Loose Lips Sink Ships

     Loose lips sink ships.  Does anyone remember that phrase?  It's always one I've liked...that rhyme thing. I've always known on a theoretical level that it's a truism, but I've never thought about it much on a personal level.  Oh, I've thought about it in terms of  not gossiping about people.  I've thought about it in terms of not saying something recklessly that might hurt someone else, but I've never thought about it in terms of shooting myself in the foot, so to speak, if I say something carelessly and without thinking of its impact.
     This past week I made a comment in a blog that upset a lot of people and caused them to worry about me.  I've had to stress to several people that I only meant what I said as a figure of speech to explain how depressed I was at that moment.  I didn't mean to worry anyone or make them think that I'm unstable, or that I am a danger to myself.  Not at all!  I hope everyone is now less fried and that they realize what I meant.
     But when we talk about being sadder than sad, and that some things in life get us down so much that we don't see the answers, that we can get so weighted down that it seems as if we will never get up, how do we express those things in a serious way that gets our point across without causing others to flip-out and worry?
     When I talk about missing Stacey (and that pain is the only one that gets me into a pit), how do I put that so that it doesn't sound trite or contrived?  Because my feelings like those of everyone else's, are not trite or contrived.   I try not to dwell on it, and I am truly happy these days; it's just not the 100%, over the moon, head over my heels happy.  Maybe that will never come again; maybe it will.  I can only go back to trying to trust God with my whole being instead of just on an emotional level and trust that he will hold me up.  As he said, he won't give us more than we can bear.  I just need to remember that and curb the things I say publicly.
     My deepest apologies to everyone I worried.  I'm truly sorry you were, but also extremely touched that you care so deeply for me.  Thank you.

Missing Stacey

     I probably shouldn't write when I'm so depressed, but sometimes it's the only way to sort through things.  I've already suggested to my mother that one of us sell our house and move in with the other.  That got a no.  Then I suggested it to my son.  That got an even bigger no.
     It's just that I miss Stacey so much.  It's been five years and I still miss him so much. I realize tonight that I can NEVER stop taking my anti-depressants.  I've always struggled with depression, and my doctor says that it's a brain chemical thing that I can't really help, but having Stacey in my life sure was better than being on anti-depressants.  I didn't take them when he was alive, but I don't seem to be able to cope without him and anti-depressants both.
     It's been already five years, and I feel no better.  I'm just as sad, just as bereft, just as "cut loose".  Sometimes I think it's not fair, but I'm not really mad at God, I don't think.  In fact, I wish Jesus would come in the next five minutes to end this misery.

Why do I clean at all?

My mother raised me to be better than this...cleaning I mean.  But since I live by myself, I can't seem to stay on top of it.  There's always something else I'd rather do, and things just go right back to unruly in a matter of minutes.  It things would just stay clean and picked up for a couple of days.  But I know that the real reason things don't stay is that I'm depressed.  Yes you heard it first here.  Deep down, I'm depressed that the love of my life is gone and he's not here for me to make a home for anymore.  I just find that I hide behind reading or being on the computer.  I can't seem to work up the energy to keep things picked up.  I don't have the enthusiasm either.  I like things clean and orderly too, so why don't I do it?  I don't know,  but I'm saved again for a few more days.  Mom is coming over tomorrow to help me whip the house into shape.  Thanks Mom...you really did raise me to be better than this.

SpringSleep

Spring is officially here!  WooHoo!  And now that daylight savings time is once again here (which let me state FOR THE RECORD that I HATE for a whole host of reasons!) I’m sleeping even less than usual.  I don’t sleep much anyway.  I mean, as I type this, it’s 1:40 in the morning.  Just having that extra hour of daylight makes me want to stay up even later.  I really meant it when I “WooHooed” about spring being here because it is my favorite season, but I do want to sleep some in every 24 hour period.
    Instead, I find myself rearranging my craft room or reading or piddling on the computer.  I could at least be outside howling at the moon, which my grandgirls and I have actually done several times just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood howling.  TeeHee.  But whatever happened to sleeping?  I love to sleep, I love my nice comfy bed, I love snuggling with my cats, but going to bed early seems to elude me.  There is just so much that I want to do and there is so much that I am interested in that I can’t seem to get it all in before I finally collapse into the bed each day.  I just love to come home at the end of a work day and start fooling with all the things around here that I love to fool with.
    All of which reminds me...how can anyone ever say that they are bored?  I don’t remember very many times while at home that I’ve ever been bored.  Oh yeah, I’ve been bored at other places, in meetings, sometimes at church, out and about, but never at home.  I guess that comes from having created a home that is a sanctuary, a refuge, a fortress from the outside world.  In that regard, I’m indeed blessed.  I’m safe, I’m warm, I’m dry, I have food to eat, air conditioning when it’s hot and heat when it’s cold.  I have cats to pet, crafts to do, books to read, tv to watch, a computer to play on, flowers to pick, acres to stroll on, and neighbors to visit with.  My mom is nearby to drink coffee with, and oh yeah, I have a bed to sleep in.  But all these other interests seem to keep me from sleeping in it.  I just can’t seem to make myself get into it even though I do love it.
    So I guess I’ll rephrase a favorite corny poem that my dad used to say each spring:
        Spring is sprung
        The grass is riz   
        I wonder where
        My sleep time is.
‘nite all.

