Birmingham

Vietta's daffodil that I plucked after closing the gate at my parent's farm is on this fancy, mahogany desk in this fancy Birmingham hotel. It looks a bit forlorn, like I should have picked two or left it on the farm, underneath the big oak tree that holds the nail to chain the gate. Maybe we're all out of place.

However, today is a day to keep mind and eyes open. Yesterday when we drove in, it again surprised me how pretty the countryside is here with its hills and pines. I wanted to know more about the inner life of the forest here. Does it look like my familiar and loved Ozarks with its rocks, patches of grass and moss, gravel, varied soil? I think I will have to check it out before even considering a move South. The warmth is nice. I see that annuals (albeit pansies) have even been set out already around the hotels.

I meet with an old 'acquaintance' today who will show me around while my husband is being ranked by the bigguys. Will I feel the materialism seeping all around me?

We shall see! My mind is back at my church, though. How did last night's meeting go? I truly wish that I could've been there, working with the people I know. Ah well, we shall keep our mind and eyes open here in Alabama.

Take care,
Fieldfleur

Bubble reads

The week is beginning its spin cycle. Monday morning. I have much to do today to prepare for the trip to Birmingham which begins tomorrow. I still need to get that boy taught too.

My brain is whirling this morning, though, in a good productive way. I have three books in front of me which I plan on taking to 'Bama. One is my study called "Abba's Child" by Brennan Manning. Chapter 2, wow, hits hard. Here's a line that made me cringe and confess last night:

"Prayer is death to every identity that does not come from God." I confess to grappling after false idols lately and feeding a false identity which has its importance away from God's light. We all mingle in the dappled shade from time to time, but wrongful priorities have a way of stealing your substance. I've been walking there more lately, and I know why in some ways. Manning says it here too in another way:

"The false self specializes in treacherous disguise. He is the lazy part of self, resisting the effort, asceticism, and discipline that intimacy with God requires." (42) Yes, I've been lolling about, looking at the sparkly, lit up filler items. I've desired distraction; I've resisted prayer during my times of restlessness or anger or sadness. This is an amazing chapter; unfortunately, I'll be gone on Wednesday when the group discusses their reaction. The chapter made me peer more suspiciously at our upcoming trip too -- what are we feeding? if changes happen, how can we assure that they're not only for insubstantial gain? It's a powerful temptation to ward off.

St. Augustine knew about temptation. I picked up a bargain 'The Confessions of Saint Augustine" a couple of years ago, and before my bath last night, I scouted for an unread title to take with me into the warm bubbles (the luxurious Western woman's options!). Wow. So far, in this weighty-worded, exclamative book, I see Augustine exploring the nature of sin in man, in our infancy even, probing how things were created, and why we need the love of God. Amazingly enough, I see a hint of the 'collective unconscious' ideas in his writing. Did Augustine come first and then Jung? God came first says the Bible which Augustine confirms. Aug. speaks of time in an interesting way. I like it.

Then, finally, "Hope for the Troubled Heart" by our own Billy Graham. It's lovely so far, and narrows in on the heart of the problem and the antidote.

Well, I've got lots more reading and pondering to do. However, life means much more than reading (darn!:).

But before I go, just a word to say that my daughter turns 16 today. She is on her way to adulthood which will be here soon. Unbelievable. I look at her and resist this age in a way -- it's full of worry and resentment; a hard reflection of your parenting up to this date. Please, God, be with her in a loving active way, and teach me to love her better each day. Only you can work and soothe.

Fieldfleur

A Saturday sparkle

It has been an excellent Saturday afterall.

For some reason, I had a passive sadness this morning. I couldn't show up to go outside alone and enjoy the beautiful morning. I used to run solo and hit the day at an energetic (or active) pace. I had my watch, my tights, my fleece. I used to write about what the practice of perseverance stirred up in me: joy, strength, tightness, knee aches, faith.
But then, after about six years, I gradually slowed down and almost stopped altogether. And, now with homeschooling Cody, I don't get to meet my spirit-friend and run on Monday mornings.
But, the best thing happened today! As I was feeling passive and incapable, my cell phone rang, and my old Monday friend called to see if I could go on a trail walk. Saturday mornings are usually open for me, and so we agreed to meet in 15 minutes.
Thank you, God, for friends. I realized this morning when we were talking and laughing and jumping with our conversation that You are in the mix of this. When we looked over the bridge at the sparkling river below, and said hello to all the bikers going by us, and leaped over the mud puddle by the tunnel, and shared our spiritual heights and lows, I realized that You were showing me life again and again, outside of my worries and limits. My friend seems so sure of You and so stable, and it was wonderful to be re-inspired. Thank you for a treat morning!

Then, I went to lunch with my daughter, and we chatted as if our recent wall had crumbled.

Later, I went to a rousing meeting for a new communication vehicle for the church. A woman I know across from me made a cynical comment about indoctrination, and it was so fun to be able to laugh out loud and exchange knowing looks. I love being in a church where we can be cynical and laugh out loud freely. The meeting was great, full of creative suggestions ... more on that later!

An hour later, we were at the less-attended Saturday evening service. The sermon was okay, bu the people around me there are my friends. I talked with one who is beginning chemo treatments again for cancer. My reliable JH was across the auditorium, having made it safely back from her grandchildren. A small group study member was greeting at the door, new to service, looking committed and happy.

I don't want to think about leaving them all, but we will think about this possibility more in the coming week. We'll be going to Birmingham to see.

But, my Saturday was wonderful. Thank you, Lord, for life's goodness which you've created.

Higher than coffee?

'Tis a Friday morning, and my fat grey kitten cleans herself beside me. I let her outside, but her maximum comfort level in the big world is only about three minutes. She has jumped down now; she must know that I'm writing about her. Typical young teen.
Cody sleeps peacefully; my hazelnut cinnamon coffee is my constant.
Isn't it crazy how there are these fundamental things in the world that avoid complex scrutiny with either logic or emotions? For instance, coffee is always welcome and good to me. I seldom approach it with the desire to parse, or appease, or pretend I'm something I'm not around it. I wake up, put on my rose-patterned warm robe, and approach it confidently.
Most of the time, I analyze what I react to in my environment (either human or object), and so it seems rare this morning to have this anchor. I'm not sure why I'm appreciating it so much right now. I do think it has something to do with my dreams. I dreamt about a moved friend who was going through a tough time regarding parents. I was there for her ... can we ask the same of others? Often not. I think I tossed and turned on that last night as well.

However, I have a friend who is steady like coffee. She teaches me a lot just by being warm and available. I don't scrutinize her much at all; she's already proven reliable. My husband is steady; he hugged and kissed me this morning before he went to work, telling me that I'm pretty and good. I can always count on him, although I feel unsteady in the way that I reciprocate and how I securely grasp his love. Why should he love me?

Relationship with God. Okay, this should be steady and comforting at all times, right? In some ways, I know that he's reliable to me; however, I tend to turn away from Him, and I'm the one whose not fundamentally sound. It's difficult to remember that He loves me despite me. It's difficult to remember that my mind wants to denounce his love and presence at times, particularly when I feel low. It's a complex relationship that often has too much of myself, wringing my hands, in it. I need to just allow him to be there like my morning coffee. He is there. Sip and see that he is good.

Yet then I begin exacting in complex ways.
I begin thinking strangely, mixing my parenting weaknesses with my weakness at accepting God's love. I feel his disapproval at how I'm handling my daughter right now. Yet, it's not really Him but my own human limitations I'm struggling with. I want things to be perfect, to have a perfect relationship, but she needs to grow on her own without me. I hate that, and I'm feeling hurt. Then I get angry. Then I feel sinful. Then spirituality becomes a nuisance. Coffee seems a better alternative.

Yet then coffee goes its natural way (euphemism btw), and it becomes momentary. I can still love its calming effects, yet I can't ask it to heal my flagellations. Sigh. Approaching the higher good is so hard at times because it wants you to relax and find rest and give up the fret. He wants to work on heart, mind, spirit in a good sense. I'm not sure that I'm so malleable.

It takes trust, a simple gesture. Here. I raise my coffee cup to the eternal and pledge attempt, if not attempt then acknowledgement of, if not acknowledgement then a heart beat for your ideal, good, steady, reliable reality. Amen.

Imagine

My "encourager" of last semester bought me a small book called, "I Can Only Imagine." It provides the MercyMe single of the same name on a c.d. Each small, glossy page holds a short story of how this emotion-invoking song touched someone. A mother died ... the song comforted. A fellow Iraqi soldier was killed, the song was played a hundred times that night. Miscarriages occur ... the mother weeps for resolution as the song plays.

It's crazy almost that some people are opposed to comfort. One indication of this was seen recently in a popular magazine. In the latest issue of Time (Feb. 28), letters to the editor responded to the magazine's cover story focus on influential evangelicals of the day. The letter writers were jittery (okay, angry). One accused these evangelicals of furthering an agenda that dictated "religious persecution rather than religious freedom". One said that these people represented "an aggressive brand of Christian religiosity from leaders whose intolerance rivals anything we have heard from the Islamic zealots." One argued that the evangelicals showed simply one thing: "there is money to be made if you can convince people you have a direct line to God."

