Two posts, one day? Only moments apart? What is she up to? And where are those boys of hers?
I simple couldn't resist. Daily I am undone, moved to laughter, tears or prayer by Ann at Holy Experience. And we know how bad I am at putting off tinkering with the code that steers the sidebars and bones of this blog. But this morning, when I read, and smiled, and sighed happily yet again at her words, I had to come back here and bring her to you.
A warning--- if you delve into the rich mine of her archives, make and pour your coffee first, or it will grow bitter, forgotten on the burner. Settle the kids for naps, make a quiet space, and listen to this exquisite voice.
I really wanted to blog today. This is the last day of July, and we have less than three weeks until school starts. Stirring in me is the simultaneous mourning for the summer that is passing, and yet the sweet ache for autumn-- long cool twilights, soups and stews, trees aflame and clear blue sky over bluer mountains.
But I am reading one of those books that makes me feel like everything has already been written, like a kindred spirit, in this case, Katrina Kenison, has brushed her fingers against the pulse of what I believe and transcribed the aspirations and longings of my heart into her pages. At the end of each essay, there is a long satisfied sigh, the exhale of, "Yes! That's it-- that is it exactly!"
A sample:
"When we cultivate a mood of calm repose in our homes, we scooping out a space for reflection and wonder, for contemplation and reverie. Our children are exposed to incessant commotion in the world that exists beyond our walls. Let home be the place where they can find the peace and quiet they need to make sense of it all. A place, too, where we can nurture our inner lives without distraction. The soul speaks softly. And so I guard our quiet times. Creativity flourishes in these spaces; grace and peace reside here too."
Mitten Strings For God
I am about halfway through this book, recommended some time ago over at Eyes of Wonder. And some of my specific approaches are different than Kenison's, but the spirit of this book has been breathing a blessing over my mothering. May I suggest reading it, and perhaps passing it on to a friend, or making it a gift for a new mommy in your life?
Of course, I'll be back with my own words-- likely a riveting post on recipe organization or a rhapsody on Mrs. Meyers linen spray. :) But in the meantime, I am enjoying this friendly voice, who more than anything else is whispering, "It can be done!"
Yesterday morning I tackled a household job I have been putting off for awhile. We have two different desks, one for the computer and a writing desk, as well as a large buffet with many drawers. Lots of storage is a good problem to have, but since we moved in and placed the furniture, I had not taken the time to think through all these spaces and the tasks I do on or near them. As well, we started the adventure of having a schoolboy. (I now envision him stepping off the school bus, pursued by a ceaseless river of paper that surges ankle-deep up the hill and into my kitchen door. ) The result was that I was not using my space well, and had little piles everywhere. Articles to read, book recommendations jotted on slips of paper, recipes clipped from magazines, and going on around them, constant searches for the stapler, address book, or a sharpened pencil.
I think it is true of many of us, that we are ruthlessly organized in some areas of life, but those skills never make it to other areas. For instance, since I cannot drive, I am very organized about our errands and shopping. We rarely run out of anything, my lists are written in the order items appear in the store and I try to buy in bulk to take advantage of sales and to stock up. I knew if I could conquer my mess of paper in the same way, I would reap benefits of more time and less frustration.
So yesterday, armed with a box for recycling, a trash bag, and a paper shredder, I went through each drawer and sorted and discarded and tidied. Some drawers already performed good functions and only needed "weeding." Others were emptied and given a new purpose. I stopped to think through WHERE various parts of my life happen. Most of my book recommendations come from the Internet, and I reserve library books online, so a little notebook in the top drawer of the computer desk for titles and authors only makes sense. I plan menus and make lists at my writing desk, where I need a drawer for my menu calendar, grocery ads, a coupon book and a folder of recipes to try. I write letters there as well, so stationary and stamps need a home. The deep drawers of the buffet are great for storing art projects and extra crayons and notebooks. Tape, pens, pencils and a pair of scissors in multiple locations is just, well, realistic.
