What Philosopher Are You?

Click here to open a new Ethical Philosophy Selector page.

My Results:
1.
Kant (100%) Click here for info
2.
St. Augustine (96%) Click here for info
3.
John Stuart Mill (95%) Click here for info
4.
Jeremy Bentham (91%) Click here for info
5.
Aquinas (80%) Click here for info
6.
Spinoza (79%) Click here for info
7.
Plato (77%) Click here for info
8.
Prescriptivism (75%) Click here for info
9.
Epicureans (58%) Click here for info
10.
Nel Noddings (58%) Click here for info
11.
Ockham (58%) Click here for info
12.
Ayn Rand (53%) Click here for info
13.
Jean-Paul Sartre (53%) Click here for info
14.
Aristotle (40%) Click here for info
15.
Stoics (40%) Click here for info
16.
Cynics (29%) Click here for info
17.
Nietzsche (19%) Click here for info
18.
David Hume (14%) Click here for info
19.
Thomas Hobbes (4%) Click here for info

This picture was supposed to be last in the lineup. It shows the aftereffects of Cody's racing-around-the-house jamboree, which we did at my mother-in-law's. We had obstacles and everything to race around. I was definitely concerned with my mom-in-law's friend as he lay panting on the bench afterwards. Unfortunately, he could never tell Cody no. :)
Cody and I are off!


Cody still (always!) has energy after the race.

Hollyhock heaven

Down on the crop farm at my mother-in-law's, the hollyhocks seem to be in love! Cody and I had a most relaxing time, being fed by the doting older mother, looking through old pictures at old Lutherans who once walked across the same land. More pictures are to come.

Inner Flips

Before the disappearance, Meg still had her self-doubts, which she could express to her dad who promised her his presence. After he left, the self-doubts doubled and she incriminated herself left and right in a gloomy situation at school, at home.

Cody and I watched "A Wrinkle in Time" yesterday afternoon, which captured his attention, his own struggles of self-doubt and sense of adventure. I was pleased to be asked to push the stop button many times as we discussed what was going on. Much of it was over his head without explanation, yet he did get the allegory on his own.

"Why is she believing lies about herself, Mom?"

"Well, you often tell me that you are ugly and stupid and no one likes you. Do you think that's the truth or do you think you're believing lies?"

Long thoughtful pause. "I think they're lies. You like me at least."

Major breakthrough for him. Inside cartwheels.

We talked about lies, self-deception, and the movie helped us call up the rightful image that we are soldiers of and for the light. We're like the poor hobbits, or the insecure Meg, who want to fight against the dark, dark forces so they don't evelope us or those we love or even the world. I think that's one of the reasons I like Christianity: it's a noble side to be upon if we believe that Christ is light and love, spreading, dispelling, hoping, daring, around us and through us. I was also reminded in the movie about the call to love ourselves and to fight against those forces that tell us we should do otherwise. We are his beloved afterall.

Such truths need to be encountered time and time again. Thank you, Madeline L'Engle, for a most remindful afternoon.

A garden tour

A favorite daylily of mine!
Two of my faves: Stokes Aster and Monarda (Bee Balm)
Russian sage and an asiatic lily
Cody loves lilies! This is one in his garden. Lots of big beautiful blooms!
Loosestrife has taken over one bed; however, the look could be worse.:)

Hope you enjoyed our summer garden tour!

Go Mom Go!

She had two big bowls of homemade ice cream the night before and went to bed miserable. Nonetheless at 6:45, we drove out to the park where we saw many gray-haired, muscular men and women stretching preparing for the Missouri Senior Games 5K.

It's always inspiring to see how toned and determined these athletes are. Along with the bodily difference, there's a universal positive attitude they seem to share. I stood with my 60some year old local friend and we cheered them on. Mom came gliding past, focused, gritty, daring the ice cream to disrupt her gait. The winning male, probably in his early 50's, crossed at 19:50 and would've been faster had he not fallen along the way.

Mom finished at 35:00 minutes which seems to be her usual. Dottie, the 81 year old, was not far behind.

After the 5K, we went to the track where Mom and I hung out all day, making wonderful new friends, gasping at how fast these Seniors are, becoming inspired. She collected five medals, three gold and two silver in her as-usual unassuming way. Dottie, looking cute in her sports bra, competed in almost every event. She was adorable.

Here are some pictures, showcasing these never-say-never amazing seniors! My mom is the little petite one in the torquoise shorts and white tank.