While I am a critical thinker who doesn't like the wool pulled over my eyes, I can't help but notice that these writers are practicing the same intolerance that they're ranting about. If you practice baby-with-bath-water-thinking as their letters strongly indicate then how can you say your way of thinking is better? It's simply fingerpointing both ways, which negates itself.

I was sad when I heard them, though. If "I Can Only Imagine" comfort is stunted for them due to a rigorous wall of belief, then a hole is dug, limits are placed. If they believe that all evangelicals are greedy, exclusionist who wish to undermine democracy (interestingly enough, have they studied their history of America?) then they are missing out on some exceptional views of helping alleviate human suffering. But, I guess like many of us, they just want to lash out and stay only there. They want to remember the wounds of those who were imperfect before them and not open their imagination to something different, something higher than people even. Stuck in a hole. It's safer that way.

That's my commentary for the day. :) I can only imagine the day ahead!
Fieldfleur

Daffodil friends

I remember beginning this blog with my farmer yearnings in tow and fresh images in my mind from my rural homeland: Bo jumping bales, pepper jelly being boiled on the stove, Elvira the mule appaloosing up the hills, the North Fork winding its way. Sigh.

It seems like a long time since I've been home. Mom says the daffodils are already budding up, ready to burst. Vietta's legacy returns each year to remind us of her, my unmet pretty great-grandmother. The daffodils have naturalized and run down to the green, mossy pond about 200 yards from the house. Wouldn't it be amazing to be known and remembered by a bloom?

But, it's February in the city, or large town one might call it. The cul-de-sac has had its share of kids lately since the weather has been temperate enough. Thursday evening, girls were chasing Cody, and he pedaled furiously into the side of the road which tipped him over, and he rolled and rolled (his words) and landed on his ankle. Three and a half hours later, the xray showed that it was just sprained. He's been crawling around with his splint dragging. I fetch him food every hour or so, because he's milking me like a hurt boy only knows how to do.

Life for me has been less anxious. Except, of course, for Wednesday evening when I got up and spoke in front of 90+ women and told on myself. The chapter for my small group study was called, "Come out of Hiding" which I did and now wish that there was a cave around to re-enter. Ah well ... the women in my group exposed themselves too in a surprising way. There's much pain out there, you know. God works through the air.

Life has been a bit in the doldrums. Except, I went out with two old bookclub friends on Friday evening, and we discussed all sorts of things. They helped me see that I can move on without too much guilt. Movement is the operative word. VB wants to be everyone's mother, and we gladly let her.

Friendships have been going through a strange period. People that I know and love have gotten busy, as if I haven't. My friendships are seemingly cyclic, and I don't like that. I want people to be around longer. It seems as if I know tons of women whom I consider friends, yet too many of them are revolving close friends. They revolve because of circumstances. Is that bad or good? Is that the life of women? I would rather, in some ways, have closer less revolving friends, yet circumstantial situations bring many back and forth. Last year, I had at least two in my close circle, but one of those women is never available now. She has three children and focuses on them; she increased her hours on her job. I've had to release expectation of much time from her after trying to keep things going. Then, there are wonderful newer women that I have met and like a lot and serve with. The ground just keeps moving a bit in this area. However, my wonderful friend, JH, is still around, loving me, being there for me when I need anything, accepting both Cody and me in her kitchen whenever. I so much appreciate that!

Well, I am going to try to sleep again. For some reason, the cat decided to become an acrobat around 3:15 this morning and made me wake up and think about jewelry and friendships and daffodils and movement .... on to bed for some more dreams. Bien nuit.....

No ceasing

"Pray without ceasing," says the Bible. I feel great sadness for a friend this morning, and, literally, slept with a prayer in my mind the whole night for her.
Whenever my friends pray for me, I feel a certain strength surround me. I pray for your hope and guidance for her, God.

This evening, I need prayer as well. I'll be talking to the Wednesday evening group and sharing some vulnerable times in my life. Our leading question is: Describe a time when you felt most lost.

There I sat with a baby in my arms, and a six year old girl, and a husband whom I felt, at the time, that I didn't have much in common with. God was a distant shadow of a better, more naive time. God, actually, had gone, burst into a thousand pieces by a thousand philosophies of negation. I was informed, I had read, I had disavowed in the face of words and circumstances.

Until I was lost, and He flooded my office after a simple question and a strong denial. "Do you think God loves you?" Crazy, childish stuff. "No." And, then the flood came into my office, and it said, "Why build walls? You are tangled up and lost. Now's the time to return." And, I did, and I still get tears in my eyes to recall that moment of his desire for me again. It was real and bold.

I need to find that video of me, lost, skinny, with baby, with imaginations of escape. Change has occurred, might as well document grace.

I pray that you have a grace-filled day,
Fieldfleur

Intimations a la obgyn

As usual, it was a marvelous ob-gyn annual visit. I showered and then flew across town to his office. His sassy nurse laughed at my hesitant response to a personal question. She took me into one of his waiting rooms where I undressed and put on the open-in-front robe for the convenient breast exam. And, then he gently knocked and opened the door. Reunion! There was so much I wanted to say to him, but he has lots of open legs to visit and babies to deliver. One year, he delivered 362 babies. He's truly committed to being there which he was for me when Cody was born. What was better is that he was there afterwards too. He visited me in my recovery room and asked what it was like, the miracle of birth. I love him, and my husband knows this. When any woman asks me who I see, I exclaim in long wonder about my gentle-man doctor whom they can never get an appointment with because he's so adored by all. Each year in February, I get to see him (and he me), and I recall snippets of our quick conversations during my exam: one year it was about DisneyWorld, another about his sons, another about a Bible study with his friends, another about teenagers in general, this year it was about Cody's upcoming genetic studies (I also told him about sledding). Then I am released from the chair, and we sit and talk like we've been at tea this entire time. Then he offers to help in various ways. He's going to write a prescription for me for cholesterol medicine! He's going to copy some files for me from my folder! He tells me that I look great and thin, and he makes some derogatory remark about his overweight figure. One year, he was truly God in gesture when he waited for me by the door with one hand holding out a packet of Ovcon, and his other hand holding a box of trial Ovcons. He offered them to me, and I immediately thanked him profusely (and affectionately) for the one free box of birth control pills in his hand. He said, "But, I'm offering the entire box to you." I felt so grateful and blessed to be receiving more than I imagined. Didn't that parallel something in the Bible that Christ did? Anyway, each time I leave my doctor wishing that I had complimented him more, that I knew his wife, that I would have some type of recurrent woman issue, that he would stay as a friend instead of a doctor. But, I realize my emotions regarding intimate privacy invasion has resulted in a codependent transfer of need and ... love, although he does deserve the love because he's so humble, gentle, caring, etc etc etc.
Okay, I must end this blog right now. One year from now, I will revisit this topic and again attest how wonderfully gentle and caring and sweet this oby-gyn man is, but, for now, I must get some sleep so that next year is one day closer.
:)
Fieldfleur

Zippin' with WW

Minus the rows of well-constructed homes, we could have lived a long time ago. Snow seems so ageless, so timeless, spaceless. We took a path, like Robert Frost, in some snowy woods in a neighborhood small park, and there was an unbounded creek lying in wait for the discoverer. We walked on the bank and heard the dark water trickling, defying the developments up the hill. It was beautiful and like home when, as a girl, I used to take my long walks in winter's face to find amazing beauty, even much moreso than in Spring. I don't have the right words to describe the stillness and the beauty that I still "recollect in tranquility" as Wordsworth says. But, I know that the experiences of nature have stayed with me for a long time. There's something strong and peaceful and pure about their intermittent reminders too when I stumble into a similar setting. It's like the ageless, timeless, spaceless aspects of creation hits me again. Strong hints of the eternal abound in the natural world, and they want to be seen and known. I feel like they're always calling me to look at them, and if I don't, I lose out.

Anyway, Cody and I were supposed to be looking for a good downward slope; I pulled our orange plastic sled, at times with him in it, and we were dressed for zero degrees and speed. But, the peace in the woods just took us over for a while. Most lovely and accessible if only we would leave our heat-induced pleasant-enough homes more. We found a small slope in the woods and zigged and zagged perilously between trees, until we decided to drive to the big hill at a larger recreational park. The hill waited, pure and unmarked (because other kids were in school), which complimented Cody's need for speed. He pulled the sled up to the highest point, and then screamed "aaaaaacccchhhh" all the way down with a gigantic smile. We raced and tried to break each other's sled tread records. I felt young and athletic when I ran back up the hill to do it again.

Cody was at his bravest; last year, he was anxious and cried on the way up and the way down. However, today it all felt good. The water on the lake below us sparkled, the air reddened our cheeks, the freedom we felt heightened our gratitude; it was an exceptional day of learning, I think. Why do our schools institutionalize so much? All of those kids should have been out with us on that slope, testing their limits, noticing the contrasting colors of the sky, the ground, the water -- zipping downward with a feeling of freedom. It's freedom that causes us to learn more. Well, I'm getting prosaic again, and I apologize for that; it's just ... I wish that you could have been there instead of being contained. I was very fortunate that I stepped into my shoes and went outside to follow my boy's call.

