, 2013 By

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Our church has a sister church in Africa, and my pastor was asking the pastor there what he thought after his recent visit to America.  Oh it’s glorious, he said. Americans are full of excess and riches, but there was this one tiny thing. . .

 

We lack a theology of suffering.  It’s not that Americans don’t suffer. We might not watch feces float down the street or feed only rice to our children and we are not forced to hide from revolutionary warriors on a bloody stretch toward hell.  But we still have pain.

 

Men are sitting in offices right this minute ridden with anxiety and depression and shame.  Women are barely breathing and sneaking gin and wondering why they can’t love their own offspring.  Just one moment ago someone was eating a turkey sandwich and then they got into a car wreck or came down with lung cancer and their life is forever changed. People get laid off and laid in the ground and lay with the wrong person at the wrong time.  And yet what do we do about it? Do we see it as part of the yin and the yang, like the seasons or opposites on the continuum of energy or the way one cannot live without the other?

 

At best, I think our society feels like suffering is just an unfortunate inconvenience that in time will improve, like divorce sucks or cancer sucks and it’s an excuse to buy a card with a little picture of a steaming cup of tea and a statement about coping skills.  At worst, we feel suffering as an indication that God is absent or that faith isn’t real and provides a perfect excuse to be angry and bitter at the hand we’re dealt.

 

But are we capable of recognizing that suffering is a necessary part of things?  Not just because the Bible says it or because we all love to be martyrs and wallow in self-pity, jealous of those who seem to escape its grasp, but because it’s important to have both sides in our life to make it rich and full?

 

Our life cycle on this planet full of death and eating young and dying old and road kill and global warming and bliss and mountaintops and sleeping children who take your breath away and doldrums and laundry and shock and laughter and Tuesday taco nights and moments that hurt so bad your whole body burns.  And it doesn’t come in any form of natural order, like well this is a sucky Winter, but alas – Spring is comin. It’s all jumbled up like dancing bingo balls in a hopper.  Good, good, good. Oh crap. Really really bad.

 

But without the trip through the dark there is no blessing of lightness. Without the bleeding and the dying and vinegar on our lips, there is no rising from the dead.  When at times the bad hits long and hard, and when you just want to scream to the sky to quit with the freaking hail and the torrential wall of hurt, remember that when the sun shines again you will rest more soundly.  You will hear music with new ears, and feel love with a fresh heartbeat, and have the benefit of one who has aged and grown up with both fear and grace, hate and apathy, and the yin and the yang will balance.  One day, in the not-so-distant future, all those bouncing balls will settle.

 

Only then will we see the fullness of God’s restoration, and have a true appreciation for opposites, and know in our hearts that despite the long heavy winter, Spring will eventually come again. Thank God for suffering, and perspective, and for valleys and mountains alike.  It gives us an insight into true perseverance – the long haul – and provides us with a modicum of hope.

 

Yes, the buoyant saplings of Spring will someday come again.  It just may be a while, with a few scorching summers in between.

 

photo:

(three w’s): flickr.com/photos/raymaclean/4283897275/sizes/m/in/photolist-7wy6pR-5Lb6Zr-757xF9-f8hQzE-4jzRSF-4h2wLe-dFBxb3-6ujUy8-9g3E1T-dMHAMY-8LLZA1-951YsT-bTBg8-c4MZhY-9iUKCp-b1EQNg-aLCEQt-dBgC7p-5LfmBC-8jXH6G-9uy2fw-7AMsTi-7yuR56-aPsrgX-6SXHK9-8ZMuKm-asmYq8-52fHX7-azfsHf-egqXyX-dVB9Dv-8ay91y-6ujUGM-e7Aym4-4sS58x-6te1-8akjeS-arbis-7AMsTR-HCexn-4h6zTf-pruhx-ek4Mw-97WSHi-8ZGiB7-vzH3G-55ZnMm-eDjvKi-fMmZN-7QAYtY-6ed32D/

Filed Under: Health, Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

Odd and Curious Thoughts of the Week

July 27, 2013 By

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  • I can sit for hours and watch movie trailers.  That’s more fun to me than actually watching movies.  I realize that’s weird.

 

  • Speaking of movies, I went to see World War Z by myself the other day and was wedged in between two sets of lovers. That cheered me up immensely.

