Perfection

Love the freckles!

Oh, those eyes!

Skiing, if you must ask....how clever are these two? Perfect love!

Continuing to read....

We're springing forth with a new look....time to bring on the green of the season! Enjoy!

You would think that I had stopped reading altogether, by my silence on recently finished books. This is not the case, though, and merely reflects that I'm not taking the time to blog about it! Given that Matt is embroiled in some conflict between the kids (one that started with the two of them fighting each other, and resulted in Kyra shouting, "HELP ME, LUCAS!" as Matt took something away from her--the switch between siblings from arch enemies to staunch loyalists never ceases to amaze me...), I'm going to catch up my list!

Christianity for the Rest of Us: How the Neighborhood Church is Transforming the Faith, Diana Butler Bass

I was privileged to attend a leadership workshop at Andover Newton with Diana Butler Bass and a roomful of engaging pastors and lay leaders back in February. At the time, I had only read about a third of the book on which the workshop was based, so it's as though my eventual reading came with a highly detailed introduction/orientation from the author herself. Having written a spiritual memoir that revealed a number of vital, solid, and even growing mainline congregations in her personal past, Diana set out to refute the media-driven message about the death of mainline religion by studying and profiling congregations that indicated new life, rather than death. The book provided me with a lens--a series of Christian practices (e.g., hospitality, theological reflection)--whereby I consider my own church experience now. I found myself extremely hopeful about our capacity to change, grow and be part of the emerging world after both the book and the workshop.

The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison

The last time I read The Bluest Eye, I was in college, I suspect. I'm sure I appreciated the book then, but now, as someone with children, with much more rich encounters with people of color, and with a more sophisticated eye toward writing, I loved indulging in Toni Morrison once again. The occasion was a visit to Lydia Diamond's adaptation of the play for the stage. With a group of 25 from the university attending together, I invited a faculty member who writes frequently on the novel to facilitate a conversation with us ahead of time. She brought us below the layers of Pecola, Claudia, Frieda, and the rest, to the intentionality of Morrison's choices--the deliberateness of her every word. I was reminded why I will never be a novelist. The good news? I don't need to be. I'm gifted enough by Morrison and others!

Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, Sara Miles

Sara Miles was an unlikely Christian, having grown up with atheist parents, and living in leftist communities that eschewed Christianity as being a property and product of the conservative religious right. But one day she wandered into an alternative Episcopalian community, received communion at their open-to-all table, and realized she had just eaten Jesus. Sara beautifully describes her passage both before and after her astonishing conversion, and challenges anyone who calls him or herself "Christian" to follow the example of Christ in as credible and authentic a manner. I'm still pages from the end, savoring every bite of this yeast-laden book. It's a meal I don't want to end.

I read for class, I touch every page of "The Christian Century," and still I long for more time! What a wonderful life!

Lottery ticket, anyone?

For years, I insisted to Matt that I believe lottery winnings would only ruin us. While the majority of me still believes this, on days when I'm home, I wonder.... We are such different people--such different parents--and our kids are so well-served by these differences. I wish there was a way that both of us could have more time with them, and they with us. After Matt sacrificed that time for years with a more demanding (and higher paying!) job, it is now my turn to give in to the demands in the interest of the family-supporting paycheck. I'm good at my work, and I receive a great deal of affirmation for what I do. It can be easy for me to believe the lines I put out there for the world: "The kids are better off being home with Matt. He's the fun parent. I'm the 'let's clean the toilets for fun' kind of parent who worries more about folding laundry than getting out there in the yard." While there's truth in this, on days like today, when I am home with the kids, I realize I am as good at home as I am at work.

Matt's away with his parents for a few days, and I'm working from home in order to care for the kids and not blow all my vacation days. By noon, I had already managed to walk Kyra to school, accomplish some of that must-be-done work, arrange an afterschool visit from a friend of Kyra's (promising to bring home a neighbor's child, too!), dig into the homemade zucchini bread we made yesterday with lovable Lucas (frozen zucchini from last year's garden--can't wait for the growing season to begin!), dust and spot clean the house, finish the laundry, and go through all of Lucas's clothes, weeding out three bags for Freecycle. Had I managed to play with Lucas? Does it count if he played near me? You get the picture!

The same drive I bring to work appears when I am home, and long-lingering projects are accomplished in minutes. While there's different satisfaction in my work, there's something satisfying about creating a happy home for the kids, too. Though I am likely the parent who needs to set a timer to remember to get down on the floor and play for 20 minutes a day, there is a benefit to attending to the environment in which they play with such gusto and satisfaction.