Atlantic crossing

Democracy. In the Old World, parents talked late into the night about the possibility of a voyage, about how much it would cost, about the hopeful opportunities that possibly awaited them upon new soil. I can imagine the children listening in the bed or room next to them. I can imagine them waking up with a new type of excitement, a new type of fear, imaginings unlike before. Perhaps they played games outdoors of how they would ward off an Indian attack. Or, how they would live in the big house on their own acreage. Or, what it would be like to have running water in their own apartment. Or, what American girl or boy they would one day marry.

I felt like an Old World parent when I chatted with Cody this morning. He had never heard of the word "democracy", that it was a government in which the people voted for their own leader; a government set up to protect the freedom of the people. His questions roamed freely, and we talked about alternatives like monarchy and dictatorship. I introduced him to Hitler, to the lines that formed at the concentration camps upon arrival, how bad bias caused horrible deaths, how it caused Hitler to self-destruct in the face of approaching enemies. Cody couldn't believe it and asked me to stop describing it (for some reason, that time era has always fascinated me).

We talked about Stalin and the freedom to worship, and how he burned the churches down or converted them to political meeting places.

I told him about how our country was young and fought to win freedom for everyone, which we did. He asked, "Well, what about the slaves then?"

Ah, perception. Democracy is growing, evolving, with some serious mistakes to make up for.

We talked about our gift, our country that gives us freedom and choice. It was so cool to be part of that discussion and query instead of handing it to the school to teach. I was there! We were like immigrants looking faraway at what is offered in a new place with a progressive spirit, with a flame for liberty and justice. Then, our living room was an Ellis Island of sort; we entered, looked around and saw what good things our country had to give after struggles.

And, we sit in our living room as a result studying what went before us. Amazing stories. Amazing fortune to be part of such a place.

That's it from central America 2005!

Shiites what?

http://www.understanding-islam.com/related/text.asp?type=question&qid=417 A good site for understanding the differences between the Shiites and Sunni. The Shiites reign in Iraq say the headlines this morning. What does this mean? Did our Christian nation pave the way for more oppression, or for more freedom? We can't change worldviews by force even with removal of a dictator. Did we throw a stone over there with our soldiers' bodies and then have the water return to the same reflection? Will the Christian groups there be able to freely worship like they did? President Bush purports to spread values and ideals, yet who can honestly say that oil economics did not play a role as well. Hopefully, the Shiite undergirding of the new constitution will allow democracy, albeit in foreign language and concepts, which means reasonable movement for those in Iraq who don't hold authority: other faiths, women, free expressionists. The world shifts a bit.

Wobbly river

When I woke up today, I thought to myself, "I need to go talk to one of my pastors; my anxiety is wrapped tight. I'm not functioning. I can't feel anything anymore." But I knew my pastor would just tell me that I need a drink (if I wasn't in the "upper ministry echelon" then he would be afraid of departing that advise given our semi-Baptist funding). He told me that before a Wednesday night program once when I was on the verge of a panic attack (only prayer stopped it and gave me calm).
So, I had a wonderful glass of red wine tonight at the local winery. The wine was called 'rouge jouilette', je pense. It made me walk back up the hill that looks over the Missouri river in a wobbly happy sort-of way. Oui, j'ai l'amour pour le vin and ale, but I rarely imbibe much. No more writer group meetings. Not many more book club outings lately. I feel self-conscious about it too. I remember some feelings that accompanied the drink.
But, the 13th anniversary gave us a ticket out. A movie ticket also. We went to see "Sideways", and it, too, helped me feel again. Yes, it was full frontal uncouth in some ways, but it made me thoughtful and glad for my own personal landing. It involved lots of wine, a perturbed unpublished writer, a sexaholic, regrets, longing, grasping for bits of grace. It made me glad that I have opened my hands to an alternative. I used to be more where the characters of the movie are -- dependent upon the movements of others, dependent upon seasons, upon how others react to me, dependent upon my own sense of worth, upon external circumstances .... and, even though I still have my dread ups and downs, I'm steadier now, due to faith, due to Word. This doesn't mean that I'm certain I will always continue with it. I could do something foolish; however, I know something new now which means a hell of a lot to me. I'm so glad I feel this again, and I thank the movie for making me sad and empathetic and longing for what's beyond our suffering and our temporary goodness (which I'm not downplaying ~~ existential grace is amazing if that's all we have; there's a certain beauty in that, although extreme sadness too in its short-lived state). I felt sad for the characters. The writer almost killed himself if it wasn't for the grace of Mia who encouraged him, who gardened, who had 'lots of soul.'
Maybe I will go talk to the pastor when the anxiety wraps me up again. Yet, I don't know, maybe I'll just go see a movie. Maybe I better talk to him and make sure that this is alright. Maybe I just need to get out of the house more.
Well, I think I can sleep now since I processed this. We have a full day without children tomorrow. It's guilty pleasure which is a nice feeling to be able to experience. Thank you, le Dieu, for this grace. Maybe in heaven, I will be a perfect mother.
Bien nuit!

Urban folk

Julie Clark and I are spending the evening alone together. Is she a lesbian? I can't tell yet from her lyrics. Hopefully, not, and I can freely download this excellent album I found on realRhapsody this evening. She's "urban folk" which sounds like me, the blend of downhome and caught in a city. Yet, the pronouns do matter, breaks my concentration, introduces images I'd rather not encounter, so I'll just freely enjoy her music now. It's good, though. I love sifting through all of these albums, thinking that I can break out of the mold of my current listening box of local radio. I can expand ...........
Cody had me sifting through Rancid albums earlier. Yes, my children like alternative also. Thank you, God, for that important distinction. Eagerly received when other things feel paltry right now in my life.
It has been a tough day with anxiety. Now, the boys and daughter are gone, and I'm alone, and I can relax in music with a longing bent, especially Julie's "The Naked Song". :) A bath is soon calling, after another look at a recorded television show, after these apples and cornnuts which constitute my supper, after this nice writing break.
My former co-teacher asked me today if I wanted to grade essays with the group. Outer life.
The Wednesday night group went alright. I have no concept of myself up front, except that I'm inwardly shaking, yet I can talk, the words form from all the books I've read which have helped me articulate something from my depths. Also God's kind spirit. Also necessity of duty that sprang once from love, that mimics love enough to speak as opposed to mute anxiety.
The women are wonderful. We all need each other. And, yes, there are probably those who struggle with lesbian feelings as I've heard testimony. Not me, though, thank God for that! But, I do struggle and need my friends. Will I have to start over? Let's not think about that.
So, it has been nice to meet Julie Clark, urban folk rocker, this evening. I do love music.

Take care,
Fieldfleur

almond roca

My last blog was bleak (bleally!), but not all is dreary. For instance, Cody and I rode our bikes to a nearby frozen custard shop a few minutes ago. We didn't ride, we raced, except when he called "icebreak!", and we rested on the curb. Then he'd say, "Ready, set, goat!", and we wouldn't start up again, because he said goat instead of go! When he finally said, "Go!", we'd be off again in the cool sunny day.
At the store, I got my favorite almond roca, and he got his usual vanilla in a cup. Then, we sat on a beautifully carved bench and gave each other a couple silly quizzes, laughing, making sure we included the word "butt" in several. It was like being in fourth grade again.
Cody loves to laugh. His blue eyes shone back at me, and I thought, "I have lots of time to be with him now. I'm so glad!"
I am incredibly grateful for these moments of grace and goodness. As Papa tells Travis after he shoots Old Yeller, "We must focus on the good things in life or the bad will takeover."
Tru'dat Papa. :)

Gentle snowflakes

The snow falls outside, gently, outlining the tree branches, and the patient deck pots which I never brought in. Cody is sleeping, and I've been having extreme-necessary quiet time.

With the anxiety which has been constantly seeping into me, especially these last 4-5 months, my sense of peace has not been gently falling into place like the lovely, unique snowflakes. Rather, I've been drifting along, trying to cope with some of the issues that have hit lately. Inside, I feel disquietude; like I want to bolt or crawl up under one of my homemade Grandma Cora quilts and wait to be with her.

Yet someone calls out to me to be there for them. And, for a time, I can be, and then it hits. This coming Wednesday, I need to be a person who can share God's heart in front of approximately 80+ women. My nerves are beginning to feel this pressure. I don't feel like I should be there, like it should be the other women's ministry's front person who exudes spirituality and faith and confidence in God's design.

I love God, but that feeling-faith mix which inspires is low-level right now. Paul, although heroic, seems once again to be there, advising me. He says, "Though I am free and belong to no man, I make myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible." And, he advises against running aimlessly but running for a prize, a crown that will last forever.

So, in these verses encountered this a.m., I hear him saying to do what it takes in order to go forth and conquer; this includes conquering fear and anxiety in order to focus on why I'm in ministry -- to bring someone to a fuller sense of Christ through the work that I do. Let your light shine before women that they may see the glory of God. No one lights a light and covers it. A city is built on a hill to be seen. Pieces of encouragement.

