Have a sweet week!

My apologies to any readers who have given up chocolate for Lent. These were fun-- a first trip out for my mini-Bundt pan, and very pretty sprinkled with the confectioners' sugar. But I kept thinking of them in angel food, with strawberries we will pick in late May. A good antidote for this cold day, pouring with rain.

I'll be taking a little break from posting until the end of the week-- in-laws coming today, a friend borrowing our kitchen for a photo shoot on Tuesday, and my last portrait shoot for a client on Wednesday. This stay-at-home, take it slow mommy is feeling overwhelmed.

My usual response to being overwhelmed is to think of other projects that are more exciting than what I am doing right now. Weird, I know. Like painting the bathroom. (Actually, painting all the interior rooms we have not painted yet, but starting small.) Going to a nursery to photograph zillions of flowers. (Weary of my indoor winter vignettes.) And maybe trying this ?

Not sure if I could with my less than stellar vision. But who could resist a tea towel with the Eiffel Tower embroidered on it? I ask you. . .

Ash Wednesday Meditation

Ash Wednesday Meditation

Snow clouds gather as I emerge into this night.
My breath is white smoke and my forehead bears
The clumsy cross, what’s left of all my spent
Hosannas.
Burning beneath it, the memory of oil
And promises, Your whisper, “beloved,”
Breathed on me in consumed yesterdays,
Tomorrows unblemished as white stones,
And on this night.
Lenten promises and foresakings
Set before me, a plan to meet You, I pause,
Between heaven and earth, this midweek cold
And Easter morning, dust and dust, death
And resurrection. All my pretty plans
Burn brightly in offering.
I find You want only space made for You:
The nod for the blessing of waking,
The drawn-in breath before kneeling,
The forty-fold admission that You fill
Utterly, in a world that knows gluttony
Or lack. My frosty breath is prayer,
For bare altars, dry jug let down
For well-water, an empty tomb,
A me-shaped vessel for Your Lenten portion.

A Matter of Tone

Last night was not a beacon of familial bliss here. Worn from weeks of sickness and cabin fever, we had little patience with the little guys. They weren't listening and following our directions, we were weary of food battles and picking up toys, and truth be told, a bit weary of each other. John and I went to bed, discouraged and expecting to trudge into the week.

But this morning, we got up a little later, since Joshua did not have school, and the boys slept later still. We had our coffee and tried to summon the energy for the day ahead. As John went to shower, I headed for the kitchen and the sun just beginning to peep over the sills. And with some inner wisdom deeper than my complaining thoughts, I started pancakes, a rare weekday treat. Laid a pretty table, sliced strawberries and poured juice into airplane glasses. By the time squinting little boys stumbled in, the last pancakes were in the pan, a golden plateful warm in the oven. My few minutes of preparation were more than rewarded with their excitement, bright faces, hearty appetites. And the day began on a far sweeter note than I expected, one that carried through their interactions with me and each other.

It seems to me that this is one of the great responsibilites and gifts of parenting, this gift of setting the tone. The atmosphere we breathe over our little ones shapes the time we spend with them. It may not be true that love, attention, care and focus always grow peace, but it is hard to have a peaceful home where the adults there do not pursue these values.

I am thankful as this day closes for the character of the Father, whose every act toward His children, whether blessing or discipline, is rooted in grace and love. Because this grace is His prevailing language, we are safe with Him. He makes a Home for us in Himself.

As a flawed mommy trying to follow such a parenting model, I must choose to turn away from the ungrace of keeping count of the wrongs of yesterday, and meet my boys ready to embrace mercies new every morning, for all of us. Many days it is for me an act of will and my grace-language is spoken in butter sizzling in a pan, clean socks, one more story.

Pass the strawberries. There are plenty to go around.

Sunday Solitary

I have been sick. Not the for-real, gotta go to bed sort, but the wishy washy kind of cold that just sort of nibbles away at energy and patience. It is the same one that has been making its way through us all this last month, and Mommy last of all.