I spent an entirely satisfying morning and finished with a box of paper to recycle, a bag of trash and a diagram for the family notebook so my husband can know what is where without searching every drawer. (And now the family notebook has a place too.)
Of course the value of this is not in the neatened drawers or even my little spurt of housewifely pride. I am now faced with the serenity of clean surfaces, free of little stacks of who-knows-what. And time and energy will be saved by knowing exactly where to go to find the tools for and records of our household life. And I have an action plan when the dam is unplugged, school starts and the paper tide heads this way. It is an easygoing and realistic system I can keep up with.
Now there is more space and time for crafting, reading, taking photographs and even just long, deep breaths. More time for living, and less spent on mere maintenance. And that is something to lift a glass of lemonade to. Cheers!
It's kind of funny in a way that I am from the South, and live in the South, and dislike hot weather as much as I do. Summer is NOT my season. So I was delighted this morning when the air was cool and the mountain I can see from my breakfast room was the deep, dusky blue we usually don't see until October. UP went the windows, and ON went the whole-house fan, pulling that delicious (not to mention free) cool air through our rooms.
With that cool breeze I am starting to feel a creative itch, to pick up the camera and climb the fence to shoot the sunflower that just started blooming, to dig into my papers and inks and goodies to record some of the memories we've been making in the months since I last scrapbooked, to start an embroidered present for a beloved sister in law.
I know the heat and humidity will return, and the sting of mosquito bites, and water beading on cold glasses of lemonade, the dance of fireflies and the audacious flowering of zinnias. I am hoping too that this creative impulse will not wilt but blossom still, giving me a full heart and busy hands well into the fall.
I think combating the natural weariness and impatience we can feel with homekeeping, with its repetition and monotony, has two prongs. One is what I often speak of here-- recognizing the sacred nature of the acts we do in being where God has called us to be. When we fully invest ourselves in our tasks, doing them in quiet service to our beloveds and to the glory of God, the tasks are both enriched and lightened.
But the other solace can be found in embracing part of our natures, created as we are in God's image, to become creators ourselves. Whether in writing, photography, sewing, painting, sketching, weaving, knitting, whatever our hands are drawn to, there can be great joy in creating something. Different than a kitchen floor, which will dirty no matter how beautifully and prayerfully it has been washed, a piece of art both gives us a sense of completion and takes on a life of its own. And in the creative process, we nearly always cross a line from the art being something we are caring for to something we are participating in.
This is why creative arts can often provide true "re-creation" to us, though it can seem absurd to want to "do something else" at the end of a busy and tiring day. And sometimes we need to do, simply, nothing, surely. But on other days, perhaps when we seem to have done the same things, many times over, the answer may be to make something. Not because we have to, not because a tummy will go empty or a little body unclothed, certainly not because we are paid or graded, but because He made us like Him, because He makes our fingers to make, and then to stand with Him, and see, and say, "It is good."
Not many words to share the last week or so. Change has been afoot in the house, as we have painted and assembled and dusted and sorted and nearly finished a true Big Boy room. Sam's toddler bed went away, carried off to bless some other little boy who is vacating his crib for a new little sister. Here, Sam is now the Captain of the bottom bunk, brother right overhead, and as pleased with himself as can be. ("No more babyish bed, Mommy.") And Joshua roosts overhead, with a reading lamp and his treasured buddies-- so many stuffed animals I have lost count.
John did the vast majority of work on the room, and it is a good combination of looking great-- three camel colored walls with an accent wall in navy-- and working well. There is much more space for play and just being than before.
Of course, in true "if you give a mouse a cookie" fashion, this touched off a chain reaction of cleaning and organizing that will be with us in fits and starts for the rest of the summer. Here I have to be careful-- I am an all-or-nothing girl, and I am apt to work and work until I fall over, or get really unpleasant to live with, for the sake of being done. I am seeking to separate my projects into bite-sized pieces, leaving lots of room around them for lazy reading, cooking with the boys, playtimes and do-nothing times. I am not good at that.