Later in the day, as I meandered down the woodsy path from school with Kyra's friend's mom and the six kids we had between us, I realized there are other gifts I give to my children--I link them to the world. I bring friends into their lives. I'm fortunate--in every time period of my life, every home I've lived in, I've had a circle of close friends. Meeting people and engaging them is something I do with relative ease (hence some of the praise at work). Matt would be the first to admit that this is not his gift. Add to that the awkwardness of being the one dad in a sea of moms, and it's not surprising that the kids are mainly home with him rather than surrounded by friends and playmates. (My hat is off to him for one day taking Lucas to meet not one, but two moms and their kids at a nearby indoor playspace!) In recognizing my strengths, I remembered what fun it can be to be here. We played basketball outside in the yard. We dreamed with Kyra's friend about all the future times we'll play together. And even as I'm having that fun and dreaming aloud with her mom, I realize that it is not my season to be home. The fun we will share will not likely be on my watch. This week is an exception.

And now we've arrived back to that lottery ticket. I don't mind working. In fact, I think parents who work outside the home bring unique outlooks to parenting. Having a wider circle of meaning alleviates pressure for the kids. They are not my sole accomplishments--and perhaps not "accomplishments" at all, and because of this, I can revel in their individuality. I can enjoy them without needing them to somehow be something that states my meaning to the world. That is established in other times and other places. But a little bit less work would be good. More balance would bring joy, I suspect. And those choices are always linked to money--having enough, knowing how to get enough, and somehow surviving on enough.

At one point Lucas locked himself in our bedroom, and the door handle, perpetually threatening to break, finally did just break. There was no unlocking that door. As I soothed myself (more than him) with calming words, shuffling around for a screwdriver with which to remove the handle, I was reminded of the work it can be to be home. And perhaps if I have too many more "locked in the bedroom" moments with both kids home for three early release days, I might go running back to the office by the end of the week. At this moment, though, I'm wishing for just a little more time.... They are so precious to me.

March 6

Until my father reminded me earlier this week, this date wasn't much on my mind. Some years it is fresh and vivid--this awful day when we learned my mother was dying--and other years, it is a kind of background noise or energy that doesn't break through to the surface. It was fifteen years ago that she died, April 6th, 1993, and in those early years, March 6th ushered in a host of memories: leaving my college roommate and close friend behind for what I presumed to be a weekend trip to Boston, moving the tag on my RA door card from "in" to "away for the day," and the long, uncertain drive to Boston with dear family friends. Some years the images would cascade in vivid succession as I tried to put one foot in front of the other, certain that this anniversary day was the worst day in my life.

This year, it feels different. The sun is shining, I was able to walk my smiling daughter to school, and though the news is full of the devastating reality that March 6th is becoming "the worst day in life" for many, many people around the world, it no longer seems to be mine....at least not this year. It has become a day for noticing--the frozen tracks of footprints in the mud on the wooded path to school, the fall leaves left unraked, visible once again in their clumps of matted brown. There are buds on the trees, too, and though snow is certainly going to fall once again, spring is clearly in the air. Blessings abound--I'm even trying to feel fortune in coming to work! Miracles appear at every turn, and even as I remember this day when earthly, bodily healing was denied my mother, I know I can look at the healing beyond, within, and all-around. There were miracles, even then, and I'm grateful to see them now.

Hoops

Kyra's playing basketball this winter, a great accomplishment for our six year old! She's played two nights thus far, and the change between night one and night two was astonishing. Anxiety was running high on night one--for the parents, at least! They had cancelled the K-1 girls' league, offering us the opportunity to play in a K-1 co-ed program. Snows were falling heavily that first night, and over half her team didn't show--she was the only girl. Feminist mama that I am, I was crestfallen. If the evening destroyed her hopes and interest, I was going to be furious! She soldiered on, though, demonstrating that being a great listener and learner is key for any organized sport at this age.

Shot after shot went "swoosh" through the net as they spent the first half hour on fundamentals. She put every suggestion into play, shifting from simply thrusting the ball toward the basket to a clear dominant hand shot, using her left hand as a guide. She paused, she concentrated, she listened, she focused, and she was rewarded. The ball was hitting her mark! But the half hour ended, and it was time to "scrimmage" with the other team--a not-so-descriptive word for the minor chaos that is young kids' basketball.

Given that there were no substitutes, Kyra was up and playing for the entire "game." The rules are simple and good: no stealing the ball, pass three times before taking a shot, give the other team time to clear down to the other end of the court, and so on. The coaches are zooming up and down with them, calling out suggestions, pausing the play to encourage them to spread out, share the ball, take the shot, etc. (I LOVE these coaches--they are accomplishing the impossible, in my mind.) Never before have I realized how much there is to remember: note where the ball is at all times, follow your "buddy" to get your guard arms in the air, dribble if the ball is in your hands, keep moving in the direction of your basket, on and on and on. She was exhausted, she was sweating, and she had run her little heart out, nervously picking at or biting her nails for much of the game. While she said she had had fun, she was clearly beat.