Lord, help me to rest a while in the
cooling shade of your presence.
Slow down my restless heart and
fill me with gentle compassion for
all your people. Amen.

Prayer for Summer

The above faith-thought-prayer is from beliefnet.com which delivers scripture and prayers to your inbox daily if you'd like. I just discovered this site not too long ago; it's interesting to go and see how people receive their sole or some of their faith community from virtuality. The church is supposedly changing in these so-called post-modern times. Did anyone see the Cowboy church on NBC nightly news the other night? The reporting journalist called it a "barn again" movement. Yep, wear your spurs, hat, and Wrangler's and praise the Lord. Although I like liturgy, I find these types of expressions to be refreshing too. Wherever it takes.

NightLight in Bangkok

Last year at exactly this time, we were in Europe with my daughter's public school group on a memorable, exhilerating trip. We hopped from England to France to Switzerland to Germany to Amsterdam. Somewhere in Germany, word got around to the parents on the bus that the teachers and a couple of their accompanying friends wanted to form a group to go out on the town in Amsterdam. Specifically, they wanted to attend an XXX show and were fielding interest in order to organize it. Yes, teachers, ahem (post-curfew, the 32 students would be chaperoned by one left-behind parent).

My fellow parent traveler friend, a liberal Jewish widow, and I discussed, on a fountain ledge in Mannheim, Germany, town center, whether we would attend or not. He was leaning towards going as an intellectual observer, to experience the culture in order to know the culture. He would not be titillated, he said, (he had already experienced such a place in Thailand six months earlier) but the experience would just be "interesting" as Amsterdam culture is known for such things. If you go to Vegas, you experience gambling, etc. In real American life, my trustworthy friend practices compassion, justice, responsibility, and dedication to his family and girlfriend. Throughout the trip, we had been discussing democratic and religious ideals, and I, of course, was a Christian representative who had been trying to convince him that we weren't all Pat Robertson-ites (a common misconception outside the fold).

Anyway, he said that he thought he would go to the show, and I gulped, always susceptible to approval and social needs (which has increased as I've aged strangely enough!). Ever since hearing about it, though, my Grandma Cora of the Ozarks kept appearing in my mind as a model of behavior. My sweet grandmother would never darken the doorway of such a place. I could hear her loving example deep inside of me. If that wasn't enough, I've always been deeply disturbed by sexual abuse and violence against women. There was never really a question in my mind.

To go would be to support exploitation, I told him, which we discussed, and he agreed that he probably wouldn't feel good about going. It was kind of weird, though, to be faced with this moral filtering there and to realize that in the name of tourism, even the more moderate American can contribute casually to a harmful, evil, oppressive industry. I was dismayed that the teachers even would consider this. As it turned out, more parents vetoed it, and the secret late night outing was cancelled. However, one of the parent travelers and I did go on a secret outing from our hotel in Harleem in Amsterdam. We walked over to Corrie ten Boom's house about 10 blocks away! Wow! Hero of the faith, for sure, a much better substitute!

All of this to lead, dear reader, to a website, I discovered tonight, of a ministry to help girls and women who find themselves in the sex trade/prostitution circles in Bangkok. It has some sad statistics of this horrible problem, as well as some hopeful stories on how God can work to remedy deep scars. There's also a link to jewelry which these 'recovered' women make to support their life away from prostitution. I'm never going to buy jewelry from department stores again! This is the hope-inspiring link:

http://www.nightlightbangkok.com/index.htm

The small summer things in life are happening at the moment which don't seem too word-dependent (my excuse for not writing too much). I mean do you really want to know what it was like at the pool for us? Within the time, there are moments for me, as mother, to remember and to hold (Cody finally getting the nerve to jump in five feet water, yet clinging to my neck until we reached the side safely. At 11, he's making small steps still which is good. Me doing a cannonball quickly-subtly in order to show him, and then he saying loudly "I love you, Mom, for being the only mother here who can do a cannonball!" So much for big momma splash under the radar. :)

Daughter summer things are happening too. We had to crack down on her; all the neighbors saw her car parked in the "grounded" spot on the cul-de-sac (her prom dress wadded up in the back seat??0). But, she didn't run. She kept her cool enough to earn her privileges back this time. We just went out to lunch, talking and laughing as old. This feels good for the moment.