John has been wonderful, taking the boys to a birthday party yesterday and leaving me with a quiet house and two hours on my own, and has played with them non stop, so I can be peaceful and still, under his grandmother's quilt.

Today I am not 100%, but I can imagine that I will be soon. Grace to you and peace this Sunday. A book and a quilt are a good prescription for any number of ills.

Valentine Votives

We made these little candle holders last week. Baby food jars plus decoupage glue plus squares od red and white tissue paper. Very low-tech, and the boys loved it. They have been pretty to have around, their rosy glow lighting breakfast, especially on this gray, drizzly Valentine morning.

I love Valentine's Day. As the one girl here at the Circle K, (see post below) it is my chance to indulge in all things, well, um, not GI Joe. Just as Easter lets me unleash my inner pastels.:)

I hope it is a day of loveliness for everybody, or at least a respite of pink and red and candlelight and chocolate to ease winter's hold. I am off to make brownies and use my heart-shaped cookie cutters on them!

Feel the Love

As I type, I can hear the laughter of the boys, getting their bath from Daddy-- daredevil underwater Matchbox races, something about eating the soap-- and I am once again in the happy position of eavesdropper on the boys' club.


Sometimes it is just weird to be the only female in this house of testosterone and sneakers and dirt and rowdiness. But most of the time it is unutterably dear. Mommy = Queen around here. For instance, right now I am sporting a pink plastic peace sign ring, presented to me with great ceremony by Joshua. The. Queen. Not even Valentines and I've already got my bling.


But then there is the fun dichotomy-- I am forever drawing cars, fixing forts, assessing which super hero is the most fierce-- I am utterly other, yet one of the fellas. I'm not always great at it. I am an artistic, Jane Austen loving homebody. I like clean and orderly, quiet and serene. Better damsel than knight for sure. But I would miss so much if I did not stretch myself toward that other world, strange, but fun-loving and loud and short-lived.


They are still the sweet ages when they want me with them so much, diving into their games and play. Put down the book. Turn off the Enya.
Put on the firefighter hat. Feel the love.

A Little Project

I have been saving broken crayons for a couple of months, eagerly awaiting making these "crayon cookies." There are directions all over for these, but I linked to the ones I used from the wonderful
Kiddley
I will admit, I loved the result and I think the boys did too, but the best part was really the process. Anybody who has read even a few of my posts can likely tell I have trouble "getting out of my head." But I really got my share of the childlike wonder on this one-- taking these formerly useless chips of crayon, peering in the oven window as they became little molten lakes of color, and then popping them right out after a chill in the freezer.

I think these would make a great gift, in a box in white mini-muffin paper liners, with color names like "grass," "earth," "sky. . . "

A little answered prayer in the middle of this-- as Sam and I popped these lovelies onto the counter, I was fully present with him, our time and love and wonder swirled together, ready to make something else beautiful.

Saturday

A lovely Saturday to you! I am appreciating the gift photography gives, that this rose lives on so brightly, months after it has faded in the vase.

Have a wonderful weekend- make something beutiful!

Mixed Up

I am sparing you a scene of the carnage. We were awakened Sunday night at almost midnight by a deafening crash. John and I bolted out of bed and ran for the boys' room. They were fine, but startled out of sleep and bewildered too. It had sounded like a car crash. In our house.

John called to me that the shelf over my craft desk had fallen, pulled its bolts right out of the wall. I settled the kids and stepped down the hall. Broken glass, silk flwers, paper, shattered decorations covering the top of my desk and in a wide swath across the floor. Foam letter stamps, ribbon, jumbled and mingled with shards of my storage jars. We went back to bed.

Yesterday as I cleaned up the glass and shoveled materials that could not be saved into the garbage, I looked at my piles of paper and idea books and albums. And felt tired from more than just the missed sleep.