Ah, that sounds lofty and scary, yet my prayers this morning just asks for help, to relinquish my inadequacy for God's capabilities, to trust that his Spirit can sustain me. I want to give Him everything that curtails my trust in His work, both in my family life and ministry. Please allow this to happen, dear Lord.

Take care,
Fieldfleur

support

I'm tired tonight and, once again, feel like I'm struggling for air in regards to my son. I'm not accepting him. I realize that. I don't want him the way he is: full of constant cough, full of anxiety, full of sociological issues. I would like him to be made whole, God, without autism, without anxiety issues, with physical health, with a sense of belonging in this world. Why him? Why us?
These thoughts are wrong; so many Christians accept and see things as gifts.
Women have told me, "Look, he's a special unique gift."
Yes, he is, and I love his smile and natural curiosity and humor.
But, sport Saturdays are hard. We have him in an Upward Basketball non-competitive team.
I sit in constant tension, especially when I see his uncontrollable anger, or hear his insults, or see people staring oddly at him. I took him into a private closet once because he ran off the court due to frustration.
And then, tonight, we tried to get him to sleep in his own room, but he sits up in bed petrified, anxious, asking to sleep on a small blue couch in our room. He cries; we yell; he yells; we cry.
Things are hard for him, and for us.
Perhaps it's time for an Asperger support group?

Weepiness as a worldview

My eyes are filled with tears. My emotions have been heightened upon the pitches of the waves, like a vessel idly moored in a harbor. I can't help it. When the guys on the team place their jerseys upon the desk of Dan Devine, and say, "Let Rudy take my place, Coach", that's when my throat becomes clogged, my eyes wet, and my whole being grovels on the 'low ground of feeling and emotion".

The underdog perseveres. He's recognized within the stadium as having heart.

I think I'll have another drink of coffee and weep. I love this movie.

I love any story that makes me feel. Feelings, emotions are suspect characters. Especially in women. We are often chastised, explained away, reduced, stereotyped by the full volume of feelings that we may have. Feelings are dangerous; when we express them at times, we may receive silence (especially from men who are nervous?), and we may decide that they are not worth the expression. Feelings and emotions have been scapegoated as unreliable -- the heart is deceitful, etc. The mind is more steadfast and responsible.

In the traditional Christian writing, we hear this echo of a worldview which received its influences from stoicism (as opposed to epicurianism) and rationalism, and we wonder: do we serve God well by limiting emotional influences? Most of our inherited religious thought would say 'yes'. Some like Julian of Norwich , who was considered a mystic, were exceptions. But chances are, most of old our church fathers most likely did adhere to the rationalistic influence of progressive western thought.

We've inherited this way of thinking throughout the ages. Here's a quote from Mrs Charles Cowan (can you imagine authoring a book this way nowadays?) which talks about the perils of the emotional landscape:

Do not remain in the haven of distrust, or sleeping on your shadows in inactive repose, or suffering your frames and feelings to pitch and toss on one another like vessels idly moored in a harbor. The religious life is not a brooding over emotions, grazing the keel of faith in the shallows, or dragging the anchor of hope through the oozy tide of mud as if afraid of encountering the healthy breeze. Away! .... If we remain groveling on the low ground of feeling and emotion, we shall find ourselves entangled in a thousand meshes of doubt and despondency, temptation, and unbelief. \
Mrs. Charles Cowman in Streams in the Desert

She wrote this in 1925, but I daresay in religious circles and thought, these views on emotions still hold true. I felt the implications of this throughout most of my exposure to religious ways of thinking. However, I must admit, my church now is steeped in the validity of the emotional life, although our "recovery ministry" is based upon correcting/helping/aiding the emotional wounds (ironically enough which often manifest themselves in the way we think, rationalize, etc). So, it's a marriage, a blend, and I just resist when emotion is scapegoated as being the problem. I believe emotions are the harbingers of spring, of thaw, of the pulse of life, and, yes, they annoy me at times (especially the less productive ones of anger, resentment, grief), yet to stuff&stifle in the name of what is proper and good (rationalism, stoicism), always is more irritating to me, especially when it's portrayed as the way to a better life of faith. Bularky. Rudy brought all of that out in me this morning. Ru-Dy! Ru-Dy! Ru-Dy! Thank God, for a more colorful canvas than we often want to allow ourselves!

Joseph Campbell and spatulas

We are hooked, as mother and daughter, to the "Gilmore Girls" reruns (to us the original). Every evening from 4-5, we tune in to see if Loralei and Luke will ever get together. We tune into see a lovely, peaceful, funny mother-daughter combo who are best friends. We tune into see the dysfunctional parents and the funny best friends. We are hooked. I can't wait until tomorrow evening. If E and I've fought, we reunite in front of our television. We pretend that we have a similar relationship to these fictional, but darling characters.

This evening's show featured college freshmen Rory and Paris 'trying' out the typical Floridian Spring break. They didn't know what to do to 'fit in', so the first night they put a pizza on the bed, put in the videotape, called it the 'perfect night', and began to watch Bill Moyers interview Joseph Campbell in the famous "Power of Myth" dialogue. Ah, that was so funny to me. I wonder why ... :)

Chances are that's where I was in college too. Into my books. Into intellectual talks and ideas. My head was stuffed with new things, and I didn't understand the other way of living, like the spring break crowd in this show. I was definitely left behind in cold Missouri where there were good books still to read and, hopefully, blooming redbuds in the woods on the farm. And, yes, I found Joseph Campbell to be fascinating. Didn't you?

I've just been downstairs going through some of my files where I have recommendation letters, transcripts, personal notes from fave intellectual friends, ethereal-topical writing, and I wonder sometimes what happened to "her".

Should I have expressed all this through career? My file folders scream 'yes'! I had a few accomplishments, not a lot before I couldn't handle the balance of family and work. Why did I try so darn hard at college? That was another girl to be sure.

Well, I have a Pampered Chef party at an acquaintance's house, so I must go get ready. The today's woman will try to decide to purchase (that ugly math word again!) either the metal spatula or the stoneware thing. I'll let you know because it'll be quite interesting as a sign of the times.

Money ain't fun

Money is related to math isn't it? That figures why I have a pounding headache this morning and a resolve to subtract from my sum total.
My daughter and I went to a meeting on our long-awaited Europe trip last night, and we wrote checks for over five thousand dollars.
When I returned home, I faced the breadwinner here, who knew of the money, but wasn't anticipating it to be that much.
I chose my non-salaried life, didn't I? Perhaps though I can scrape to pay my share from other sources besides his. With Cody home, though, I can't substitute teach, nor take the British Literature teaching job that was just offered to me.
This is when mothers tell their teenage daughters the importance of independence, of making money, of having freedom.
Maybe I'll call the trip teachers and tell them that only my daughter will be going. I did this about 20 years ago when my parents told me that it would be tough financially to send me to England for a semester. I really hate being a burden. Yet my daughter says that she doesn't want to go without me, even though friends of hers are going.
Maybe I can figure out a way to scrape through on my own: garage sales, e-bay, credit debt, an old small teacher's retirement money fund.
However, ultimately, it's not imperative that I go. I chose this lifestyle, of staying home. Home has its benefits; there's books and children and flowers and a freedom of sorts if I watch the outflying money that it takes to live regardless of the pile-sum that it's pulled from.
Subtraction ain't fun.

Math ain't fun

Subtraction. The numbers are on the paper, but his eyes are on the marbles, the cats, the pretzels. What will happen when the birds are singing outside, when the trampoline arrives, when our little green seedlings are ready to plant?
I understand those feelings against the angry face of mathematics.
Subtraction takes away our good feelings. Multiplication increases our anxiety. Division separates us from healthy self-esteem (yes! I humiliated myself in fourth grade by crying because long division was soooo impossible to only me! the popular girl scout at my pod was excellent at it, but I was a poor, shy nondivision-type-of-lowlife).

Onto other, better things ...
Pinnacle software is a must-have. I went to a friend's house, and she pieced together my video footage which I shot for our ministry kickoff. It's a movie now! The software is just awesome, and I must save for it. I can think of all types of creative ventures to do as a new, more sophisticated distraction from math.

But, onto better things ... actually on to more forced subtraction for my poor son. God save him!

Sideways crawl

Recently, I've been having those thoughts which paint black everyone's attitude toward my actions. Don't they live to smear me? Don't they live to scorn some of my decisions and toss them aside judgmentally and cruelly? I've been the proverbial look-over-shoulder guy. I've been the crab scuttling sideways out to the waves in order to disappear into them away from the feet that wish to stomp.
For instance, I told my bookclub friends (friends that go way back, but don't know what goes on in your life on a daily/weekly/monthly basis) in an e-mail that my grandmother died, my dad had a heart attack, Cody has a chronic cough that might have been c.f. for four weeks, and that I've decided to homeschool. News to them.
All I could think about was one of my 'friends' who in the last six months has sort-of shelved me. We've all felt that. She is a work-identity driven person with hard judgment and a sharp tongue who used to be one of my best friends when I worked and fit into her categories.
When I sent the e-mail out, I had all sorts of dark imaginings that she was laughing at the homeschool part, calling me a zealot, proudly turning to her name-blocked desk in her name-plated office, gathering around her/our friends that she has kept and invited to her home on a regular basis without me.
She hates religion anyway, so I imagined her equating my decision with narrowminded superstition about the world, etc.
I was practically glowering about her for a while. And then ....
I received the sweetest e-mail from her, expressing her sympathy, applauding my decision to homeschool, complimenting my patient nature and my faith.
Of course, I distrusted her sincerity; her exclusion will remain the same.
However, I accept the pleasant surprise of kind words. And, I must admit, the sideways crawl into the depths of the ocean isn't too Christ-like. Therefore, I must walk back toward her with an e-mail thanks and I must open my sooty hands for them to be scrubbed by Jesus again who teaches us how to walk upright with forgiving springs and a lighter load.
Merci for that.