My husband and I are planning for some vacation. We cut down a tree together. We do our typical walks and talk-throughs together. One night, I moaned all that needed moaning out of me, and the next morning it was gone. I'm so glad God made marriages and good men.

Spirituality is a recurring thought too. I'm reading a wonderful book on mysticism called "Wonderful and Dark is this Road: Discovering the Mystic Path" by a Catholic writer named Emilie Griffin. I have lost track of this deeper aspect of spirituality, because I've been increasingly migrating toward the shallow (to be honest) and toward the responsibilities of homemaking/parenting (which isn't bad and spiritual awareness can be fully engaged in the day-to-day, but I haven't yet realized how to do this well). I also read "Reallivepreacher.com" -- which is blogger Gordon Atkinson's book (it was on a 90% sale shelf!), and it is wonderful. I laughed and cried and walked away feeling ministered to at a time when I needed it. I also read Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" which only makes me spiritually exclaim, "Pray before eating that beef/pork/chicken!" And, I thank God with more appreciation for the development of labor laws.

That's my summer in a not-so-nutshell. If you are still reading this (!) and would love to tell me what you're reading, please do. Would love to hear!

I just went to see "Prairie Home Companion" with a couple of friends. We went to the cozy theater in town with the couches and wine, if you choose, where one sees lots of leftie looking older couples, perhaps University workers or teachers.

I was excited to see the movie because nothing soothes my mind more than slipping a Garrison Keillor recorded show in the dvd player and sitting back to just listen and breathe, listen to breathe, until I'm laughing with the breath and happy to be part of this messed up comical group of humans while we're here together before death and judgment.

Anyway, in the movie, the music was great ~~ old timey, interspersed with songs of faith in Jesus. The dialogue was decent in parts; the theme of death interjected into the light moments of laughter. There were some multi-layered things happening in the storyline which held interest.

But, I don't know, I wasn't swept away; it didn't strike at me on a personal level the way that I hoped. Should all movies do that to be called a success to oneself? So often we place that into movies because movies are supposedly a zone of transference, where we become changed, where we realize that we've been moved emotionally/intellectually/spiritually into a new realm. Ah sad to say (or perhaps it's a sign of progression?) that's not happening too much to me anymore. Many movies seem to be like an artificial room to me. They are full of scenes that aren't held together by strong enough walls. Full of people who are just strangers recreating play. It's just if I go to a movie, I want to enter in and find something that speaks truth (and the next movie slated then would be "An Inconvenient Truth":) to me of something greater at work, although PHC had some elements of this.

Searching for truth in a movie is often fraught with grass-lined holes anyway. There's just variations at work that don't necessarily reflect where my search for truth has gone and is still going. We'll see .. it's just an interesting (to me) discovery to not be swept in like I used to be.

My friends really enjoyed the movie, though!

In the last hour or two, my friends just learned that their 20something year old son was killed in a car accident. They must be feeling such depths of sorrow at the moment. Heavy sadness.

Faith is such a funny thing at times. In times like this, I can imagine that the presence of faith causes both intense comfort and agony. Comfort in being held by God. Comfort in knowing others who can share your pain through prayers and caretaking. Comfort in the cross model of sacrifice. Agony in that your precious child was not protected by benevolence. Agony in that you've tried to lead a godly life for what seems like for naught now. Agony that, in the future, you will not watch your child grow, while others will have theirs, when you want yours very badly. Sorrow at intense loss.

Father, I pray for this family that you may carry them firmly into grief and comfort their hearts. Amen.

I'm living in the exhuberance of the day. Next year, after the move, I'll have precisely zero friends (not counting my husband) so today I gathered up some friends for my birthday lunch. Twelve were able to come, and it was wonderful to bring together my church friends with my bookclub friends and to just realize how special each one of them is as a human being. I'm quite blessed and humbled and don't know how all of these people materialized to become dear to me, and, more confusing, me to them. A true gift from the Master of relationships himself. Anyway, I'm all abuzz with gratefulness and more prepared for another year.

You Belong in Paris

You enjoy all that life has to offer, and you can appreciate the fine tastes and sites of Paris. You're the perfect person to wander the streets of Paris aimlessly, enjoying architecture and a crepe.

What European City Do You Belong In?