 

  • Thank heavens we don’t walk around with thought bubbles above our heads. Like today, I was at the grocery store and all of a sudden I stopped dead in my tracks in the chip aisle. “OMG,” I thought to myself. “Pringles is the most amazing food label name ever created.”  I was slow clapping the guy who thought of this name in my mind when someone came up behind me, all excuse me I need to reach the nacho sauce.  I pretended I was studying the labels on the salted almonds, naturally, not hurrahing the marketing genius behind Pringles.

 

  • I asked some employee at our local grocery store if they had pie weights.  “Is that like an avocado masher?”  Yes.  Yes, that’s exactly the same.

 

  • So I finally got a literary agent, which is amazing and fabulous and beyond my wildest dreams.  Her editor (who is also awesome) asked me if the novel I wrote is the one I want to start my career off with.  I told her that I was holding back and that I actually had seventeen brilliant novels in my drawer to choose from. No really.  I just have this one. We’ll have to make it work.

 

  • Pringles.  I mean seriously.  The word even sounds crunchy.

 

  • I really can’t stand kids music, like those CD’s with kids singing bible songs or itsy bitsy spider where I have Jesus Loves Me running through my head all day long.  I can take it for a while, and I know it’s healthy for my children, but sometimes I just think a little dose of Red Hands by Walk off the Earth levels the playing field.  And my kids just might have certain Kasey Musgraves songs memorized.  Don’t judge.

 

  • So back at the grocery store (my life is fun, ya’ll).  I like to go to Whole Foods and just kinda peruse the place like I’m a regular.  No one realizes I’m having a mini-panic attack at the prices of jarred mayonnaise and I don’t really understand half of what they sell there.  But I was buying produce and picked up a box of fresh okra, all yeah I’m totally going to make a dish using fresh okra.  Who are we kidding.

 

  • Kate Middleton looked glowing and radiant with a face full of make up and a full hair blow-out as she walked her infant out of the hospital.  The English drink tea for hours and instead of going on lame vacations they go on holiday.  It confirms it.  I’m going to move across the pond for a while, where apparently butterflies rest on noses and there’s crumpets for everyone.

 

  • I’m super glad the government is now monitoring all our computer use, so they can get their kicks out of seeing my recent searches.  Eg, who is ariel castro again, recipes using okra, that movie with that Saturday Night Live actress who gets divorced but loves that other dude, discount pie weights, what do I do with this crappy organic Guatemalan green sauce I just bought at whole foods, is fish oil worth the hype, and movie trailer addicts.com.  I sound like an idiot.

 

  • Pop Chips?  Come on.

photo:

(three w/s):flickr.com/photos/thedelicious/4155208418/sizes/m/in/photolist-7kbwGs-9HNyMB-4vRdqD-5QXgnh-9aBNgX-7AyvVK-8VjLXk-5Y3jMt-72G5Bp-5WDi6p-b6j6NH-7kbwgu-7kbwfu-4Q5554-dVcb9-KuEeU-ghUTA-ghUTY-ghUUj-9UeQD-6uSpYD-zoBMi-8WpAit-7KgAW9-6DPtg8-8WEaXC-46REPk-8QyTSE-5bXjGo-8QyTSy-ghUGc-ghUGo-7KzwNW-71dfzB-7HrAtM-cn1hs-62qGAX-cRbvuS-dxQf4L-dxQfaU-9AgP6h-6JzXuw-6Jw6JZ-bM6AcX-2nmh3n-62qGUD-6JAeXS-4bgU4w-dbDNz7-b8qE6-6FBvon/

Filed Under: Cooking, Embarrassing Moments, Humor, My life Tagged With: , , , ,

My Gardening Adventures

July 21, 2013 By

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So one day I woke up and decided I’d garden.  As in “how hard could it be / I know the location of the nursery / plants need water and fertilizer and I totally got this” type of thing.  Maybe I should have read a book on the subject first.  But seriously. Who has time for all that.

 

So I gleefully planted rows of peas, cantaloupe, watermelon, and tomatoes.  I planted zinnas and sunflowers, peppers and herbs.  If I was going to get on my hands and knees yanking out Johnson grass all summer, I might as well get some produce in the mix.  I have neighbors to impress, ya’ll.