A Crystal Stillness

Early Christmas morning

     Right after midnight mass

We came out of our warm   

     Sanctuary cocoon

                        Into

The frozen crystal stillness

            Of the night

I could see right into heaven…

            The sky was so clear,

And as I saw God’s face…

            I said,

Thank you for your son.

TW March 2011

Canoeing in the River of Life

     This time of year my thoughts always turn to canoeing.  I have been privileged to canoe or raft on some fine rivers: the Mulberry, the Illinois, the Buffalo, the Cossatot, the Kings, the Ocoee, the Nantahala, the Pigeon, the Hiwassee, Lee's Creek, Webber's Creek.  I am most composed and peaceful on the banks of a creek or river.  There's just something that the sound of flowing water does for me, even if it's up way too high to float, and it's all muddy, frothing foam.  Of course the cold, clear spring-time rivers are my favorites, but often, they're too cold to float.  Even so, I love them and would like to immerse myself in their clear flowing sweetness.
     I think often of what Heaven will be like, and I'm hoping my fine old Victorian with the full wraparound porch will be on the banks of a clear flowing river.  Well, actually, I know it will be on the banks of a clear flowing river.  "And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as a crystal, proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb."  When I think of the beauty of our earthly rivers and the peace that flows from them into me, I can barely wait to float down the River of Life.  But, you know, I don't want to be in a canoe.  I want to float down it on my back buoyed up by only the will of God. I want to roll and float and immerse myself in the River of Life.  I want to drink deeply of its waters and let it roll into my mouth and across my eyes.  I want it to drip from my hair.  I want to be saturated with it.  I can't wait; I just can't wait to roll along in that pure water of the River of Life which is clear as crystal and feel it's cold refreshing, knowing that it comes from the source of life itself.  
     I don't want to just cross it.  I want to drink from it, bathe myself in it, immerse myself in it and be eternally refreshed, and then at the end of the day, I will rise up from the water, and I will sit on my wrap around porch and drink my sweet peach tea and stroke my cats and hold my Sweet Stacey's hand, and listen to the heavenly choirs  practicing up for singing their eternal praises of the Lord of Hosts.
     How could I not be perfectly calm and perfectly at peace living in my home made for me by the author of peace and sitting on the banks listening to the rolling gurgle of my river, my very own river...the River of Life.  I am so grateful to be written in the Lamb's book of life so I will get to inherit my wrap around porch on the banks of the River of Life.

Letting Things Go

     I have been thinking a lot lately about the concept of letting things go, out of my life, I mean.  Not in terms of selling things.  How does one let go of things that are dear to them and that they have invested a lot of time in? I'm not sure that I know the answer.  It's so hard to say goodbye when it is something that we love and that we really want to keep in our lives, that we want to keep being a part of.
     I've always had this trouble.  Yesterday I wrote about being a collector.  Maybe one of the reasons I collect is due to my trouble with letting things go that I love.  Maybe if I were more comfortable, philosophically, with the idea of letting things go then I wouldn't be such a collector of physical things.  Hmmm...interesting thought. I AM a packrat; I haven't quite reached the status of those people on "Hoarders", and I never will, but I'm always so afraid that if I let it go, then I'll need it again later.  That's probably why I have tools in my barn that I have no idea what to do with.  (They were Stacey's and Dad's).
     I also think that one of the reasons that I hate to let things go is that I have trouble giving up on things or situations.  I don't like to admit defeat.  I'm not a quitter.  I even finish books that I don't particularly like.  It's that seeing something through to completion idea, I guess.  I keep thinking that if I just try a little harder, whatever it is will work out.  This isn't a bad quality, it's just that it doesn't always work out the way you hope it will whether you see it through to the end or not.  And...to make matters worse, what if you're not sure you're really at the end?  "Ah," as Shakespeare said, "there's the rub." 
   I've sort of come to a conclusion about knowing whether I should let something go, and it goes back to something I heard in college.  A person said to me, "If I give it to God, and He gives it back, then it's really mine.  If He doesn't, then it really wasn't mine because He didn't mean for me to have it."  That's profound, I think.  But that to me is the easy part.  
     Maybe the issue isn't even really knowing when I'm at the end of something.  Maybe it's that I do know, and I don't want that to be the answer.  Wow!  Maybe this is really about accepting the will of God.  Maybe this is about being willing to accept a new direction from God but wanting another one.
     Oh brother.  Time to get out His road map.
    