In looking over at Dawn's and Becky's site, I see such beautiful interesting photos of their homeschooling adventures. Today, I could have taken a picture of cornstarch quicksand in Cody's hand, transforming in a split second from a solid to a liquid (how fun!). Or the walk we went on where we encountered once again our old moved-out cat. Perhaps I could have taken a photo of my daughter dutifully washing the car and the van as return payment for a loan. Or, the cheery yarrow in one of the back beds.
But no! I didn't because of our canoe trip last Friday back home in which we personally met a rock at Horseshoe Falls on the North Fork. Cody, in the middle, screamed the whole way over into the river and then clawed at me, dunked me under, and pulled my bathing suit top down in his panic. And, I was worried about him. Finally, I yelled like a sailor at him to stand up in the thigh deep water and walk toward the bank.
Meanwhile ... the tackle box which held my camera demonstrated why it only cost $4.99 at Wal-Mart. We opened it up, the flood and lures poured out. I was hoping the camera would dry out and work, but it's taking any excuse to retire.
No pictures for a while as E-bay is happily receiving my hits for a replacement.
Cody has also decided to retire from canoing. At the end of our float, he said, "O Lord, thank you that this trip is over."
:)

At the first taste of Billie's gooseberry cobbler, I felt that I belonged there in that dining room. My little shy mother was by my side; an oak china hutch clucked silently against the wall, tending her floral patterns in a row. Across from me, Billie's down syndrome daughter happily smacked her helping of four different desserts. The nearby kitchen table held the earlier-arriving women who were chattering about alfalfa, husbands, remedies.

I shudder even now to think about the fullness of the moment. When I was younger, I mourned such moments because they were so full in depth, but such a sliver in time. Now a shudder happens, which in a way, I don't wish to even explore because it will confront the terminal aspect of these times. I always wish to be sitting by my mother; I always wish to recall my grandmother at the same meetings, gazing upon some floral pattern, eating sweets, chattering happily amongst friends at the Homemaker's Club in Douglas County.

Since the 40's, these rural women have been meeting in the same way. They conduct under the structure of Robert's Rules of Order. They call the meeting to order; they recite their creed about being a "tranquil and serene woman" (among other precious noble character traits); they ask for minutes of the last meeting; the treasure's report; old and new business. This is what these ladies did at Club in my presence, granddaughter of one of the initial members, when I excitedly accompanied my mother to my first meeting.

And, my last.

Fifteen minutes after new business, sixty years after inception, the good ladies of Douglas County voted to disband. Yes! Right there and then, they quickly dialogued and decided, some with heavy hearts, to say Aye to disbandment. There were good reasons (lack of interest from the young women; waning of original need for being of help to the community; not being prepared; losing members) they claimed for their decision.

My heart was beating quickly. I felt like crying for the loss of a concept that somewhere out there, in my home country, women were still proclaiming themselves as homemakers with a mission to one another. Well, it was over. Mom consoled me on the bumpy dirt ride back since I took it harder than anyone there (she said); we decided to stop by the cemetery and visit Grandma's grave, and I asked her if she was going to tell her. She laughed which helped me stop imagining my wailing upon the cold grave ground like a trench war orphan. Mom is excellent at perspective. I have so much to learn from her still.

It became fine after awhile. We walked and looked at Grandma's Memorial day flowers left there by her loving family Club who will never vote to disband. We visited her mother's grave, her father's father's grave. Cousins. The twelve year old son who died of influenza.

The earthly organizations never endure, the eternal ones hold their promise to the pledged.

Resounding hills

Dad broke his thumb in two places. Because I was around him this past week, I heard him retell the story over and over again (you don't want to hear it) to the concerned. Of course, his stories are told with a mischievous light in his eyes, which makes the story less of pain, than one of ironic triumph. The victory occured an hour later when he played his banjo at a country restaurant and sounded "new and improved".

We were supposed to go jam together with other men at an old RV park. He loaded up his instrument, and I threw in my guitar. We drove about 40 minutes down windy, hilly backroad blacktops, speculating on whether there'd be any sign of life once we finally made it there. Sure enough, we spotted a few campers; we drove in and saw four or five men staring down at the inside of someone's pickup truck. Their legs were propped up on the tires and bumpers. Women have tables, country men have trucks for congregation.

I tried to fit in, but I couldn't talk their talk at all. So, I grinned at their typical Ozarkian one-liners as they jabbed at whatever the other one said. Finally the men deemed that it was time to make a chair circle and get lost in the tunes. Dad decided he couldn't play, and so there I was in the middle of these strange guys who could pluck their strings like angels. While the bug zapper was exploding behind me, somehow I got up the courage to play and sing "Brown Mountain Light" right off the bat. They nodded approvingly at me, and the next guy lead off. I was in.