I am a scrapbooker. Or I was. Then I picked up my first digital camera, and learning and making mistakes and doing retakes did not have the price tag of processing rolls of film. I became a photographer, graduating to a digital SLR, deciphering Understanding Exposure, taking on portrait clients and buying lenses. Then moving into art photography, making my own greeting cards and selling them. Continuing in that pursuit, always seeking to see, record, illumine.

I loved to scrapbook, and I still love the idea of my words and our memories and images put together and here for us, and later, for the boys and their boys. But I am also a photographer, and by turns a poet and writer, a cook and baker, a shoestring home decorator and a voracious reader.

Those are a lot of passions to fit into the moments a day when I am not mommying and doing the basic home stuff and spending time with John. And I am a bit of an all or nothing person. It is hard for me to accept that I can't do it all, learn it all, be it all at once. That there is nothing wrong with shifting gears from one passion to another as whimsy strikes.

I guess the fear that I won't "accomplish" anything is what underlies my conern. That if I would only apply myself there is a photography career, a book, a published poem waiting to come out of my lens or pen. Is that ego? Or something else?

How do you handle your various interests? When and how do you decide to do something just for you? And the biggie, how do you discern calling within your passions, how do you know when God is speaking a ministry for you within the activities you love?

Addictive

Let me say up fron that I don't sew. I read lots of wildly and wonderfully inventive craft blogs just to torture myself. Some synergy between my poor vision and my poor patience means I am no seamstress.

But I can make these little lovelies, striaght from the tutorial on the always inspiring Wise Craft
. I spent a happy half hour choosing fabrics and buttons and making a little bit of springtime. It has been a nice antidote to the fact that 50% of my little household is sick this weekend.

We rallied enough to go to our nephew's birthday party-- it was such a hoot to see all the little guys bowling. Sam was given to dropping his ball with a deafening thud and waiting, hands on hips, while it meandered down the lane. Good times. I wore the chocoalte, ivory and pale blue flower pin on my denim jacket.

Our prayer for the week is wellness, especially through the frigid weather coming our way. In the meantime I will keep stitching up these little foretastes of springtime.

Snow Day

Or rather, a bit of snow, some sleet, some icy rain. Enough to close the schools, enough to keep John home from work. Snowballs, a little snowman, hot chocolate, and homemade soup. Reading during naptime, watching the birds on the terrace. Counting my blessings, feathering my nest.

Seeing

So, as to making art, seeing may happen at the moment before the shutter button is pressed, within the frame of the viewfinder. And sometimes it might happen, in this digital age, when a "thowaway" shot, enlarged on the monitor, reveals something unexpected, unperceived as the picture was taken. Then the rueful laugh-- "Not what I was after, but I'll take it." Those are the photographs that are gifts, when the work was just being present, and taking a moment before rejecting the unintended .

So I am learning in my art to begin with intention and then be willing to let go and accept an outcome I did not plan. And this is a lesson my mothering could use as well. Sometimes the careful plans I make for fun and connection make beautiful memories, and sometimes they fall flat. And then some mundane moment gives me a glimpse of one of my boys' hearts, some treasured passion or secret hurt, and I have to be right there, be fully present or miss it. Be willing to discard my plans and leave the good and better for the best. Intention is powerful and beautiful, and necessary, but sometimes attention is all that is needed.

And of course, this acknowleges as well that there is a more powerful Love than mine at work in my babies' lives, and He allows me to partner with Him sometimes, and sometimes just be in awe of what He is working out. And then my job is to be, to see, to lean in to look more closely, to bear witness, to interpret, to be humble, and to praise.

Making the Rounds

So, this is what I do, some days. I put my camera around my neck, I slip my little case of close-up filters into my pocket, and I make my rounds, through the house, looking, breathing, waiting. The slant of sun across the table. A perfect piece of fruit. A flower that will be past its prime tomorrow. Some arrangement of objects of beauty or use that pleases my eye and lens. And I shoot and shoot, and fuss with things a little, but the very best shots, the ones that surprise, are usually waiting for me, composed already.