School vacation gave a week's reprieve, and this Tuesday we returned, this time through sleet and rain, to another night's basketball. More of her team had arrived--and she felt the designated expert because of the first night's experience. She was still excelling on the fundamentals, but now, when "game time" came around, her hands were high in the air--ALL THE TIME. It was lovely, and priceless. She would have run down the court with her hands in the air were it natural or comfortable. She was ready!

Given that more of the team was in attendance, they were able to use subs. She got a rest or two. She was included by her teammates in plans to set up plays. (Yes, even at 5 and 6 there are superstar players, already trying to set the pick and make their move!) And at the end, as she guzzled water at the drinking fountain, she looked up at me and said, "I LOVE IT IN THERE!"

We do, too, dear child! We do, too.

Snippets

On any given day, I imagine the many posts I could write....living my life through the blogger's lens, I suppose. But given that I have work, and class, and writing, writing, writing in both, my posts rarely make it from my mind to my "pen" (err, laptop). Today will be no exception, but I wanted to share an image or two.

*My reading continues, though much more slowly with our return to real life. I grabbed "The Pot Luck Club" off the shelf at our church library, looking for something a little more entertaining and a little less thought-provoking than other books on my "must read" list. It was what I expected--a bit cheesy, a bit Christian novelish (not my usual genre, but there can be something comforting about fictional characters who pray!), and thoroughly engrossing by the time I came to the close. Whether or not I'll seek out the sequel remains to be seen, but I was amused, and there's an increasingly larger space in my life for amusement.

*I had a striking, wonderful dream a week or so ago. Of course the details have all faded between then and now, but the essence remains--Matt and I were given that chance I sometimes long for....to return to our earlier selves with all we know now and see if our decision to be together still holds. In this particular dream, it did--and vividly. We knew all that we know now. We stood holding in our hands all the questions, all the longings, all the wishes for both the life we have together and the unknown lives beyond, and we still chose one another. Sometimes dreams can be a beautiful gift to our wide awake selves. This one certainly was.

*Since our return from Florida, my skin is dry and itchy, itchy, itchy. Though I tried to quickly react with lotions, bath oils, more water, and so on, it was too little, too late. There is just no getting rid of this persistent, nagging itch from my head to my toes. It's in my way--not only am I distracted, but I want to be outside, I want to feel the fresh air, and I know a few walks out in the cold is part of my problem, so I primarily stay inside. Yet again I'm vowing to be more watchful next year--to not save lotion for when my skin feels dry, but instead to simply make it part of my routine. Does this sound like my prayer life? But of course! I wait for the "need," and then I wonder why God seems silent. Perhaps if prayer was part of my routine.... Well, you can fill in the rest.

So much to say, but a little boy is seeking a story or two, and given that I stayed out sick after a sleepless night (both kids were up and wandering about--argh!), I can finally respond and attend to him. Happy day....I know I plan to have one!

Reading my way into the new year....

There is so much I could and should write about our time in FL: the spectacular celebration of my grandfather's life, complete with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and counsins' children sharing stories, faith and music in his honor; a visit with my father near his favorite FL beach as the kids leapt, skipped and marched their way back and forth between the ocean and the handmade sand castle they optimistically created within reach of the incoming tide; my grandmother's surprise trip to the Emergency Room that resulted in a pacemaker and a new lease on life (She plans to start her own blog at 90 years old--how's that for embracing life and moving forward?). And should I write about the sunshine? But of course! There is something renewing and refreshing about a warm weather vacation in the midst of New England winters. It is a reminder that spring will come, shorts and short sleeves are around the corner, and we will once again swim and play outdoors. Truly, it is coming.

BUT, I'm not going to write about all of that (or have I already???). I want to begin writing about the books I'm reading....not reviews, not critiques; in fact, I plan to create little more than a list. What the list represents is important, though. I am notorious for saying, "I wish I had more time to read." I imagine myself with a life pre-work, pre-kids, pre-commitment in which I lounge by the pool all day with a book in hand, as though this was a life I once knew or one I'll ever have. Contained in the comment is a little bit of resentment about my life's commitments (which include demanding work, kids, classes, church, Sunday School teaching and board service, etc.), and a whole lot of inaccuracy about the reading I do or don't do. In fact, I read quite a bit. True, some of this is for courses I take. But I'm also known to squeeze in a pleasure book while writing that last paper, or grab a weekend to be reading near the kids as they are creating yet another city with their lego, block, and Little People friends. In fact, I am someone who does have time to read. And this year I'm determined to prove it!

