There is a little something I try to do, that I have been neglecting lately. I've been bogged down, full of lists and plans and schedules that really do taste like so much paper and are about as satisfying. But today I am feeling inspired to get back to it-- a little something delicious everyday. Something out of the ordinary, out of the humdrum, something tasted or worn, experienced or created or listened to, that is not strictly necessary. Not a "have-to," but a "want-to." A little indulgent even. Because of my inability to drive, my Daily Delicious is by its nature frugal, since it has to be here at home, and simple, or it would be work!
If you've been needing a little more Delicious in your day, please allow me to share my recipe for a few days worth of inspiration.
--The tooth-rocking sweetness of homemade caramel apples, a once a year harvest treat, and more fun to make with little ones to unwrap the caramels. Drizzle with dark chocolate for more grown-up taste buds.
--Old rhinestones, cleaned gently to a sparkle, to be worn to a fancy work event tomorrow night, are even more fun tried on at midday. With a sweatshirt.
--A nap. Is there anything more delicious to a tired mommy than a few moments sleep, shades drawn, quiet house? An elusive pleasure worth seeking.
--The soundtrack to Chocolat, borrowed from the library, evocative and spirited by turns, takes me back to the essence of a delightful movie, picturing the cherry red of Vianne's cloak against the slates and putties of the village. (Oh, Netflix?)
Something I often reflect on after one of these little treats is that I don't really need much to feel refreshed, just a little inspiration in my head and heart. What are your favorite little luxuries?
The bricks on the patio are wet and leaf-strewn. It is not all that chilly, but damp and dim-- the lamps are on now, at noon. I'm moving slowly today.
My sweet husband has a theory that most of the discontent in life comes from unmet expectations. We decide how something is going to go, it doesn't go that way, and we are mad/sad/disappointed. Our feelings about the happening may not have anything to do with its actual outcome, but only that our chalk mark for "good" wasn't met.
I think goals are great. I make lists-- things to do, things to read, things to buy, gift ideas, craft projects. I start the day with a general idea of how I want things to go, what I want to get accomplished, and I put a fair amount of energy into thinking through the best ordering of my time. All virtues. And as such, all can become idols. And like anything we worship other than our Creator, those good and worthy intentions can end up only echoing their, and our, emptiness.
There are days when my lists and plans are full of smart ideas that have nothing to do with what God is whispering to me about my family's needs, about my own needs. The kitchen floor getting washed before company comes is all well and good, unless that half hour is better spent snuggling Sam on the sofa, or reading aloud, or writing a letter to a friend.
This is one of those days. To dial back the expectations and go slowly. Or even be still. Breathe thankful prayers for the rain and prayers of hope and healing for the families driven from their homes by wildfires in California. To rest. To extend and receive the grace to just be.
Looking at the calendar back in July, the school schedule and fall events and special meetings at work and church, we saw a window of grace: a four-day weekend empty of command performances, ripe with possibility, in the middle of October. John put in for vacation and we were happy for that little island of peace coming, lapped on either side by waves of busyness.
Thinking back over it on this morning of odd, pink, fretful storm skies, I feel full and satisfied. The boys had their cousin over for a first "real" sleepover, we did some needed errands at an unhurried pace, we had lunch with my mom. We went to a fall festival in a park and ate fun food and heard music and played. Joshua kayaked for the first time and I bought handmade soap from a local artist. We saw people from work, from church, from school, and felt ourselves slowly but surely wrapped in the community we have been longing for since our move to this part of the county. We camped for a night and fished, roasted marshmallows and got rained on, a little, and bought apples at an orchard.
Not everything went perfectly. The autumn color I had hoped so much to capture was mostly the dusty yellow and brown of the drought that has gripped the Southeast, rather than the fire-kissed hues of frosty nights. It was quite a walk to the campsite for the kind of comfort camping we do. We had hoped to pick the apples, not just purchase them, but the rain and three busloads of schoolchildren altered our plans. The boys slept much better than we did, so were full of songs and silliness on the way home, with bleary parents still waiting at midday for a good cup of coffee. And, good heavens, the laundry!
It was a great weekend, funny in its imperfections, appalling in terms of nutrition, one which will require a few days to return our normal rhythms to us. And such a time out of time means that the first day back feels a bit thrown in the deep end, the plans and dates, joys and obligations of the next few weeks all come begging at once, and must be sorted out, dealt with, or sent to wait their turn.
But there is also the refreshment deep down to come back to this life and do it, and resolve to find odd moments in the day to let in cracks of light and air, to hear the banjo and feel the mist over the autumn fields, a thousand shades of brown and gold.
This is the dress I wore home from the hospital. I believe my sister chose it. It hangs on my bedroom mirror, and there were once little shoes that matched it, pale yellow and covered with lace.