 

I heard you should mark your plants, or lay out some form of grid, but in my typical impromptu fashion I just planted the melons and yellow squash and zucchini and cucumbers in the same general vicinity, because I’ll totally know from the leaves what they are.  But wait – I’ve never planted them before.  But wait – all the leaves look the freaking same.

 

I bought all my plants from a natural organic nursery here in Austin – a good healthy mix of heirloom varieties, so when the cucumbers turned out looking fat and round I was pissed that I got some goofy variety that nobody in their right mind likes to eat.  I ended up picking one, diced it up, and ate it with oil and balsamic, but it was terrible.  I declared my first batch of cucumbers inedible and totally blamed the plant store for selling me total junk.  I was seething I just didn’t go get veggies at Home Depot, where things turn out as they should.

 

So the other day, I went to pick more peas and noticed that all the ends were growing black.  I rushed off to my organic guru, despite the cucumber disaster, and asked what the heck was happening.  I told him how I’d tended to them so lovingly, provided climbing apparatuses for them to attach to, fertilized the crap out of them, and now they were paying me back with black tips.  “You fertilized your peas?” He looked at me like I was telling a new mother to put Sprite in a baby’s bottle.  I felt stuck in a vortex where other avid gardeners were pointing and staring, like this is a party for legitimates and you’re just a smarmy school girl with braces.

 

Oh crap.  You don’t fertilize peas? Is this common knowledge? He told me I’d created a nitrogen crack habit for aphids, and how I’m now getting a fungus, and I needed to spray and pray and for the love of all that’s worthy read a book on gardening.  Fine already, plant nerd.

 

So when I went to spray the peas, one of my strange heirloom cucumbers had grown larger because I wanted to see how big it would grow, and as I looked closer I was quite amazed.  As it turns out they weren’t cucumbers after all.  They were cantaloupes. I’m not admitting that to anyone.

 

So the lesson to this story is to plant zinnas from seed, because these suckers are totally foolproof, and grow into lovely big-headed flowers in the heat of the summer, so when friends come over you can hand them bouquets, and say you garden, even if you overwater the tomatoes and pick all your melons before they ripen and over-nitrate.

 

Next year, watch out.  I’m reading a book on the subject.

Filed Under: My life, Texas, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

How to Raise Children of Integrity

June 24, 2013 By

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Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring, and integrity, they think of you.

-H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Today, my son told me he was going to put me in jail, he ate a brownie behind my back, disobeyed me twice before breakfast, and my daughter likes to yell at him for being in her general vicinity.  I believe twice in the last week I’ve gripped my son’s arms a little too hard, raised my voice too many times, used the the phrases “spoiled brat” and “deal with it,” and drank wine in their presence followed by the phrase “FINE.  Don’t take a nap. Run around like a crazy maniac and see if I care.”

None of us are perfect.  If that was the standard, we’d quit wasting time trying.  But we all want our boys to someday be men of great worth, growing up tall and strong, kind to strangers and old women, perhaps playing a fiddle under the stars.  And we desire our girls to be leaders in the world, not useless bleating goats, always truthful and fiercely passionate about the talents they have been entrusted.  I lie in my son’s bed and cup my hand to his little cheek, the grime scoured off in a hot bath, and wonder how to help shape him into the man he is destined to be.  And I catch myself staring at my daughter while she is curled up reading a book wondering how in the world I’ll help her understand that mean girls are just insecure little souls, starving for attention.

And a single word popped up over and over again in my mind.  Like a smooth stone I turned it over in my mouth, rolling it around on my tongue. Integrity.

It comes from the Latin adjective “integar,” which means whole or complete. It’s a combination of honesty and consistency of character.  To act in a way that is in accordance with the values and principles a person claims to hold.  It’s the opposite of a hypocrite, who says one thing and does another.  So what does it mean to really have it?  To act it out? To model it to our children?

I don’t think you can teach it from afar. You can’t pray your kids open it up for Christmas.  They are smart little devils. They figure it out if you’ve got a forked tongue. You have to live it.  You don’t have an option to compromise if you want to raise children of integrity.  It is you that they look to for an example of how to live in this fallen world.  There are times I want to slack off and think my kids are too young to notice. But they are more valuable to me than diamonds, and I don’t have the luxury of time.  And trust me – they always notice.