 

Valentine

     Once again, I am rearranging my craft room.   I know, I know...I am never satisfied with it.  Were it twice as big, then I might be satisfied, but probably not.  I'd just have twice as much stuff.  This weekend I have been boxing up books that I will never read again that I have kept on the shelves out of sentamentality, and I am giving that shelf space over to getting my craft supplies off of the floor.  I have taken an old, tall metal tool chest with lots drawers in it out of the barn to put my stamps in, and I'm definitely liking the way it looks in here.  It's sturdy, and it doesn't lean the way the one on wheels did.  The one on wheels is going to the barn tomorrow...not tonight...it looks as if it might rain any minute, and I don't want to be wrestling with a leaning thing on wheels out in the rain.
     I have so many craft supplies; you would think I would craft more.  Sometimes I think I'm more of a collector of craft supplies.  I have collected so many things over the years: books, records, tapes, cd's, little village buildings, dishes, cats...it goes on and on, but I don't think I've collected many hearts.  I have loved and do love many people: Stacey, Nicholas, Jessica, Jonah, Havah, Mother, Dad, my brother and his family, Janie, Auntie, Jeannine...the list goes on, but I don't think I've collected them, not really...not to keep.  How does one keep people?  They grow; they change; they move away; they die. 
   I'd like to keep people.  I'd like to keep them near me.  Sometimes I'd like to keep time in a bottle the way Jim Croce wanted to, but none of us can.  I sometimes look back on especially wonderful times in my life and become a bit Faustian in my outlook.  Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I'm just getting sentimental, or maybe it's the novel I finished a few minutes ago, but oh, I would like to keep the people that I love.  I'd like to collect their hearts and keep them forever near me.
     But, the only heart you ever really collect is your own.  It would do me well to remember that and to make sure I'm truly happy with mine.

Quiet and Home

   I have come to realize how much I value quiet.  I didn't know that when I was younger, and, indeed, maybe I didn't value it then.  I love to be around people too, but after coming home from the crop last night into a quiet, peaceful house, I realized that it was wonderful to just be quiet.  Don't get me wrong; there is something immensely satisfying to me about being in a group of chatty, friendly, creative women for a few hours, but after being at school all day with noisy junior high students and then straight to the crop...coming home at 10:30 was like heaven.

     Stacey and I always wanted our home to be a refuge...a place of peace and restfulness from a frantic world.  He was especially diligent in providing that for me...that refuge.  I appreciated it when he was alive, but I think I appreciate it even more now that I am alone.  I value knowing that there is at least one place on the globe where I am just me.  I can sit in my jammies all day and eat Girl Scout cookies while I read, or I can clean like a whirling dervish (that dervish part doesn't really happen often anymore), or I can wrestle with the cats.  I can turn up music loud and sing while I dust, or I can veg on the patio and watch my neighbor's horse run in the pasture.

     It seems to me a shame that we don't just sit and be quiet much anymore.  People are so busy and bustling.  I think that many people are afraid to be alone with themselves.  It's not such a bad thing to be content.  In fact, St. Paul advised us to "be content in all things".  I admit that that can be terribly difficult, and I have not and still am not always so, but I try.  Since I've been alone, I've often wondered if I really need people, if I might not just turn into an old hermitess.  I know I won't; I enjoy a stimulating conversation, but I really do love just being at home...home...what a lovely word.