I am legally blind. I can't drive a car. When people use the expression, "Got her nose buried in a book," well, that is really me when I read. Thanks to big text and a large flatscreen monitor, I am not ruining my posture or my back and neck muscles by writing this. So I cannot explain exactly what happens when I raise a viewfinder to my dancing, nearsighted eye.

I cannot explain, but as a person of faith, I know. There is some breath of the Holy Spirit between me and that lens. God made me in His image, and though my eyes are broken, He made me to see. And to bear witness. It is not such a strange thing really-- a God who parts seas to dry land and makes barren wombs fruitful. This is His regular business. But it is holy. And I praise Him.

More on seeing tomorrow. . .

Best Laid Plans

Well, no winter walk, no family adventure. A sleepless night on Friday, a six year old wailing with the pain of an ear infection early Saturday, a fervent "thank you" prayer for a pediatrician with weekend hours. Yucky medicine, homemade pizza, a library bag spilling with books and videos. Parents who had forgotten the grainy eyes and wooden movements that follow a restless night. Lots of coffee.

A snapshot of a weekend we had other hopes for, and yet I am thankful this day that the same six year old went happily off to school, where they are celebrating the 100th day of the year. The three year old sniffles and plays with blocks, and we have nowhere we have to go in the cold this morning. The pantry is stocked, and the washing machine is doing its work.

We are enjoying our library finds very much. Guided by other blogs, we brought home Days to Celebrate and A Family of Poems: My Favorite Poetry for Children. The first one is one I definitely want to own-- it has calendars for each month of the year, with poetry and activities to mark historic events and people. It is a real treasure trove.

The poetry collection came home because I realize I have been remiss in introducing poetry to the boys. They seemed to really connect with the half dozen we read last night. I am thinking of doing a semi-formal poetry study with them in the summer.

This morning is bitter cold, and it feels like a bit more of a Monday than usual. But with that comes newness, and new mercy.

Winter Adventure

Just a little glimpse of what I hope we will be doing this weekend. This was taken a few weeks ago when we took advantage of the spring-like weather and the waterfall book John received for Christmas to find a nearby falls. (Not the one in the Mothering post below-- as I write this, I realize we are rather into waterfalls. :)

This morning it was 26 degrees here, which is chilly for this Southern girl, but tomorrow it will reach 60 and we will find some path or playground to run and climb and exhaust some winter-pent-up boy energy.

I love our excursions, the feeling of the four of us setting off on a little adventure. So much of this happy atmosphere is due to John's easygoing attitude. When I was growing up, any small change in plans, any obsticle, was a source of tension and conflict, something for which blame had to be laid. John is a roll-with-the-punches, figure out a different kind of fun sort, which equips him pretty well for fatherhood in general. Not to mention marriage to this temprmental girl. His goodwill has made me more eager to pack some snacks and some books on tape and head out with the slimmest of agendas. And I know the boys are soaking in this quiet, good natured and simple spirit too.

So this weekend I am hoping for crafting, and knowing there is some needed shopping to be done, there are piles of books and Netflixed movies, but I hope sometime Saturday finds our car bowling down some dappled road, the hills and valleys a thousand shades of caramel, wheat and dove gray, backpack full of apples and cheese and crackers, camera loaded and ready. And four faces in the windows, alight with contented togetherness.

Mothering

A bit of last May to temper this bright but cold day. This was taken on Mother's Day weekend last year, at a nearby state park. It was warm enough for the boys to wade in the little pool this falls cascaded into. A picnic and a pretty place were what I wanted to celebrate the day.

Motherhood is the job I was born to do and the one that frequently leaves me breathless at my inadequacy, my failings, my weaknesses that seem projected, larger than life, on the wall over their little faces. To live in that dichotomy of uniquely suited and woefully underequipped-- and to feel it is all speeding by and I am only catching at the vapor trails of it-- that is my life. And I would not trade for one day of something else.

Peaceful

It is just a peaceful morning here, listening to Elizabeth Mitchell with Sam, assembling the note cards a kind person ordered, taking the time for that full presence in the moment. As my soul quiets, I feel stealing in the unmistakable Presence, God's balm to my spirit.