Here's what has been part of this new year so far:

Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer: While Krakauer's book is the story of one individual's quest to escape civilization and challenge his skills and strength against and with nature, my reading put me in touch with a broader essence of masculinity. In telling the story of Chris McCandless, Krakauer describes his own youthful ventures to take on the odds, and I could see elements of Matt and many of the men I know. That the story of Chris McCandless ends in death does not diminish the universality of the quest to understand his own significance (or insignificance) in the midst of a natural environment that still contains many mysteries.

Passing for Thin: Losing Half My Weight and Finding Myself, Frances Kuffel: This is a book that grabbed me from the library shelves as I was wandering on one of those "time to write the paper--but let's see what I can have as a reward when I'm done" afternoons. For anyone who has lost weight, only to discover that the inside of herself has not necessarily caught up with the outside (or vice versa), this book will speak. To learn since from Frances Kuffel's blog that she continues to struggle with weight, size, food and self is to find empathy. There is a lifetime of learning that goes into reshaping one's sense of self, and her journey is a reminder that there is no single destination, but many points of temporary arrival.

Mama's Boy, Preacher's Son: A Memoir of Growing Up, Coming Out, and Changing America's Schools, Kevin Jennings: It doesn't take long to discover my favorite genre is memoir. I would read one a day if I could. (See, there I go again bemoaning the absence of time--perhaps I should strive for one a week!) Jennings' story is one of overcoming great odds (poverty, participation in racism, heterosexism and homophobia) to become a renowned, if unlikely, activist. I was moved to tears by the horrors he experienced (vowing yet again to protect my children with outrageous means, if necessary), by his willingness to participate personally and publicly in change, and by the story of his mother's unique and parallel transformation. When my teacher sister shared yet another story of children taunting another child on the playground with "You're gay!" without the slightest clue what it meant, I had this title in hand--what a gift.

Here If You Need Me: A True Story, Kate Braestrup: Yet again, a memoir! This is the story of a mother of four who tragically receives the news that her much loved spouse has been killed in a car accident while on duty as a state police officer. Her grief takes her through personally washing and dressing his body, being present to hers and her children's emotions, and weaving a new life that includes the pursuit of what had been her husband's call--to be ordained as a Unitarian Universalist pastor. The call becomes intimately her own, and the book is filled with the stories, images and insights that have come from her years as chaplain to the state game wardens of Maine. It is a lovely book, even tinged with the many inevitable tragedies that shape her life and her work. I savored each word. A few years ago Matt discovered (via NPR, I believe) the author Mike Perry, and quickly felt a kinship through Population 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time. I loved this book as well, and appreciated that Here If You Need Me took me on a similar journey, but with explicitly stated spiritual questions and discoveries.

So what are you reading this year, and how can we celebrate the time we do have to read? Enjoy!

An Ole'-Fashioned Country Christmas

This is the year of three Christmas celebrations for our family--celebration one in central NY at Matt's parents' home, celebration two at home (suburban CT) for Christmas Eve and morning, and celebration three at my sister's place in Boston. From country to city in four days flat. Here are some images of Christmas, country-style.

What is Christmas without an angel?

Fresh from a wild ride on the 4-wheeler, Kyra the dare-devil!

Self-portrait of my own Christmas cheer.

Spring melt, or just a moment of winter thaw?

Have a very, very merry Christmas!

Do you know what day today is?

Kyra, don't you realize this isn't just any day?

Lucas, wipe the sleep from your eyes!

Today both your grandfathers have BIRTHDAYS!

Whatever shall we give them?

An at-home haircut, a favorite of the men in our family???

Or perhaps a ride in the canoe???

Nah....too cold and snowy out there!

Strike a pose, give them a smile, and send those birthday wishes on their way!

Happy birthday to BOTH the grandpas on your shared, special day!

Christmastime is here....

Lucas and lights....could there be more holiday charm?

The angels meet at the tree--the consequences of a preschooler

decorating by clumping all ornaments into categories!

Kyra and Matt enjoying Grandpa's pickup truck,

after delivering another load of firewood!

A swirl of smoke rises from the chimney. Ah, warmth....

While a bit early for some families, the celebration is in full swing here in CT! Enjoy some images of winter and Christmas arriving to our home.

Giving thanks, all hour--day--year long

I'll admit it--I'm poor with transitions, particularly the little ones through which most people glide. Sunday afternoon to evening is tough for me, particularly after an extra long weekend at home. Around 4pm I feel my stomach drop a bit as I realize time is "running out"--time at home, that is. Though I love my work, I crave more time at home, and the Monday morning return to work always looms larger than it should.

It was looming particularly large when the kids began waking continuously from 2:30-4am early this morning. While Matt did all of the getting up, soothing and comforting, those constant wake-ups (resulting in Matt resting on the couch downstairs and both kids on top of me in our bed at 4am) gave me more than enough time to ponder that yes, indeed, Monday morning was very nearly upon me. And approaching Monday morning from a state of sleeplessness is all the worse, typically.