Rabies and such

I have not been writing much, I'm afraid, here in my blog. Other writing, yes -- the maintenance e-mail writing; the creative writing for an upcoming ministry kickoff; the lesson plans for my son's next day. And, to tell you the truth, I've been in teen parenting crisis mode. Ach. It's happening, and I'm supposed to be like Hosea, but I sunk into low words tonight. Ach. I pray that she turns out alright and is kept safe.

Home schooling was wonderful today, though. Cody and I built our lesson from an initial reading of "Old Yeller" -- we moved from discussion to journaling to building a fake log cabin to grammar to scientific questions on rabies. I can't tell you how much calmer our days are now that I'm not getting the onslaught of bad news, from the school personnel and from stressed-out Cody himself.

Well, the husband is here, asking to share a glass of wine. From ach to ahhhh....
More later,
Fieldfleur

purple zinnias

We have seeds! Cody and I spent our time circling the display this afternoon. As is typical, Cody wanted to control how we chose. I was able to choose four vegetables and two flowers. He chose five flowers and one sweet corn. We laughted when we compared in the van that we had both bought the purple giant zinnias! We also have hopes for chives, English daisies, carrots, broccoli, and snapdragons to name a few. Now, it's time to see if my florescent lights are still willing to proxy the sun until April or May. A couple of busy years prevented me from using the plant tables, but, hey, science needs to be demonstrated, not just taught, and so we have garden hopes with immediate gratification of sweet green sprouts. Nothing like it for the winter soul.

Yeller

Cody does not have cystic fibrosis says the test! We're all thanking God for that. He started allergy shots yesterday, so we'll see if this helps.
The allergist doctor was flamboyantly optomistic. The allergist doctor was a bit handsy with me and entered my space too often as I sat hopefully staring up at him with promise of a diagnosis. No matter. That happens. So, Cody was stuck in the arm yesterday. We move on with hope that the cough will die.
One huge development in our family: I am now teaching again. At home on my couch, on the floor, over the seedling starter trays in the basement, everywhere.
It was a scary transition like moving to a new town. Yet we started and now we're in Texas with Travis who just found that an old yeller dog ate the meat that was hanging down from the hog butcherin'. Yep Old Yeller. Boy still boy but boy becomes man. We're enjoying it.
Tomorrow is Science Thursday, and we'll be reviewing animal classification, especially the invertebrates. Exciting, exciting!

Despite what happens

Gomer, like Angel, kept returning to prostitution.
Hosea had to find a way to love her without all of those other human emotions swirling around, making restitution impossible.
Three times in the last four months, I've been brought to the story of Hosea and Gomer, and now my specific situation is at hand to know why. I pray that I can do it. Human love is very hard. I want to be angry and justified and guarded, but I need to be like Hosea prompted by God. I need to show a love that continues despite resistance and refusal and rebellion.
Father, I need you so much in my life right now. Please make me strong. Amen.

lobotomy

Did you hear about the mentally handicapped Kennedy sibling who was lobotomized by her parents, JFK's parents? She was a functioning person, but they thought she might be "too functioning" and could cause embarrassment (pregnancy, legal problems, etc). They followed the advice of doctors who said that if they scraped out a part of the brain that they would be safe with their errant offspring.

Last night, I was categorized for a lobotomy, in my dreams. There were four of us, and I was deemed bad at dance and somewhat rebellious (I stole some candy that I found). An offcial woman came in and gave me my file. The dream was highly detailed, particularly prior to the judgment when we were being held in captivity. I could observe the facility we were in, and the mindless people milling and swimming about.

My dreams have been like this lately. I told my daughter that when I sleep I'm going to go visit those people and that society! My dreams have become so populated. Why couldn't I be camping in the mountains instead or lost in the desert? Bizarre. Dad has vivid dreams as well.

My homeschooling dread has resurfaced strongly now that I'm on the brink of it. Perhaps I think it will be like a social lobotomy (for me) -- I have many friends to get together with many days of the week. I know how that time and circumstance makes a friendship work. I will mostly miss my Monday morning running partner and our long walk/talks afterwards. Perhaps we can reschedule, but she's busy with piano lessons in the evenings.

I'm quite sad about all of this. Too sad to call my Iowa homeschooling friend who could give me lots of advice. But it's something I want and need to do. We've gone all the helpful routes that we can through the public school, and they have been wonderful, but not adequate for what Cody needs. God will have to be in this with us, otherwise my lobotomy will be irreversible.

Thanking him for hope,
Fieldfleur

Julie and Lisa

Julie Miller, do you know her? She has an awesome song called, "Out in the Rain" [I keep on walking ... ]. I didn't know her until a coffee ministry guy and I started talking about music and he loaned me some of his c.ds which many people don't like except him and me (and others unknown I'm sure). The song is great, and Julie and Buddy Miller are wonderful, plaintive with a beat and artsy-imagistic lyrics. I think I'll buy it as tun-a-therapy. Her info is at http://music.channel.aol.com/artist/main.adp?artistid=40395

My day is roller-coastering. An e-note from the teacher which says "What to do with your son?" just hit me. I confess I've been doubletalking/thinking things like: "Okay God I will sacrifice my self-pleasures on a rock in the mountains and homeschool, but perhaps maybe you'd also like to tangle a ram's horn in time so that I won't have to actually go through with it!" And begging like this: send us a ram which gives us an allergy cure which cures his autism and other behavioral concerns. Make him adaptable and not special needs. Strike us with healing, s'il Vous plait.

The homeschooling idea keeps coming up. For four years now, I've backburnered it with an accompanying feeling of dread. I haven't been ready to be that sacrificial and with a special needs kid, it's more difficult. Yet Cody's trouble at school is not the same as at home: there he has the stimuli, the social things that confuse and label and depress him, the expectations to fit into a box. And, as he approaches middle and junior high with the limited time and attention of secondary teachers (I know because I've been in their shoes), Cody will continue to either be a problem or to fall through the cracks entirely. And, here I am at home, a certified teacher....
Prior to this writing, I decided to keep him home beginning in the fifth grade. Yet it now knocks, and I'm scared. I would miss my friendships that I keep alive now; I would miss alone time, personal time.......
Yet other times, I can't wait to start. Since the new year, I've checked out some homeschooling books at the library. I'm reading Lisa Whelchel's "So You're Thinking About Homeschooling," and most of homeschooling is portrayed as difficult but wonderous. The potential for the student is favorable. The parents all seem to be less burdened (by what's going on in the schools -- bullying, academic limiting, social pressures) and more involved in shaping their child's outlook on learning and life. Good stuff. Inspiring.
Since the new year, I have been lessening my volunteer commitments. I do have the free time now to do this. In a week or two, my life may change. I've been seeking to serve my family more. Why don't I just let it happen?
This may be it.

Beer drunk on aol

We like to sit in the back row of our church and snicker. I think we're the only family who tries to laugh through their noses at any little aberrant noise or word that happens in the building. I felt like the old-muppet-men-in balcony tonight. We laughed at the serious part, during the pastoral beckoning, because the band was attempting to walk serenely w/o notice behind him. Church was good for us.

I really enjoyed the "Toad the Wet Sprocket" song the band played. I love that group. Reminds me of a gift once of a couple albums from a person who now lives on another island with other inhabitants, with a message sent from time to time. That's life, we reckon.

Talking about music, I am slow my daughter acknowledges. I told her about discovering aol radio (she rolled her eyes), about discovering the alternative country station (she rolled her eyes). Yet this is my kind of music. Lucinda Williams et al. Rock tunes with a twang! I just heard a band called the Gourds who has an album called "Cow Fish Fowl or Pig." Great sound. Check them out at http://music.channel.aol.com/artist/main.adp?artistid=203650

Now, I'm listening to Wilco. Excellent. Now Flat Duo Jets. Nice! Back to the roots of rock n roll really. Rockabilly. Stray cats. Dwight Yoakam with more quirks. Good stuff. Even a banjo. Kick up those heels and jump those bales! I'm no longer in my townie circle! Here comes Hank Williams III bumpin' along (behind the mules) who likes to get "beer drunk in the Mississipi mud"-- sounds like there's some merit to the alchohol gene goin' on in that family.

Hey yah, nothing like good music on a Saturday night!