Porches and the Loss of Civility

     I'd like to first of all give credit to Mary Engelbreit for the beautiful drawing.  She is one of my favorite artists and inspirations.
     I've thought many times about the architecture and yard design of most homes over the last twenty years.  Somewhere along the way, we decided that front porches were extraneous.  I wonder why.  Was it just an economic decision?  Was it to cut costs and put that money into heated and cooled floor space...could be.  But I think it's a sad loss in many ways.  In the warmer parts of the country, before central heat and air, the porch was an important environmental element.  It helped cool the air in the summer before it came into the house, and in the winter it helped keep parts of the house from being blasted by cold winter winds.  Both of those lessons could be re-learned, I think, in today's "green" philosophies of living.  
    Another way that I think the lack of porches (particularly front ones) is a sad loss is that we have become less civil.  Now, I know that not having a front porch isn't exactly the cause for the current rioting in the middle east or the Somalian pirates, but when we had whole neighborhoods of houses with roomy and  inviting front porches, we spent time on them...drinking our iced tea or our coffee.  As our neighbors walked, and our children played in the yard with the other kids on the street, we actually spoke to our neighbors and passed the time of day.  We "gasp" got to know each other.  We became involved in each other's lives.  We felt freer to call on them if we needed them, and they felt the same toward us.  
     We have become an isolated and private people. We have lost our sense of community.  We have become a people who don't trust others.  Maybe we have some good reasons to be that way these days, but I think the better we know each other and are involved in each other's lives, the less likely we are to abuse each other.
     My Sweet Stacey and I built a front porch on our house.  It's not as big as we later wished we had made it, but it's big enough for a lounge chair and a couple of wicker chairs.  I'm far back from the road, but close enough for my neighbors to wave to me when they see me on the porch.  I like feeling connected and at least recognize strange cars when I see them in the neighborhood.  I know the neighborhood dogs and the kids.  I watch the seasons change from my porch and meditate on my blooming trees and bushes.  I watch it rain and I look for lightning bugs.  I watch the geese fly over, get to know the rabbits who nest under my cedar tree every year, and watch my cats play in the grass.  I hear distant projects from neighbor's houses: hammers hammering, lawn mowers mowing, chain saws sawing, and leaf blowers blowing.  I hear my neighbor's children laughing and splashing in their pool.  I listen to my wind chime forest and feel generally blessed to be alive.  
     For my mansion in heaven, I'm going to request a full-blown, wrap-around Victorian porch.  It will have a fine view of the pearly gates and those streets of gold; I'll be able to hear the saints practicing in the heavenly choir, and I will feel blessed to be alive.

Blogging Magic

     Learning to blog is nothing.  Learning to set up a blog is almost more than my middle aged brain can comprehend.  I don't know enough about computers to understand html and "redirect here" and check your "widgets" and configure your "wooglies" to coordinate with your "zibnots".  Maybe I've finally got it right and this will post the way I want it to.  

     In education, we pride ourselves on being life-long learners.  I'm not sure I'll live long enough to really understand the technical side of computers.  I'm not even sure that I really want to understand the science behind it.  I prefer to simply think of it as magic.  You know, like how the telephone works...magic.  I mean, how do we really transmit voices over those little wires or beam them to satellites?  Magic. It's all part of the wonder and mystery of the universe.  I think we all need a little magic in our lives.  We don't really have to understand all of the millions of tiny little ins and outs of everything, do we?  So long as the people at Sonic understand how to operate the ice tea machine and put extra peach in mine...everything else can be magic as far as I'm concerned...life is good.

     I'm much more of a romantic (in the classical sense) than I am a scientist.  As Jeannine knows, I don't do higher math.  I don't need to understand the science behind numbers, and as long as my calculator works, I don't need to understand the science behind it either.  I'm glad that there are scientists; I just don't want to be one.

     So, maybe what this blog is about is that everyone doesn't have to be an expert on everything.  It's ok to admit that there are some things that we don't know anything about, that we don't understand, or that we don't even care if we understand.  It's ok to say that you're not all that well-rounded and that you understand some things better than others.  I sort of wish that I had reached this stage of my philosophy earlier in life and that at a much younger age I had felt comfortable admitting ignorance of some subjects (well, really, a great many subjects).  I wish I had felt comfortable admitting that I know a great deal about some things and practically nothing about others.  I wish that I had felt comfortable saying that I believe that some things are just "magic".

Sonnets

Ah, the joy of teaching poetry to seventh graders.  So much of it is totally new to them, and I love it when they "get" it.  Today we started our study of sonnets.  They are relatively blown by the strict sonnet form, but every year, I get some nice sonnets.  Just shows what they can do when you make them put their minds to it.