As is often the case on this blog and in my life, I decided on my drive in I needed to extend the Thanksgiving holiday....I needed to express my gratitude on this, a sleepy, stressful Monday. It's easy to say a grace of thanksgiving when surrounded by family on a warm day at home with a table full of turkey, gravy and corn casserole before me. It turns out it's easy on rainy Monday mornings as well!

In no particular order, here are some of the things I'm grateful for today....

• the clever person who determined that in between the green and red lights there should be a yellow to provide ample warning to slow down--how many lives has that yellow light saved?
• a steaming hot cup of coffee....a true pleasure this morning, in particular!
• a particular stretch of road on my drive to work where the trees hang fully over the road--it feels as though I am deep in the forest, held in the embrace of the trees
• having two walkable legs on which I carry myself to my office, and two workable arms that could load in all my bags of work this morning
• leaving Lucas and Matt beside the Christmas tree this morning, snuggling on the couch as they read a book together
• the deep sighs that both of my kids make periodically as they sleep
• work that provides for my family, and in many ways inspires and motivates me....even on a Monday!

Now back to that coffee....enjoy the day!

Stir crazy

The kids are wrestling in front of me, trying acrobatics perfected by a pair participating in the Macy's Day parade--an act far too advanced for my little ones. If I were smart I would have 911 dialed into the telephone just in case. Instead, I'm marveling once again (as I do any time I'm home with the kids alone all day) that Matt does this Every Single Day.

We're very different--if our kids were to depict for you "Mommy days" and "Daddy days," the pictures would be opposite in many ways. Matt's first instinct is to head outdoors. The kids dress themselves for the weather of the day, accomodating a span of some 80 degrees between their winter and summer playtime. Alternating between playing football with the kids and having an eye on them from a distance as he chops wood or rakes leaves, Matt thrives outdoors. It is now 4:45pm, and having had a day home with me, the kids have yet to see the great outdoors. I'm an inside kind of gal.

I suppose our instincts are similar, we just act on them in different domains. In between a few games of UNO, making collages with old magazines, and reading a Christmas story, I've managed to change all the beds, do a detailed vacuuming of all the upstairs and half the downstairs, put up the Christmas tree, and continually keep the kitchen table wiped down. Just as it is Matt's nature to shore up the outdoor resources for winter (the hunter in him, perhaps), I am continually cleaning a little here, neatening a little there (the gatherer in me, I suspect).

But I would be wise to follow Matt's example. My indoor kids are playing games that are better suited to the outdoors, and the volume level is rising by the moment. We're heading to a town celebration this evening for a parade and fireworks, and I can only threaten so many times to take this happy occasion away....off to the tub, threatening all along the way....

I asked both kids if they had something to add to this post. Lucas, always feeling guilty about some misdemeanor, immediately said, "Sorry???" Kyra's message is simple: "That's okay." You have to wonder about these kids!

Wildly wide awake

Friday night is "movie night" in our home, and while this once might have included overpriced popcorn and previews too violent for open eyes, of late it has been movies like "The Rookie" or "The Muppet Movie" with microwave popcorn for four. If my week has been like most of my weeks are, about 15 minutes into the movie, I'm attentive and watching, and about 30 minutes into the movie, I'm sound asleep.

Being awake on this Friday as the clock pushes on toward midnight feels positively reckless....particularly when I need to be at work at 8am for a conference. But I'm awake, nonetheless, and wild though that concept might be, tomorrow evening will bring a nap, I hope. Matt and the kids are away, visiting his parents while I trudge through a variety of work and school events that would have me feeling like a poor, absent parent if they were home, but attentive and loyal to my employer with them away.

It's strange to be alone in the house. I'm never alone in the house. When I open the door at 5:30 or 6pm each evening, I see Matt typically standing at the stove, and the first child to see me yells, "Mommy's home!" and comes rushing toward the door for a hug. It is a moment of bliss in days that are sometimes stressful and long. So what to do when they are away and there are no sounds, no hugs, no dinner on the stove when I come in?

First of all, I attended a concert. It was more the type of concert I would have attended in college than now--Bethany Dillon, Sanctus Real and Steven Curtis Chapman. I've been a casual fan of the music of Bethany and Steven for some time now, though, and they were playing down the road for a more than reasonable price. I won't enter into the full existential crisis I experience when I attend so-called Christian events and try to determine my current fit in that crowd. I will simply say that I enjoyed the message of love--the message that right now in this moment I am being loved...you are being loved...we are all being loved. And I enjoyed that Steven was up there playing with his two sons in the band--the 18 year old on guitar and the 16 year old a maniac on the drums. It was a wonderful illustration of how we might grow and learn and change with our kids. It was a reminder that I really, deeply, truly love my family. As I drove home, I did something I almost never do--I spoke aloud to God. I asked God--whether Being, Force, Big Person on High, Bold Idea in my Mind, Energy, or Pure Love--to open my eyes wide to the gift of my family.