Guilty comfort

I just made my vanilla hazelnut pot of coffee in my soft Victoria Secret warm robe. (I'm not bragging -- it only cost $9 on the clearance rack, but it is divine if I must say so.) My heater is on to keep out the cold. My kitten is licking herself contentedly on the rug by my feet. In a little bit, I'll be taking my boy to elementary school.

I wonder, though, about Southeast Asia. The pictures show particles of the devastatation; the personal accounts attest to unbelievable sights. The smell of rotting corpses becomes part of our current day vernacular.

I feel guilty to be living so well. Yes, my place in life could be blown away to bits by a tornado (2004 did have the most tornadoes on record) right here in the middle of the U.S. Or, some paranoid Missourians believe that a terrorist will show them a bomb, in the form of dropping it, right here in the central most part of the States, which is supposedly about 25 miles from here. Or, sometimes I truly do look up when I hear a low flying plane and wonder if it is a 747 headed for the mile-away nuclear plant. There are risks about anywhere these days. One must always store something for survival in a closet or a basement.

But when the disaster happens, it's cruel. Thankfully, people are showing their hearts by helping, giving, hoping for the best. We see the real stories on the news. Boy makes hot chocolate stand. Wheelchair sailor saves. Lutherans dispatch aid.

Then there's the other side (who says there's not a dichotomous structure in the air, "versus in the air"?) who are snatching children for trade, who are setting up watchful criminal fronts, who are plotting, who are not doing anything for anyone who had misfortune. Too real, too murky at times, too personal perhaps.

I don't feel like I'm doing enough. What is that wall that makes ours a contained world? Some people break through. A few dollars of mine broke through. Many of us just remain on our own island with our own inhabitants. I guess that this is okay, given our responsibilities. Yet it makes me fidgety. I dislike being a sideliner. Maybe I'll make a few calls today. Maybe I'll pierce with prayer some --- Marianne Williamson (I know, I know, new age cultish to some of you) expressed very well how prayer is like a beacon of light, a torch that we have access to in order to help others. Is it in Timothy where intercessory prayer is talked about as real, as a tangible aid?

I'm just very sorry that it happened and am sad each time I see what these people are going through. What are you all finding to do?

Hands of babes

Even though I didn't go to Harvard like my studious cousin (already deliberating to a jury with her hands), at least I prayed at a young age in these newfound baby photos from an aunt. :)Spiritual or intellectual? Homebound or career rich? It's all in the genes at an early age, methinks!

The Biggest Desperate Loser in the Swimsuit Competition

An evening blog is more reality driven than its morning counterparts. Perhaps the reality shows of the night are impacting me. Perhaps the realization that I've been watching too many reality shows lately ring the bell that my own reality may be getting pathetic. Tonight, a child and I watched the Sports Illustrated swimwear cover competition. Has my life gone to the dogs? It was bad enough that the prettiest and smartest and most altruistic girl was dropped. I must recover from this weird stupor that's gripped me into watching as many other-people's realities as possible. I had to record "The Biggest Loser" last night at 2 a.m. (the satellite network did the waking up) because the Tigers local game pre-empted.

"Not everyone watches the Tigers lose, you know! I may have built the arena with my taxes, but I sure as hell don't want them primetime on my major network!" I wanted to yell at the local NBC receptionist when I called. But I didn't do anything except passively record, and then Cody and I watched it prior to dropping him off at the circle drive of his elementary school. Can you believe that Gary actually did write Moe's name down on a piece of elimination paper?!

I haven't started watching "Desperate Housewives" yet although a smart, funny housewife friend of mine says that she really likes it. I'm just afraid. When I see the commercials of the women dressing in hardly nothing (especially when in embrace with the gardener/neighbor's man/city utility reader, etc), I'm thinking 'exploitation'. I'm a stay-at-homer who's most comfortable in these Old Navy men's athletic pants that I got six years ago. I don't like to think of men thinking of 'housewives' as being desperate. No, we're just a bit bewildered like everyone else out there. And, mostly, we have lots of layers on while being so. (Yes, I have an old t-shirt and sweatshirt on above those athletic pants.)

Today, I was bewildered by myself because I was pretending to be the perfect housewife of all time (due to the new year resolution of being responsible). I cleaned everything in the living and dining room. I vacuumed. I dusted. I hotwashed blankets and pillowcases. I began a list of a weekly schedule (like a pioneer woman) of tasks that I must do. When my Iowan friend once showed me her lists which made her a perfect housewife/mother woman, I laughed fearlessly in her face. No lists for the liberated woman like me! I'm free, and you're enslaved by duty. Confucianism. I wander around finding my muse (which she admired in me she said). Taoism. I felt so superior to her; fortunately, she stayed my friend. Christianity (that longsuffering forgiving part of it).

Now, I'm writing the lists. One item on tomorrow's to-do is "organize the storage room". Ah, life in its essence. ... I'm scaring myself badly. The reality shows of the evening are legitimately taking me away from my reality of controlled order. When might it stop?! I look now on the refrigerator and my teen daughter has given me a list as well. Yep, dryerase-listed; there'll be congressional hearings on all of this listed wasted-energy efforts later (when my kids get indicted for something, when I reach Peter's pearly gates, when the psychotherapist questions my co-dependency leading to uproarious mental states, leading to divorce, leading to cholic, leading to becoming a unabomber of dandelions).

When I do have free time, I'm reading books on homeschooling, a possibility in the future given the report from Cody's teacher today. Yes, responsibility. To escape or embrace? That is the question.

Bewildered with layers (it's icing outside in the Midwest),
Rescued by Calgon,
Fieldfleur

Critters for Jordan in 2008

My sweatshirt is still damp from the nice morning run in the mist with a friend. The cats are crunching in the next room. The trash truck grinds its Tuesday's treasures.

I love the fresh start of a new year. The intensity of Christmas releases during the 25th and the week following and what follows is hope of a new start, hope of resurrection.

An allergist doctor believes that Cody's problems are all allergy related instead of c.f. One tablet of Singulair has silenced his cough, just in time for the beginning of fourth grade choir tomorrow. We will begin immunotherapy in two weeks for dust and tree pollen allergens. There's hope that behavorial issues will be aided by this treatment too. We were all hugs and smiles together before school.

Dad is home, recuperating, vowing to take care of himself better, allowing my brother to unroll the hay bales for the cattle. Outside Dad's window, Bo the white lab can still be spotted from time to time jumping the big round haybales in the nearby lot. At times, the cats join him. Visitor's kids join Bo too. It has become a festivity in itself, a moment in motion, in air, Michael Jordan for the common folk and critters. Maybe one day Dad will be jumping with his new heart.

During our morning outing today, my friend and I decided that letting go of friendships is one of the hardest things. On the trail in the cool air with my brain actually working, I likened this process as being like two people on different islands with different inhabitants. I don't want to be on a different island than ________ but this person and I are, due to circumstances, and we are surrounded with different natives. It's almost mournful to see them again and to realize the necessary separation. Yet there's hope in where one is and who is around.

So, I'm hopeful for 2005 right now. Hopeful that God will work in our time and space and infiltrate what seems hopeless and hard. I pray that for you too. Happy new year!
Fieldfleur

the earth melts

"You have made us for Yourself, Oh God, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you." Augustine

The tsunami disaster on the suspended hospital televisions doubled my theological questions of the hour. "He lifts his voice, the earth melts... Psalm 46

God doesn't cause, we always say, yet there are definitive points toward that in the Bible. However, I can't blame; the natural laws are set, and we abide, and the Bible points more toward an overwhelming love. "A present help in time of trouble." I know that the heart of Christ lifts, heals, and knocks. If one is open, they hear the words, "I am gentle and humble in heart. Come to me and I will give you rest," moreso than the Old Testament words which are typically directed toward those who relentlessly disobey and cause evil upon others.

But the wave pummeled the innocent. It's very sad. A US Today paper showed bodies floating with debris in a wide swath of stagnation.

I kept thinking that if my dad died, that it would be a very crowded waiting room in the afterlife holding pen. The faith seems ridiculous, however, when you think of 150,001 people waiting to be judged. It's difficult to think about, difficult to swallow. It's like victims should automatically be baptized and accepted by the light. If there is even a light we wonder in times like this. The television shows us just the simple fact of victims rotting in a tropical sun -- forget the worldview of Christians which extend hopefully beyond what is and what is being photographed.

Yet I've committed myself to a faith picture and even though I can't imagine much, I do know and appreciate "presence", even a small -p- version of it when it can't be feeled, when it doesn't even have a name, when it slinks about silently.

I'm reading this morning about reciprocal action. What we choose to believe opens our view and experience: Return to me, and I will return to you; Come near to God, and he will come near to you; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him. It's all about opening mind and heart as a beckon to the Presence who promises to make Itself known.

I want to go to Asia and help. I'm jealous of those who can. Yet I send a few dollars that way and try to realize that love is never contained.