We are reading the Little House books aloud-- nearly finished with Little House on the Prairie, and the boys have their usual library goodies. I have a stack of my own I am working through, and pillowcases to embroider for the boys' new nests. It helps me so much, to carefully calibrate the pace of our days, to have those sorts of things built in, that really cannot be hurried or rushed through, that I am forced to slow down and savor. The boys are my teachers here-- they are so much better, as many children are, at being in the moment they are living in.
I know this is a recurring theme in my posts, but I struggle so with it, and suspect I am not alone. Even though I am a stay at home mom, and being unable to drive, most days I am truly, physically, at home, I so often have to stop myself to ask what I am rushing toward. And then, if the answer is to get through my work, to be able to stop, is how I spend my stopped time really recreation? Is it "re-creating" me for homelife, wifehood, mommying? Or would I be nourished more fully to slow myself down IN my work, to drink deeply of the bread making, the cleaning, the reading, the play?
It is that sort of life, even more so than being here to care for the children and not having a paying job, that is truly counter cultural. To deliberately do things in such a way that there is "less to show for" a day. To accept, once and for all, the the Witness of my days only wants a heart yielded to where I am called. To be willing to be quiet, within. To still the interior chatter, and take off the masks I wear.
My mind rebels-- oh, how I want to be seen as capable, creative, strong, busy, industrious, interested in and passionate about the "right" things. . . on and on. These are all good and well, but in such a light they become commodities to be measured by, to replace the ones of money and professional status that I have abandoned.
Instead, to desire that when others look at my life, they see only its Author. . . the One Who has called me to this place and time, and by His hand makes this life a sacrament to linger over, dishwater and dough, shoes to tie and boo-boos to kiss, pages to read and pictures to draw, morning and evening, steady on. . .
Last week I found a package, stuffed into the mailbox, and inside was this lovely, lovely apron, made for me by my precious sister, one state over. In it are united my loves of lemons and stripes, practicality and femininity, and I had to include a photo to show off the sweet shaped pocket.
I'm celebrating my sister Kim today (christened Kiki by my boys) because it is her birthday. Hopefully by now she has pulled her own fat little package from her mailbox. But it could never contain the treasures of our relationship. With a sister, you are both your current age and all the ages you have been. I love all the common ground we share now, but I also love that I remember her voice reading to me when I was little, movie dates with her when she was a young working woman and immeasurably cool to me, taking her day off to spend with me. I remember her as a mother of little ones as I am now, and I see her in the faces of her daughters, now in their seventeenth summer.
And no other woman's face will ever be more beautiful to me, no voice more sympathetic, no shared laughter more satisfying. Our conversations are a shifting patchwork, equal parts reason and rabbit trail, recipes, wardrobes, decorating and penny-pinching, child-rearing, books, faith and family. Simply put, she is always in my corner, on the other end of the line, listening and talking and loving. I love you sister. Have a piece of cake for me!
Around our house, it has been looking like summer. Glimpses everywhere of loosely-woven days, no homework, afternoons stretched as warm and soft as taffy. Scattered puzzle pieces and sofa cushions rumpled from sprawled reading time. Bread cooling on the counter, the last strawberries in a green bowl, the first green beans steaming on the stovetop. Herbs outgrowing their pots like November will never come.
Occasionally I have mommy-guilt, hearing about the cornucopia of day camps, enrichment, travel and team sports that fills the summer of some of the boys' peers. Alas, budget and transportation limitations place many of these delights quite beyond us. But it is partly also our choice to live at this slower pace, to let the time stretch out toward boredom, and beyond that, to creativity. Believing and trusting that there are simple and rich gifts waiting in hours not filled by activity.
This is not an us-them post. Many wonderful experiences happen in those classes and camps and leagues and we will sample them too when the boys are older, when they begin to find their passions and interests on their own. But what makes me so very happy is that it feels like childhood around here, the good parts I remember, of being unhurried, and free, not "on" all the time. Dirty feet at bedtime, paperbacks spread out to mark places everywhere, popsicle sticks, glitter glue, library trips and music. Strawberry picking, blueberry picking, crisps and crumbles and ice cream. New mercies every morning, long hours of grace.