Here are 5 ways I’m trying strengthen my own integrity:

(1) Maintaining a tight inner circle.  I’ve learned that while having a large group of friends is great for dinner parties, it’s the very small group of honest friends who make all the difference.  The love they have for you is established and they want you to grow as a person. Is there anything I need to work on that I don’t see?  Can I open up to this circle about my fears and insecurities? These people love me enough to be honest, whether it’s telling me I need to forgive or affirming me that I actually did something right for a change. And in return I do the same for them. Every single time, without fail.

(2) Honoring God, not People. You can’t possibly still be friends with him or hang out with her or do this or eat that after what’s happened, can you?  How can you deal with the gossip? What about your own pride? What would people say?  That’s crap, all that pride and shame talking.  Tune it out.  Ask yourself if you are honoring God, and whether you are respecting yourself, and how whatever “it” is furthers your own journey.  Open up to your inner circle and pray often.  Then follow your heart and let people say what they will

(3) Admitting when I’m wrong, and making amends.  Whether this is apologizing to my three-year-old when I lose it completely or returning that errant pack of gum I didn’t notice slipped into my grocery cart until I’m at my car– these moments matter.  My kids are watching how I handle the small stuff.  If I’ve developed a pattern of bad choices, I can always clear the deck and begin again. As scary as it is to walk into someone’s office and say “Hey – I was wrong.  I snapped at you and it was uncalled for,” it’s worth it.

(4) Refueling my Soul.  It’s not selfish to need time alone to recharge, or to go off alone to pray.  It’s not self-seeking to get away from your family in order to study the Bible, go for a walk, write, see a therapist, or cultivate friendships.  You can give only as much as you have to give, and the more whole you are, the better you can serve and give to others.  The only question is whether these activities are really supporting your family or whether they are a way for you to run from your problems.  If they are the latter, it’s not refueling but depleting.

(5) Not Hardening My Heart: This one’s been the toughest. When tragedy strikes, people disappoint me so vastly, and when life’s so amazingly unfair, it’s easy to try and build a shell around myself and not let the pain in.  One can lose faith, and stop trusting, and begin to be hardened to joy.  Let your prayer be that your heart remains soft and open at all times:  open to forgive, open to love, open to hear, and open to change.  This openness is where real beauty happens.

Living a life of integrity is hard work.  And yet we are responsible for raising up lives.  Are we not the soil and sun and water in which these little people see what a moral fiber looks like?  Do they see us on our knees, in humility and obedience to God?  You can’t change the world – only the way your children live within it.

Let’s be the medium for which our children can flourish.  Worry less about plucking the weeds from their midst and let them bloom in all their radiance right where they are planted, rising above and choking out hate with their consistent approach to love.

 

photo:

Purple Wild Flowers

Filed Under: Inspirational, Motherhood, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , , , , ,

The Day I Tried Out for the College Tennis Team

June 20, 2013 By

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My parents were ecstatic to have a tall girl like me on their hands.  There were so many possibilities involving a girl, some form of ball, and a college scholarship.

But reality came crashing down when I dribbled the ball down the court the wrong way and broke both my wrists at the same time in a very polished backward fall. My parents drug me to all kinds of training and practices just to hear coaches say things like “we’ll put her in next time” and “we are winning by twenty, so what the hell.” Soccer required all that running, volleyball required all that depth perception, and they pretty much gave up on me until tennis came along.

Now tennis, I actually liked.  I was terrible, mind you, but I didn’t have people yelling at me or telling me I sucked when it was just me and a wallboard, blissfully mastering the art of backhands with a bucket of balls.   Seeing a glimmer of hope that I might lead a normal life and not become a colossal choir nerd, my parents enrolled me in private lessons.  They drug me across town to the country club with the rich kids so I could attend tennis camp and bought me little tennis skirts with blue and yellow stripes. In the summer, in my tennis skirt, with a private coach, with sweat running down my forehead, I felt special.  I felt athletic.  I finally felt as if I was part of something.