May his presence be sought and allowed in this area. Please help those who suffer. Send those who love in safety. Amen

Six nurses

In the Critical Care Unit, six nurses were needed to hold my strong dad down when he woke up in a panic. A breathing tube was down his throat, and also because of his asthma, Dad felt as if he couldn't breathe, so he fought hard even immediately after a quadruple bypass.
My sister couldn't wait to give him those bragging rights afterwards. We're all proud of his strength.
Yet I saw him very weak the next day when they brought him to his recovery room and forced him to hobble to his chair. He looked old and pained. He sat in his chair barely able to hold his head up, barely able to breathe.
We think he's out of the woods now, though, for a while. Actually today, he's going home after being in since Tuesday when he left our family Christmas for the emergency room at St. John's. I went to Springfield on Wednesday when I heard of his open heart surgery. Dad sat in his room making his customary one-line jokes; he had already made fast friends with his roommate and nurses. He was "wow, very funny" says his grand-daughters.
It was all scary, though, the next morning when we hugged, spoke, and waved goodbye to him as he was wheeled away. We've never seen him so vulnerable looking. Then, two uncles, a preacher, two nieces, two siblings, a sister-in-law, and I waited for news. Four hours later, the smiling chaplain said that he was doing well. Thank you, God, for more time with him; a huge prayer over the last year which seemed to intensify this fall along with his heart pains.
Now, my little mother must take him home and make him come to terms with a few changes in diet (he found out that he's now diabetic too) and habits (no driving for six weeks!). It's going to be so hard on her. She's the one who needs supernatural strength now. She's the one who must deal with him and the cows and the unreliable tractor.
I came back from this ordeal a bit changed. I feel like I'm older. I feel like I need to be more responsible both to my own family and to my self as it relates to health issues and practical issues. I have a new endeavor which I must keep confidential which will stretch me in this way. Yes, of course, I want to be a creative airhead every so often! however, if I want to live well and well-rounded (and help my family in this way), the practical side must be learned a bit more than I've given it credit. Yikes!
It's so easy to live disengaged from your family, yet I don't want that to happen on many levels. Therefore, 2005, make me strong, capable of being boring, capable of taking care of others and myself, and help me not become what I'm not supposed to become. Amen.

Christmas 2004

It's Christmas evening, and I love it when we all watch "The Music Man". The music stays with us, so while Cody is in the bathtub singing "The Wells Fargo Wagon", I'm humming "Lida Rose" while folding laundry. My husband is whistling "76 Trombones", and my daughter sings "Good Night My Someone" (or am I imagining her singing this?) down in her bedroom.
The song "Shipoopi" brings back good ole memories of me and kids going crazy in the middle of the living floor in front of the t.v., doing a Buddy Hacket wild dance number. I think there's a family video of that. E and I used to cut the rug together with this crazy joy. I don't do that enough now, slowing down, I guess. Letting the worries creep upon me.

We've had a wonderful stay-at-home day with no visitors. Last night and tomorrow will be extended family times. But, today was very peaceful and pleasant. And, even though I took E out to a friend's house for a little bit, it was a peaceful outing. I drove by the mall and, oh, it was amazing. The parking lot was like one of those old landscape paintings which seem momentarily devoid of anything but serene emptiness. For once, the mall was a sacramental object, testifying to the reason of b.c. and a.d., that division between what was and is.

My hubby ignored my demand for less, but he gave me the typical sweet gifts that he knows I will like despite my scorn of stuff for now, and, of course, I can't wait to use my Ann Taylor gift card when the mall is bustling once again!:)

We had one interesting supra-seeming-natural occurrence. A message sent and received perhaps. During our White Elephant gift exchange, Cody tookover my number, and he ended up with a circular thermometer with a buck leaping in the background, and a t.v. table. C exclaimed that he always wanted a 'mometer'. No one stole it from us. When I took the thermometer out of its package today, I saw an artist's signature. Upon closer inspection, I was surprised to see that it was Cody's grandfather's (who died three years ago in January) name. It was like JW was telling us, especially Cody, Merry Christmas and to not forget him. It was quite cool.

Christmas 2004 ~~ I'm so glad for it. Thank you, God, for the rest and the stop in time and your holy presence. Allow us to sense you better through the new year. Amen.

we conclude

It's Christmas Eve morn, and all through the house,
My kitten is staring at me like I'm a huge mouse.
My green tea is steaming like the Polar Express.
The children are asleep at their 24th day best.
And, I'm, yes, I'm feeling grateful for the longago birth
Although my main concern is my uncomfortable girth.
Too much fudge and pumpkin bread ingested by far.
Yet I need to focus away from my gut to that star.
I need to have a spiritual moment of heighth
when I stare at the baby and reconsider my life.
Yet I'm considering Zoloft instead
and perhaps an institution to give me a bed.
But the cat and I both know that we can't leave this place.
Nor will Mexico offer a longlasting grace.
And so we (I include the kittie in quest for a soul) stall
and we sit and drink tea and consider it all.
And, I conclude first that the birth is the only way
for me to enjoy in full the possibilities of the day.
So, uncomfortably, I look clear up to that star,
where hope, love, peace, pa(u)ws(e) aren't too far.

I am willing

"I am willing," he said. "Be clean!" Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was cured.

Again, a picture of outstretched hands; this time to a supplicant, not a prisoner. Once the skin lesions disappeared, the guy goes and tells everyone, and everyone seeks out the lonely man with a band of fisher-followers. In Henry III's (1017-56) Bible, the man is recognizable with a red helium-like halo circling his head for above-average distinction. (Just so we know that this is Jesus.)

Philip Yancey asks the question in one of his books (I think What's so Amazing About Grace?): would I have thought Jesus was a looney (or ET given the middle age reinditions) if I had lived back then? All historical accounts prove that he walked on our earth, that a strange religion sprung up quickly and couldn't be snuffed out even by some of the more ferocious Romans then or later (Nero, for example). So, the fact that Jesus walked, that there were onlookers in his crowds (sceptics like Thomas for instance), makes me wonder along with Yancey, what my reaction would have been. Yancey puts himself in the Pharisee crowd -- well educated, a definer of a perceived truth, part of a religious elite .... And me? Maybe my mood this a.m. answers that for itself.

I woke up this morning mad at the world and at myself and at my children. If Jesus had a halo illuminating his path in this dark world (saith the middle age artist), then I must have heels of dry ice which stream out vapors and blinding fog. In this fog, I encounter what's here in life. Yes, Francis Schaeffer, all truth is God's truth no matter where it may be found, but in the fog, things pile up like they did on the Missouri river bridge one morning near Boonville. Several people died because they hit the truth of a stopped car in front of them in dense fog.

This morning, I was mad at the environmental, the external. I was mad that I can't sequester my family away to make things less complicated. I was mad that I have no super-shield to block "sexual themes" or "violence" away from my son in video games. I was mad at video games. I was mad at myself for allowing video games. I am mad to be pulled into what is considered entertainment. I am mad at my husband for being a blue-lighter (male in front of tv at night). I am mad that my daughter thinks looks are everything. I am mad that she spends so much time with makeup and hair. I am mad that she wants namebrand clothes. I am mad at myself for allowing her these things. I am mad, I am mad, I am mad. I feel at fault in partnership with the external.

Yes,this is a hostile case of waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

Honestly, it has all been creeping up with this Christmas season. The children want more, and I am fed up with stuff. I set the law down with my hubby last night to limit what he gets me. I do not want more than what costs $20. Yet, by the look on his face, I don't think he will comply because before I wanted more music, more lotion, more books. Dry ice on my heels.

So I'm feeling like I have lesions on my skin. Lesions of the world's stuff and desires and misinterpretations of the good. I feel they've attached themselves very securely to me, here to stay, here to infect my kids, here to filter into my marriage. I've invited them in a way because of lack of viligance against the external.

I'm in such need that perhaps on a morning like this one within a crowd staring at the ordinary non-haloed One, I would have moved to him, fallen on my knees, and asked for an extraordinary thing. Strength. Purity. Lesion removal.

If you are willing, you can make me clean, dear Lord.

I am willing.

Ah, please continue to help us all.