I returned home to a still-quiet abode--listening attentively for any scratching or scurrying to indicate that the mouse Matt cheerfully released from our basement earlier had returned. Luckily no sounds--and so far no mouse. (I told Matt he would return home to a feline member of the family if a mouse pops in for a visit while I'm here alone.) I walked down to the basement (showing the mouse I'm not afraid!) and noticed for the first time all the wood Matt has been diligently stacking in the basement to keep us warm through the winter. It is literally stacked from floor to ceiling, and with it, the woodstove hums happily of heat for the whole house. Signs of Matt's love for us and his care for our home are everywhere, but particularly evident these days in the basement. We have an extra refrigerator/freezer combo stacked with food primarily purchased by him to be prepared almost exclusively by him. Where piles of laundry could sit are stacks of empty baskets--the clothes are clean and put away. And yes, of course, there is all that wood--as much as my eyes could take in. God was answering my prayer--I was noticing, seeing, and fully appreciating this member of my family.

I came upstairs to write this tale of love, of prayers answered, of satisfaction for having what I have and being where I am, and suddenly an alert popped up to add my in-laws' Skype address to my contacts list. As I was writing about the bliss of this knowing and noticing, I actually had a chance to see and speak with my muse of the moment--and now my eyes are not only open, I am wildly wide awake. Noticing. Appreciating. Feeling grateful.

Reach out and touch someone

Do you remember AT&T's slogan? With the omnipresence of cell phones, and the immediate access of text and instant messaging, the notion of an "old-fashioned" phone conversation seems horribly antiquated. And given that I have access to all of these tools at once, that old-fashioned phone call is rarely the intimate experience it can or should be. I have many friends with whom I'm speaking by phone, reading email, and sometimes even simultaneously glancing at a message on my cell phone.

Technology frustrates me, even as I rely on it for my work and personal connections. During a strategic planning meeting for the University yesterday, the dizzying array of future possibilities courtesy of and dependent on technology left me with a headache. I was ready to fold up all things digital and toss them in a bin for the rest of the day. (Notice that I still refer to the digitized world as something I can put my hands on and put away!) How fortunate I am that I didn't do so.

We've been experimenting with Skype (we're behind, I know, but it's "new" and fun for us!), typically speaking with my sister in Boston. The timing is ideal, as she is about to undergo radioactive iodine treatment for thyroid cancer and will need to live in isolation for a time. Skype will allow us to "see" her each day, and brings the energy of our kids briefly into her home. While testing out a new microphone last night, we were able to be in her home--noting the clothes drying rack, looking with her for her cat, and catching her peering back at the TV. (Television is so 1980s, don't you think?)

We originally bought the videocamera in order to see my grandparents in Florida. They are living at 90 and 91, but my grandfather has cancer and is quite certainly dying, and we wanted to be more present to their lives than we are able to be via the phone. After "hanging up" with my sister, we gave a call to Nana and Father, as we know them. I originally tried via the landline, and my grandfather sounded tired....a tired that concerned me about what I'm missing in not being there now. But then we switched to the camera, and I could see him--could see that the exhaustion in his voice wasn't fully in his face, and could appreciate knowing that they are there, together, amongst friends, and alive for every minute they are given to be so. I loved blowing them kisses, sharing our mutual enthusiasm for a family visit coming up in January, and being in their living room for a few minutes.

The "bug" of being with family had bitten, and so we placed yet another call--this time to my sister-in-law and her family in Oregon. All four of them popped in front of the laptop, and when we confessed to missing a number of home updates in the four and a half years since our last visit, my sister-in-law picked up the laptop and took us on a refresher tour of the house. It was awkward at times (I was the only extravert in the mix of seven of us "talking" for an hour or so!), lovely to see them in their happy home, and a wonderful reminder that technology is only one part headache.

It's also part home.

Drumroll, please....

I've been thinking for a long time that I'd like to cut my hair short--perhaps the idea has been with me for years, but it has become more persistent in the past six months or so. Since the move I haven't had a regular hairstylist, and every random shop I would visit would find me face to face with another person who would smile, ask if I was really ready, and then proceed to just trim my hair. Today I was not going to take "No" for an answer! Thanks to Sue, I was feeling courageous and ready to listen to my own voice and reasons rather than the hairstyling naysayers I keep meeting!


The morning "before" look....

And after....

I love it! And perhaps by Friday I won't still walk by the mirror saying, "Huh??? Who is that?"