There is a wonderful discussion over at the exquisite The Sacred Everyday on the nature of peace, the inner cultivation of a peace that passes understanding when our outer surroundings are less than tranquil.

From here, I invite you to take a deep breath, whether your hands are making or mending, soothing or cleaning, and feel His embrace. Wishing you all a day of grace.

Filling

I think this little Willow Tree angel is called the Angel of Good Health, but I always think of her as the Angel of Bounty.

She is how I would love to be, my hands, arms full of good things, spilling over for my family and friends. This notion of being filled up, fully nourished in the soul and sloshing into my world and the world keeps coming back to me. Partly because so much of this year I have felt very not-filled.

And in my life of faith I have come up against the reality of seasons-- that this has been a season of lack and emptiness, and there is no quick fix. Sometimes it has been the result of being poured out-- intenionally giving to others. And sometimes it comes from being spilled-- hurt and lost and empty. And none of it is outside God's provision and reach.

Only in emptiness can I really empathize with those who feel empty, only with unfilled hands can I grasp another's hands and say, "Yes. I know what you mean." And beneath it, know that He is there.

I have resisted this season, and filled my hands with all kinds of "busy nothings." And the last few days, all my pretentions have come crashing down. And now I think I am ready to say, "OK. What's next? I am waiting, with open hands."

This morning I had music on, and Sam said, "Mommy, dance with me." I haven't felt like dancing much. But even down to my heavy feet, I know no three-year old invitation lasts forever. So I jumped up, and we whirled and twirled and I swept him up and spun him until he was laughing and dizzy. He lowered his head to my shoulder and was kissing me with lots of tiny smacks. And I received and kissed back. And laughed and cried and prayed.

"Thank you."

Leaving the gate open

It has been a lonely year. That is a hard thing for me to write. In a way it feels ungrateful. This year has been a catalogue of answered prayers, from John's job to the move into our beloved home, from photography and art and a return of creative energy, to closer proximity to the mountains and streams we love.

But with the move, with the shift in our lives to the northern part of the county, relationships have shifted and changed, and all but ended. As a one-driver family, we soon discovered we needed to find a church closer to our new home, if we were to be truly involved in the way we would like. And meeting other people has been slow. And my girlfriend-loving heart has been lonely. I have felt forgotten by old friends and shy of new ones.

It is hard for me, in such a time, to leave the gate open, to risk knowing and being known, to risk being disappointed and overlooked. I've been hurt and mad, and felt discarded. So I draw back farther. . .

This morning we returned for the second time to a church nearby. And in that cosy hour, I could hear the latch loosening, the hinges creaking, as friendly people greeted us, as we heard corporately the good news of forgiveness and grace, as we were invited to return. My heart could open here, I thought. Perhaps this is the place. . .

We don't know yet for sure. But I felt hope today, and it was nice to feel something other than a cool breeze where it fluttered.

A happy day

The amyrillis is gone now, but I loved its fiery burst at the perfect time, when the Christmas trim had just been put away and the house looked a little forlorn, bereft.

A happy day here-- my sister and her family stopped by and we nibbled on sausage balls and cappucino brownies and talked and flipped through library books. She is the seamstress of the two of us, and has promised me two aprons for my birthday in March. :)

Those dear ones have gone now, and I am listening to George Winston while the boys play Legos on the floor by me and husband naps on the couch. I treasure these days. The boys are still young and do not belong to the wider world yet. We are all cosy here together and we are still the ones they most want to be with. Though this mommy often feels the need for more "me" time, today I remember that soon I will have perhaps more of that than I want.

Tomorrow brings a second visit to a church nearby. We are barely into the search for a new church home and I already feel boundless relief that there is a place we feel like going back to a second time. That first walk in is so tough, the figuring things out, the new faces, the unmistakable sense that we are Other in the midst of Community. But it will be worth it in the end, worth it to find the place we can grow and serve.