Looking at it, there is a lump in my throat. It is so dainty and delicate, as was the pink baby who was dressed in it and carried home. And she was loved, I know that. But she was also delivered into a heritage of estrangement, resentment, simmering unspoken anger and pain and verbalized rage and disappointment. She learned that normal was a mental list of topics and people of which you never spoke, that emotional violence ran in families like eye color and wavy hair, that there were unwritten rules to dodge direct suffering, but no way to escape collateral damage. To escape being the collateral damage.
Many of us survive these childhoods, and arrive on the cusp of the world, fired with a deep-running vein of promise: everything will be different. It is actually a touch of grace when we realize that we have survived, but there is only One who knows all our broken places, Who speaks the language of our faulty "how life works" rule book, because He was there as it was written. Only He can rewrite it, trade a thousand lies for truths, truths that always begin, "My beloved. . . "
His loving course correction has even been with me, giving me a sister who can say, "You're not crazy, I was there too." Giving me my husband, who helps me to sing a new song, who tells me I AM different, not a recording of my parents' litany. Giving me friends who have their own war stories and continued peace talks. Books and art and music that remind me that becoming a new creation is not the work of a day, but a divine dance to the day of Christ Jesus.
Every day as I grapple with my short temper and impatience, my tendency to melancholy, as I fall and ask forgiveness and get back up, when I do, by grace, speak to my kids in gentleness and relate to them with integrity and peace, that little girl is being healed by her Father. As I raise my children, He is bringing me up. He is teaching me to forgive and be forgiven, to give grace as I drink deeply of it, to know that the hurt of my home of origin was born out of a deep need for Him.
That little dress is a reminder to me that I was always surrounded by loving hands, though sometimes they were invisible.
I am back in this space, counting on my day to day sensitivity to our family's needs to monitor my computer time and energy. Blessings to you as you read these words.
Hello everyone. I will be taking a little blog break as I evaluate my time on the Internet and how it impacts my day. I wish you all a lovely week.
Today I want to celebrate my dear friend Rachel, on her birthday. I am confident that her husband a little boys are giving her a wonderful day, and I want to join with their love and good wishes.
If you read Rachel's blog, you get a pretty good glimpse of this woman I am so blessed to know. She loves God and wants to understand where and how He is working in her life. She seeks an ever-deeper and more true relationship with her husband, and she is crazy about her boys and about all this she asks the good but hard questions of herself, over and over. It has been a great privilege of my life to know her as a single woman, to be in her and Doug's wedding, to now share mommyhood and wifehood with her.
But mostly what I want you to know about this precious woman is that she loves me well. She is really good at rejoicing with me and mourning with me. She listens. She asks good questions. She laughs and makes me laugh. She danced with my tiny firstborn to U2 in the kitchen. She is a gift of God in my life that I get to keep discovering in different ways. We don't get to see each other often, we usually have to plan our phone dates with strategy and hope for napping kids, but she is there.
Bless you Rachel. You are a gift. Celebrate today.
Well, the muscles are tired and I'll be ready for my pillow tonight, but the insides of the kitchen cabinets are looking spiffy. I am so happy that Sam had no way to record my moaning and groaning, and there is no video record of my paint stained gray-legging-ed self stuck out of a base cabinet. You'll just have to imagine. . .
Once I had scrubbed the paint from beneath fingernails and from forearms, I treated myself to a little more fall fluffing of the house. Our family room fireplace was on the home improvement list to be tended by a professional this summer, but we ran out of time and budget. In South Carolina, our fireside dreams will keep for another year, so I decorated the hearth. Then, later in the afternoon, I glanced over and saw the whole scene bathed in the golden light of autumn.
One of the things I love about this season is how it comes on inexorably; it will not be denied once it has begun. It was over 80 degrees today, but the quality of the light has changed, the brassy brightness of summer has mellowed. The sky is the deep, grand blue of October, not the soft wash of spring or the haze of summer.
One thing about painting cabinet insides or watching the measured pace of a turning season: these days are engendering a peace in me that has been long absent. The progress of brush or roller over wood, the nighttime chill a little sharper each week, the honey-flood of light across an afternoon floor, dusk a little sooner each evening. The last few days, I feel I've been drinking from a deep, cool well, refreshed when I did not know how parched I was. God is good.
Restlessness is a thief of this peace, and restlessness seems the disease of our modern times. Even if we are not always jumping, cricket-like, to the next new thing, we may feel as though we should be.
So it is good to work, to work hard and to want only rest, to be tired and in a posture to receive, to be still and know Who God is. And Whose child I am.
With my usual zeal, I have tackled the inside of the kitchen cabinet painting project. (wooo hoooo) Very faint cheer. There will be a real post tomorrow or Wednesday, when I get all the paint off of me.
Whew!