For fun....

Fall musings

Autumn is arriving in New England. We have fallen leaves already covering the lawn, and the kids are chilly enough to wear footy pajamas, sleep under heaping mounds of comforters, and still bring their bodies to our bed for warmth in the early morning hours. Though the temperature is rumored to rise in the next few days, tonight we have a fire in the fireplace and it could as easily be mid-January as it is mid-September.

The kids have both begun school. Kyra departs each day with an, "I don't want to go to school," attitude, and returns with pleasure that she's been. Somehow the joy in her day doesn't translate in the early morning--and I can't say I'm terribly different. Though I find my work richly satisfying most days, it is a rare morning when I'm jumping to get there. We're a lucky family. We love one another, we love being together, and it is difficult to drag us out into the rest of the world on many days.

Lucas is bravely heading off to preschool two mornings a week. He puts his feet timidly on the white line, awaiting his handle on their class rope--the tool they use in the early weeks to get the kids to walk together and stay in a straight line. I'd like a rope some days with explicit instructions for where to hang on; I'll gladly follow along! The good news from his first day sounded something like this: "No one cried today!" I shared this remark with a colleague from work, and she questioned if perhaps we should evaluate our days on a similar scale. Hmmm....

It is a strange mix--this cluster of new beginnings and the shortening days, signaling the year's end. Even in the slow decay, the colors promise a vivid spring to come. The only constant is change.

Day of rest?

For the past few Sundays, I've been working to honor the day as a day of rest and restoration. (My use of the word "working" in such a sentence is telling, is it not? I have to leave it there!) Today was no exception--we woke after a decent night's sleep (the kids had a much-wanted sleepover at Auntie's house), ate a leisurely breakfast (OK--we ate breakfast, even if not leisurely), taught Sunday School at church, and then took the new-to-us canoe we picked up last night out onto the river. I grumbled for a few minutes before settling into a comfortable position on my knees, and then felt suitably energized to paddle up, then down, then up river again on the meandering Farmington.

As we were nearing the close of our drift, we heard a family arguing anxiously on the other side of a tree lying across the river. The parents were in a double kayak, and each of their three children was in a single. A daughter was standing on-shore, a middle son was holding tightly to a rope swing from a neighboring tree trying to orchestrate the rescue, a younger son was tipping precariously as the current caught the side of his kayak, and the parents were hollering opposing instructions to all three of their children as the daughter's kayak slipped further under their boat and the water by the moment. Matt and I offered help, but served as little more than an audience to their eventual rescue of one another--and I suppose this was actually a meaningful purpose. When there are strangers watching, suddenly the arguing subsides and the productive problem-solving begins. Just a few moments later we were all on our way, Matt and I feeling gratitude once again that we had tried this first launch without the kids.

We met Auntie and the kids at a rendezvous halfway between her home and ours, and all lamented the Sunday New England traffic that awaited us. After a short bumper to bumper stretch, Matt and I opted for the road less traveled, choosing to take back roads and move rather than the main drag and sit. For a time, all was bliss--the kids watched the end of a movie on their DVD player, and Matt and I hummed along to the new Lori McKenna CD. The sun was a brilliant gold as it prepared to set, and we patted ourselves on the back for selecting the windy, scenic route. It was, for a time, a drive of rest to go along with my day of rest.

All holidays must end as we know, however, and the movie concluded, the windy road extended still further out in front of us, and the kids' lack of sleep at last night's slumber-free party caught up with them. When the kids weren't arguing with one another, they were wailing in their separate corners. Despite pulling over to take "the big" (as we call the big sister) for a walk, and soon thereafter purchasing both kids a bottle of water, they were not fit for road travel....and I suppose neither were we.

With only ten minutes remaining to our drive, my mother-in-law called. I can only imagine what we must have sounded or looked like for those minutes. In order to hear my mother-in-law I had my index finger jammed so hard into my non-phone ear that the nail left a mark still visible in the mirror. Matt was reaching through our seats, over the DVD player, to mediate between the kids while driving around a treacherously twisty road at dusk. The kids, in a word, were done. After withdrawing all privileges--return visits to Auntie's, evening storytime, tomorrow morning's television, eating, breathing or living under the same roof with us--we pulled into the driveway. Day of restlessness felt more apt to our experience than day of rest.

We were walking into the house when Kyra pulled out the words she hoped would wound. "You're not a good parent," she hissed at me as I fished through my purse for my keys. There were muttered words about not wanting to be or live here with us, and likely some laments about ever having to leave Auntie. If being human robs me of parental goodness, she's right. Whether caught up in a downed tree with the current flowing toward us or caught by Sunday evening traffic, the flaws of our families are sometimes too apparent....too visible for the seen and unseen audiences around us.