Merci

A float

Seems like each Christmas season, I have an author to catch me in the slower moments in between board games with the kids, cooking, laundry, or mellow moments that this season seems to bring about. Two years ago, Kathleen Norris was around with me, breathing out her story in "The Virgin of Bennington" and "The Cloister Walk" (the thing I most remember from this book is that she said that she inherited her promiscuous nature from her father. Now, that was one exciting revelation in the monastic retreat she was taking, why?, spiritual hits the physical as she lusted over a monk.:) Good dose of reality.
Anyway, last year, I was recovering from teaching and needed to pour over Pearl Buck's "The Good Earth" in order to teach the China unit in January. (Wahoo! Wang Lung for the holidays!)
This year, it's Anne Lamott who pokes her curly head inside my home. I bought her "Bird by Bird", a book on writing, and I'm excited to dive into it. Yes, it will make me swoon and emerge a disgruntled cul-de-sac housewife that my husband can't figure out (what's new?), but, regardless of the fallout, I still love dreaming and imagining the bravery of "official" writing. I remember kicking around in the cow lot, dreaming in the same way (yes, back to the theme of cow crap). So, why not do it when I'm 40? I'm still alive, aren't I?
So, before I read Anne's newest-book-to-me, I wanted to capture a section that she wrote in "Operating Instructions." I love how she writes and what she writes about:

"....I feel so much frustration and rage and self-doubt that it's like a mini-breakdown. I feel like my mind becomes a lake full of ugly fish and big clumps of algae and coral, of feelings and unhappy memories and rehearsals for future difficulties and failures. I paddle around in it like some crazy old dog, and then I remember that there's a float in the middle of the lake and I can swim out to it and lie down in the sun. That float is about being loved, by my friends and by God and even sort of by me. And so I lie there and get warm and dry off, and I guess I get bored or else it is human nature because after a while I jump back into the lake, into all that crap. I guess the solution is just to keep trying to get back to the float." (p216)

I can so identify with all of that. I love that image of a float which exists too in my life, thank God. When I feel like a big failure, I still have my friends. When my children hate me, or want more out of me than I know how to give, I still have God. When I stutter in front of an audience and take on way too much responsibility than I know I should, I can find the float among the crap. When I forget to have my son's tuberculosis test read, I can feel okay, somehow, somewhere, even though I'm totally irresponsible even with a major thing like this. Sigh.
So, thank you, Anne Lamott, for being my writer friend during the holidays. I'm definitely going to do you a huge favor and add you to my favorite writer's list in my profile. :)
For now, I am going to float on off. Maybe play Battleship with Cody. Maybe read a bit more. Maybe call my momma. The night is going slowly by, but I'm in good company.

Au revoir,
Fieldfleur

A middle-aged German comments

An illumination from an 11th -century German book says it all. A man with a green and gold circular head-halo extends long unearthly fingers toward a lesser dressed humped down man who is being held back from running away. A kindly looking man with gray hair and beard holds his arms and shackled hands.
The captive's mouth emits a horrifying form: a middle ages version of the daimon. With three brown erratic points on its head, frail wings, thick body, fingers spreading outward in clutch, the creature's lower fourth is still streaming out of its victim's mouth.
Stop. I can almost feel the choking myself when I look at this picture. I feel it more than the image of divinity pronouncing power and release. My emotions kind-of go back to a dream in which I have an inner something that I desire to pull out and out and out. I've had multiple dreams in which I'm trying to pull it out, to get rid of it. It's like a huge block of phlegm, like a curse, like this clutching daimon I see spewing forth from this man.
Unsettling.
At times, I think I've identified what it is: the destructive nature inside us all, the negative side of the personality (the id, the superego?), my shortcomings I struggle with, a desire for words ...
Yet as I look at this picture today, I, of course, probably out-of-context (although do most things not relate?), think of last night.
He was coughing as lay sleeping on the blue couch. The phlegm seems to be getting thicker. I imagined him not waking up in the morning because of the lungs freezing with congestion. And, I thought, "Am I crazy? He has cystic fibrosis, and I'm trying to deny it like ... Not my son. The doctors don't know what the hell they're talking about, etc, etc." Meanwhile, he isn't receiving treatments until we know more.
I went to coffee with a molecular microbiologist scientist yesterday, and as I told her Cody's issues and how it couldn't be cystic fibrosis because of the genetic absence of the disease, she said that "cell mutations" in the blood happen on a rare basis and can cause CF without prior family history.
And so I hear Cody's cry from Tuesday, why me, Mom? Why do I have so much wrong with me?
Denial is a type of coping with 'wrongness'.
And, so the man spews forth the wrongness in this early German picture. And, I can't help myself: I must take in the whole view, that a rescue mission was sent to ward off primordial beasts. My son coughs in sickness amidst them, yet, if they exist, there's the opposite.
I look at the puffy eyed version of Christ with extending fingers, the presented opposite. It's a bit of a frail view, given the artist's attempt, and my subjective rendering. Yet when I cover Jesus with a toy (laying messily by me), the picture is ominous. When I cover up the beast-emitting man, the picture is comforting as the Jesus reaches out toward a need.
What is the whole picture in my present circumstance? I simply ask to see beyond my limited view.

Whisker marks?

Midnight approaches, and my question sounds out: How in the world do I stack these cut-out sugar cookies on top of one another without messing up their icing? The Christmas trees might smudge into the ice cream cones to make some odd laxative brown run-off.
Tomorrow, I present the cookies to the fourth grade class as "Cody's Mom". He won't let me just drop them off at the office (I asked). No, I have to serve them with a special smile because I am his mom on his birthday, showing up to show Sara and Justin and Billy that I am wearing a special smile because of the rockin' cookies that I have spent the last five hours arranging for my awesome son's special birthday celebration.
However, they still sit on the table, scattered chaotically, and their store-bought icing is not hardening into a shell. Hmmmm........... It's suprising that the kitten hasn't left whisker marks upon some of them like she did my pumpkin pie.

The day has been problematic, though, with solutions still around the corner. We went to the pulmonary doctor's office at 8:30. A large medical technologists came slumping in around 9:00 to do yet another sweat chloride test. The doctor and I explored the possibilities of the chronic cough
.... histoplasmosis
.... cystic fibrosis
.... pneumonitis
.... unknown
Cody bravely coughed up into a cup, received a t.b. poke, breathed with his finger in a respiratory machine. Then we went to the hospital next door for a cat-scan on his lungs and some blood drawing. The sweat chloride test came back positive for cystic fibrosis. My pediatrian told me, yet it must be a positive negative, I said. The numbers from the three tests were too erratic: 25, 54, 84; the 54 and 84 were one week apart. The doctor(s) told me that it was abnormal, yet they weren't sure about the conclusion. So, a blood test wings its way to California for more diagnosis, for a closer look at genetics.
I don't believe it.
The pulmonologist called and said that there wasn't much evidence from the cat scan for the histoplasmosis afterall.
We're waiting. More information will come on Friday (the sputum results will be back), and in 3-4 weeks with the CF conclusive blood test.
Cody made the pediatric-short-stay nurses laugh; he told his jokes; he told them about his 'crush.' He mentioned his 'stubborn teenager sister.' He was about to tell them about his dad's recent bad words, but I managed to cut him off in time. The nurses were laughing. The afternoon passed with images of Cody flashing a big smile and wild, bright eyes.
The hospital hallways were full and quiet, though; people loped toward the sick. Finally, at 3:30 p.m., we escaped to make Christmas cookies as if nothing had ever happened outside of our kitchen before.
Bien nuit,
Mere du Cody

risenness

Living in the awareness of the risen Jesus is not a trivial pursuit for the bored and lonely or a defense mechanism enabling us to cope with the stress and sorrow of life. It is the key that unlocks the door to grasping the meaning of existence.
Brennan Manning

Cowchip tea

The technician said that he grew up on a farm close to Monroe, Louisiana. They had cows, and, if one of her grandchildren was sick, Grandma would try to give them "cowchip tea." Isn't that funny after smelling my Ginseng tea earlier and commenting that it smelled like the barnyard? Cowchip tea is still alive and well.
We've been under the study of needletips and technicians from Louisiana lately. My son had a CF test which came back borderline. He has stuff in his lungs which a pulmonologist will look at on Tuesday.
I think my worldview has these components in them right now: 1) things shift, people shift; 2) be strong and weak at the same time; 3) rely upon something, but depend upon nothing 4) next week might give you additional information.

Therefore, I head off to a retreat this weekend to find some equation with these disjointed paradoxes. Needed.

Stay out for awhile, please

It has been a long time since writing. The week has flown by with its share of holes and heavens (okay, the word 'heavens' is a stretch whereas 'holes' isn't:).
The funeral happened. Grandma didn't look good in mortician death; I kept my eyes on her white puffy hair (done one last time by my aunt) and her lovely long-fingered hands. All the cousins were there, and all knew by the faces how much Grandma had measured her years, through care, devotion, love.
My eulogy went fine. I'm used to public speaking. However, so many other things popped in my feeble mind later that I should have said. Yet I felt glad to have been able to express my love for her.
The trip to the cemetery was wet and cold. The tent was up; water dripped all over the back of my sister-in-law's hair; the brightest thing was the white coffin, with pinkish red roses in design on it. I wanted to touch it before it was interred, so I did. The preacher finished up quickly, and we left with a few more hugs. Grandma didn't want it to be "Brrrrr!' for us at her funeral, but it was. I'll have to visit in the spring and plant flowers instead of picking her up for our birthday plant trip.
All in all, we were resigned to the good life and ending of our Grandmother.
Yet I did have my moments of wanting to block God from entering our doorway again. "Stay out!", I imagined saying to him angrily, especially where it concerns my dad whose heart is acting up again. Stay out, please God. Although you are not the creator of death, you are the creator of life and responsible for all that it could possibly entail. So, please wait awhile before the carriage (as Emily D. poeticizes) shows up to carry one of us to Eternity. Please.
The rest of the week has been a blur --- ministry moments, mother/daughter crisis (currently ending), emergency interesting casserole with kitchen madness galore, nice talks with friends, appreciation of husband, cleaning, reading, a few seconds of introspection. Life.
Well, Christmas season encroaches. It feels harried already. Now to slow down, now to slow down if possible.
Until next time,
Love,
Fieldfleur