One old man who barely spoke or moved and looked yellowish with liver issues had an exquisite Gibson banjo on his lap. A boy player explained to me that the old man's banjo is the one heard in the movie "Deliverance".

There we sat, grinning men with hands meticulously flashing, an old fiddler with an oxygen tank, one savant boy banjoist, the Deliverance banjo on the lap of a man who looked like he could die before the morning was up, my dad with a songbook, an occassional wife who scurried over to play the bass when the mood struck her, and me, a brownhaired Ozarkian turned city girl -- there we sat in the night among the trees, calling up the musicians of old, retelling the lyrical stories of the hills. Rare sight, rare sounds, rare gift I won't forget.

The next day, a man called my dad and told him to bring me back. Two days later, I saw the boy and his dad at the country store; we talked like buddies. The dad encouraged my husband to start playing too since he has a wife with a "purty voice".

While I'm home in the hills, it's like being another person for a while. Someone with a purty voice, which I don't have here in my town. Strange.

Well, Dad's thumb hurt him more and more as the week went by. We never went back to play music at the old RV park. Those boys, though, have plans to get a regular festival revived there, and it may be in a week or two. Not long to wait for those who need their regular fix of it. I hope the old yellowish man makes it. He sure could make that banjo ring out into the quiet, dark, wooded, hilly night.

Today Cody and I attempted to learn about some of the ancient civilizations in Central America. I had grabbed Susan Wise Bauer's wonderful book "The Story of the World" and plopped outside in a chair while he sat on the sidewalk watching the ants. Of course, it was funny when a roly-poly scurried by, elephant to the antmen. We had to break to watch him humph on by the undistracted skilled workers of the city, carrying material for their mounds. We made it back to the book; I think Cody heard about the huge mysterious drawings in Peru. I retrieved a globe inside and found Cody still bent over the ants. We moved on the porch, and then the discussion went all over the world as the topographical globe was felt. We finally returned to the Olmecs and the huge mounds of dirt that were built basketful by basketful to form a pyramid temple ... like the Egyptians whom they had no contact with, they built the same form to connect to the heavens. I tried to discuss the connection. Maybe he got it. Maybe it takes much more context. I realize now, though, that I failed to use the most fitting metaphor at hand: the ants! How are we like them and how have we not been like them? What would we think if one group of ants in Missouri built a monument that resembled the West Virginian ants' monument? What if this monument served a purpose unrelated to food and shelter? Perhaps this discussion would lead to other places, places with huge questions but no sanctified answers?

I do love learning alongside my son!

Humidity has hit. I've started substituting a bike ride for running some days. The bike takes me farther away quicker, which I like. It takes me down our city trail to a city lake where I like to sit on Helen's memorial bench and pray and watch the geese swim and watch the dogs splash into the water after a thrown stick. It's so peaceful there. My friend knows Helen's husband, goes to lunch occassionally. He related the story of Helen being a swimming enthusiast. She must of been drawn to the water. I like to think of Helen as having similar motherly concerns in her lifetime -- the concerns which I'm usually thinking about. Yesterday I was at once full of gratitude because my daughter was back and full of anxiety about how we would have the hard talks (or the easy laughs) again. God reassures, though. I also deposited the thoughts of my son's autism spectrum issues. His public school class "graduated" fifth grade last night, and so, although I'm extremely pleased with homeschooling and love it for him, benchtime helped me grieve the losses and challenges that my son faces and has faced. Afterwards, I always stand up feeling refreshed and strengthened again, capable of pushing down on the pedals towards the tough, tough hill I must overcome before I whiz into my cul-de-sac. I'm glad it's the humid time of year again; I believe I needed it.

Thanks for all your prayers ... as of today, she's back! And, after multiple Oreos and sit down chatting, we just got back from a late night jog in the cool beautiful honeysuckle-full night. I love having my girl back. We've always enjoyed each other's company during our times of peace. I know peace is elusive ... when we begin talking about responsibilities, expectations, some curtailment when needed, she becomes ... unpredictable. I'm not sure she's back to stay because something may set her off again, and she'll be gone. But for now, my daughter is home, andthis in itself is a blessed gift. Divine father&mother, please release us to love. Amen.