I suppose a day of rest is not about the usual "rules" I apply to it--no work, no computer (which leads invariably to work--I'm breaking this rule now!), no television. No distractions is really what I'm trying to achieve. Instead of focusing on those "no" qualities of such a day, however, maybe I should focus on the "yes." Yes to considering God and my family in a reflective, present manner. Yes to enjoying nature and a slower pace. Yes to accepting forgiveness--even for being a "bad parent"--and starting anew once again.

A faculty colleague said the other day, "It's never too late in the day to begin the day again." 9:36pm. I have some rest to attend to.

On the day you were born....

I've loved the book "On the Day You Were Born" by Debra Frasier from the very first moment I picked it up. The notion that all of creation--this masterful web to and through which we are all connected--celebrates the arrival of a single innocent, beautiful child felt and feels so true. So tomorrow I join with creation once again in remembering the moment six years ago when my dear daughter arrived to greet me cheek to cheek, eye to eye.

If given the opportunity to return to just two moments in my life, without hesitation I would go to that moment of bliss and wonder when each of my children were placed in my arms, lifted there by the most exceptional partner a person could want. We, and they, are blessed.

Thank you, God. Miracles abound, each and every moment.

The Banquet

From my seventh grade fall through the summer following my college graduation, my family called Martha's Vineyard home. When you share such a place was your "growing up home," people oooh and aaah, of course--I'm quick to tell them, however, that we lived there when I was springing out on my own, ready to leave home and carve out my own life. As a result, I often lived away for some part of the summer, whether for the whole summer to work at beautiful Pathfinder Lodge in the equally-wonderful Cooperstown, NY, or to attend a study program for a period of weeks when the boats were filled to capacity and the streets pulsing with the bodies craving a taste of the many Vineyard delights. For that ten year period, there was only one summer when I lived home for the entire summer.

I had accepted a summer internship--a ministry role with a local camp, providing much-needed practical experience in my chosen field of Youth Ministry, and earning the credits I was awaiting as I worked my way toward graduation. Somewhere early in that summer my mother crafted a list for what we called "A Very Vineyard Summer," posting it on the refrigerator and checking off the activities as we experienced them. Whether picking strawberries from a local farm (my mother always insisted the high prices presumed a certain amount of field consumption), visiting a favorite beach for an evening sunset, or eating breakfast at the famed Black Dog, we dove into that summer and devoured each and every day. Somewhere along the way there was a wonderful newspaper editorial naming every season of Vineyard life a satisfying meal, but declaring summer "the banquet." We ate ourselves into a stupor that summer, figuratively and literally--capping off the three months together with a James Taylor concert at then Great Woods in Mansfield, MA. It was a very Vineyard summer indeed.

Eight months later my mother was gone, dead of pancreatic cancer that crept into her body long before it crept into our vocabulary. We knew of her cancer for only a month prior to her death, but there are days when I know that our very Vineyard summer sprung out of a place of deep knowing--a recognition that defies conscious awareness, but guides and leads our actions nevertheless. That summer was a fine, fine gift, and I treasure it still.

Perhaps because of these summer memories, I've approached summer as the banquet ever since. In our new Connecticut home, we have what I call "an embarrassment of riches"--our napkins are tucked in at our necks, our silverware raised, and we're eating course after course after course of a life of beauty and delight. The summer's treasures thus far....

• Basketball, bikes and tennis in our expansive driveway and yard--some evenings we bounce the tennis ball off the kids' helmets as they circle us full-speed on their bikes.
• The July 3rd (it rained on the 4th!) concert at Hartford Symphony's summer home in Simsbury, followed by fireworks worthy of a far larger community than this.
• Experimental vegetable gardening--no harvest yet due to late planting, but the fun of watching edible life springing out of the ground from seeds as small as the eye can behold.
• More concert pleasures....two Lori McKenna concerts, one with Faith Hill and Tim McGraw.
• Fruit, fruit and more fruit purchased from local farm stands and our many area grocery stores--the juice literally drips down our chins and necks as we suck down these delights.
• Evening drives to the many destinations near our new home--the large sycamore tree along the Farmington River is a favorite.
• And what would a list of summer pleasures be without another mention of our trip to New Hampshire's Storyland, many days visiting Auntie in Boston and Grandma and Grandpa in upstate New York, and two blissful days with my niece from Oregon visiting us in CT. Heaven on earth in many different forms!

Our dear friends have just packed their car and pulled away from an overnight visit of laughter, loud shouts from children playing happily together, and countless hours sitting on the screen porch watching the sun move across the sky in yet another perfect arc. From this weekend banquet I feel filled to capacity--as though I couldn't eat another bite. The tents are up in the yard, though, and a summer storm is rolling in--let the next course begin....