Brains and Hematomas of Unknown Origin

     I went to the doctor today.  I have a headache that I've had now for 48 hours.  I don't get headaches, so when I do it freaks me out.  This one has been particularly nasty...especially since it is accompanied by a bruise and swelling on the left side of my forehead up near the hairline.  It's about the size of a quarter.  Yesterday, as I was sitting in my recliner moaning and gingerly touching the sore spot, I noticed that it felt squishy.  "Oh no," I thought, "my brains are leaking out!"  I knew they weren't really, but I sat there and immediately imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios.
     That's a thing I have known about myself for a long, long time: I have the ability to dig myself into very, very, very  deep holes.  I usually see the glass as half empty rather than half full.  Personalities are very curious things, and I spend way too much time analyzing mine.  My friend, Jeannine, is definitely a half full sort of person.  She and I have many times had the conversation where she tells me that she just always assumes that people like her and is puzzled when I've told her that I always assume that they don't like me.  She says that if I haven't done anything to them, then why would I assume that.  I don't know the answer, but I suspect it goes back to my half empty philosophy.  Why some of us are born with a sunny personality and others of us are more morose is a complete mystery to me.  I do remember many times as a teenager when my mother would remind me to smile more often.
     I don't have a naturally bubbly personality, but it doesn't mean I'm unhappy; I'm not.  But somewhere along the way I associated being bubbly with being bubble-brained.  Stupid, I know, but there it is.  I became determined that the world would view me as smart since it wouldn't view me as beautiful, and that has somehow worked itself out in me as being one to whom wearing a constant smile does not come naturally.  There is even a local pastor whom I cannot watch on tv because his smile never leaves his face.  Even when he is lecturing on the evils of sin or the depravity of man, he has a smile.  That really bothers me.  Those, to me, are not things to smile about.
     So, I went to the doctor today.  My brains are not leaking out.  Guess what?  That makes me smile.

Sons

I have one child, a son.  He has been one of the great joys of my life ever since I first touched his tiny, damp, red, screaming face.  He has also been one of my greatest challenges.  I raised him to be an independent thinker, and sometimes I think I made him too independent.  I raised him to realize that we each have to carve out our own ways through life; no one can do it for us.  I raised him to believe that if he is a moral, Christian man that even if his decisions are not those that I would have made; I'm not whose opinion matters: God's is.  I raised him to beat his own drum and go his own way.

Sometimes that has been painful for me...as I have watched him struggle to find his way...as I have watched him make mistakes...and get hurt...and pick himself back up.  What mother would not rather keep her baby's knees from getting bloody in the first place instead of being there with a band-aid when they do.

When my husband died, I was too caught in my own grief to be of much use to him in his.  He had his wife to help him, and I was alone.  I sometimes think now that I should have been more present for him, but I don't know how I would have been able to be.  Most days I was barely coherent.  But now, as he has what is to me a crisis of faith, I wonder if I have been enough for him.  I asked him recently if he thought his faith-path would have turned out differently if his papa hadn't died.  He said he didn't know, but that he had often wondered that too.  I think it would have.  I don't have the right wisdom for him.  I don't have the right words for him to hear.  His papa did.   But, then, if another person is holding us onto the path...how tightly do we really have it gripped anyway?

Register

Goddesses

As I sit here at my computer in my pj's, I am surrounded by many things that both comfort and frustrate me.  My crafting, specifically paper-crafting, stash.  They both move me to creativity and frustrate me.  I so long to be one of the truly gifted in terms of paper-crafting, mixed media artsyness, but, alas, I'm not.  I scraplift with the best of 'em.


I have always dabbled in something "crafty" or "artsy": oil painting, acrylic painting, embroidery, quilting, sewing, crocheting, scrapbooking, card making, collage/mixed media...but I don't feel really great about any of it.  I think my brain just doesn't normally flow that way.  They call me the "Grammar Goddess" at the school where I have taught for 28 years, and that's a title that I don't take lightly and that I wear proudly, but it's not "Art Goddess".  I'm not the "Writing Goddess" either; that title would belong to my daughter-in-law, Jessica.  I'm not the "Laughing and Sarcasm Goddess"; that would be my friend, Jeannine.  I'm not the "Savvy Business Woman Goddess"; that would be my cousin, Janie.  I'm not the "Advertising Goddess"; that would be my niece, Cara.  I'm not the "Auntie Goddess"; that would be my Aunt Diane.  I'm not the "Pink Diva Goddess"; that would be my granddaughter, Havah.  I'm not the "Natural Sciences Goddess"; that would be my granddaughter, Jonah.  I'm not the "Technology Goddess"; that would be my principal, Karen.  And...I'm certainly not the "Housekeeper Goddess"; that would be my mother, Beverly.


I am grateful to be surrounded by so many "Goddesses".  I hope you are all so fortunate.