Fast forward to the school year, where I was known as the girl-who-fell-down-a-lot-and-wheezed, and the tennis coach apparently didn’t glom onto my enthusiasm.  I never won a game, I couldn’t keep up with the drills, and my shots looked sort-of like this:

  • Miss (that was weird)
  • Miss (the sun, it was in my eyes)
  • Ball over the fence (looking down at racket, which is clearly strung improperly)
  • Amazing backhand that whizzed over the net cross-court and no one could touch

Forever an optimist, I saw this twenty-five percent ratio as total success. For some reason, even though the tennis coach told me once that “you either have it or you don’t, so as far as you go, please keep singing in choir,” he let me on the team.  Probably because I was a senior, and it was my life goal to get an athletic letter jacket (how else would I display all those music patches?), and because I was a funny girl that made the team laugh.  So I became like the “official team encourager” that went along to all the tennis meets and looked the part.  But no one even asked if I won a game – after a while they were sort-of shocked that I was even in the tournament to begin with.  But golly I tried, and I always kicked the dirt when I lost, and believed I’d do better next time. High school finally ended, the yearbook had a picture of me looking very athletic, and looking back I should have just rested in this glory forever.

And yet.

One day in college, bored and wanting for a date,  I rolled up my sleeves one afternoon and hit the court with a bucket of balls and my old tennis racket.  It was a good stress reliever, the weather was nice and hot, and I was suddenly filled with the sensation that I could actually play.  Maybe I did have talent hidden underneath my goofy exterior that just needed some time to germinate before it finally blossomed like a beautiful flower.

That wasn’t true, of course.  I think it might have been heatstroke.

But my parents always told me I could do anything I set my mind to, so I contacted the athletic department.  I was going to try out for the Texas Tech University Tennis Team.  A school of thirty-thousand students, with athletes who fly across the world to compete? No problemo. Yes, I was available to meet with the coach for an information interview.  Yes, I was more than happy to work out with the team.  And yes, why of course I could play tennis at a very professional level.  State championship?  Well, no.  But I have many, many participation ribbons and a really awesome set of jokes.  That should count for something.

For a month, I got to eat at the athletic dining hall, and made many friends with people from Sweden and Missouri.  I was fascinated by the whole experience and soaked it up with vigor.  I ran laps and said “hell yeah suckahs!” and wore the perfect grimace.  But eventually, I had to hit the ball.  And thus began the comedic efforts of One Who Cannot Actually Play Tennis at the college level, bumbling and missing and having a terrific ‘ol time.  The girl from Sweden just looked at me like I just recently landed on Planet Earth.

The coach was so incredibly sweet, and pulled me aside after a few days to give me the tragic news.  “You didn’t make the team,” she said.  She offered some great advice, like perhaps years and years of lessons.  Or an arm transplant.  Perhaps a racket that hits the balls for you.  Or sticking with choir. I thanked her so much, and hugged the Swedish girl.  I smiled my big Texas smile.  “It’s just such an honor,” I said as I held my hand to my heart and dabbed tears.  But by this time they had turned their heads, back to practice. I was totally that kid on American idol who sounds like metal parts rubbing together that everyone laughs at. Get the crazy girl off the court.

I went on to do fulfilling and wonderful things in college, like being a Resident Assistant in the dorms (is that pot I smell?), singing baroque music (oh beauty, oh harmony), or meeting my friends in the dining hall for chicken strips (the gravy/ it’s divine).  I had a very dorky useless boring amazing college life, and I don’t regret for one day my near-brush with athletic fame and fortune.

I think the lesson to be learned here is to never give up. One day, you may actually realize what you’re good at and quit making a fool of yourself. But what’s the fun in that?

Keep on playing, suckahs. . .

 

—

photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/skelastic/7817107614/sizes/m/in/photolist-cULHKu-cR6eqN-cULMNC-cULMnC-cR6eKb-cULRUL-cULV9Y-cR82Lm-cULK1A-cR6cTY-cULTib-cULVFq-cULP7E-cR83Kf-cULJQw-cULTBY-cULUuj-cR6ecm-cULQFh-cULS5J-cR834q-cULK9U-cULLT1-cULNDG-cULQfb-cULRdw-cULMZ5-cULU5j-cULQ8C-cULT8y-cR81Qm-cULLLY-cULKPo-cULLsC-cULM47-cULRGs-cULSpf-cULRxq-cULVkd-cULNYm-cULVSC-cULMCu-cULKYC-cULLAC-cULSg5-cULUHh-cR7Xe7-cR7Wz9-cULNtq-cULQYq-cULJBw/

Filed Under: Humor, Inspirational, My life, Texas, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

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