Having reeled and stumbled from Chico's per my last post, I now can think about more substantial things in life. I'm going to think along the lines which will make me peer down at my french manicured fingernails and toenails, which lie glamorously below this hotel sofa table. Lie glamorously. That's funny!

My friend and I made an appointment for fingers and toes last week. I was a virgin. No lady had ever touched me before in that manner. I had a standard of natural beautiness and non-grating nail sensationalism. But I wanted to spend time with my friend and so there I was with my feet in scalding water. A lady with a chisel awaited in the corner.

My friend was an eager Christian teen before she married a Jew and became active in their synagogue. She's a wonderful, wonderful person ... authentic with a laugh that envelops you and makes you sense sorrow and joy and perception all together. We both went through a lonely phase when we weren't working, and we would get together and sing "Coal Miner's daughter" at my house. Don't all lonely people do that? She then began work, and I would see her occassionally at book club meetings.

We chatted and relaxed during the procedure. She laughed, and I did my usual whatever-strangely-endears-me-to-her bit (still not sure what that is although she's been trying to spell it out lately in her writing, bizarre!). It wasn't too bad really. My nails turned out oval and elegant and the clear polish won't supposedly turn my nails yellow in the long run.

Afterwards, we went into a small restaurant and had the conversation we were supposed to have. About our daughters. Two purposeful mothers with trunks of love spurned by surprise in various unpleasant ways. I was the first person she's shared all this pain with she said. I was honored in that we could even approach such honesty with each other. I would not be judged (or 'discerned' by her as sometimes our language of judgment goes) or advised or rebuked. I was just one other Mom whose small girl had been enveloped by some cracks.

Happily, her daughter hit hard times and returned. They are reading books again together. She's hugging her good mom again.

Hope is potent, and sharing is healing. Our talk gave me both, not to mention the beautiful nails which type glamorously these days as I wait during these essential times.

It's a curiosity to be sure. Every time I enter a Chico, I see lots of women excitedly pulling clothes off the rack. I think to myself ~~ well, maybe I have a shot of liking something here now. They're obviously going at it. I begin at the front and see a layered t-shirt which I just bypassed at Dress Barn for $12.00. Chico's wants $34.00. Then, I pull out a shirt which has a layer of buttons, then ribbons, then crepe of some sort, in a lavender fuschia orange coloration blend. And, they want $98 for this? I look back at the women, chattering happily to their girlfriends who they've brought. Perhaps they're excited about the clearance racks there. Yet clearance prices are still in the $50 range, and the whole blotch of colors and various materials make me swoon insipid once more. In Chico's, I am insipid. I head for the door defeated once more by the bright women who are actually purchasing. I need to be home in my garden, dirty and happy ... and bright in the natural sunlight. I should have known better!

As I'm waiting for my husband today, I feel the weight of the dismal shopper. Materialism heavily ensnares. We women continually wish to look good. It always interests me to look at the empty, searching faces that are in the same aisles as me. Mine is no exception.

Dear Lord, allow life's purposes to be more substantial than the rack, the bag, the meaningless unnecessary item. I need detanglement as well.

I'm exhausted; my eyes are spinning; Arkansas road signs twirl in my brain.

Today while hubby works, I am exploring, like a muskrat, for a future home. It's frightening to think that next year at this time we will become residents. We're searching for a home on acreage, yet as I went towards the smaller towns and land north of Little Rock, I am wondering how the adjustment will be. I'm quite used to being mere minutes away from friends, coffeeshops, the anonymity of a larger town. Yes, Cody and I may have a little farm for our pets and garden and perhaps a horse or two, but how can we adjust to the loneliness? This is going to be hard for me, I'll admit.

I stopped at stores along the way and talked to the proprietors. One beamed about the fishing in town. One praised the atmosphere of a dry county. A couple of them liked their school system. A roadside interestate sign encouraged me to turn in fellow litterers. A young realtor guy promised to send me photos of homes and land.

Can Arkansas really be happening to us?!

Once I went to a hosta society meeting way out in the hills of the Ozarks. I went with Fay Coble who breathed the phrase "flowersarelifetome" as she shoveled mulch out of her truck when she was 84 years old. Here's one of the hostas from our time together. I miss her influence. She's gardening in heaven now

This is Cody's garden that we sliced out of the grass two years ago. The highlight right now is the cornflower/bachelor buttons which are tres impressionistic with their silvery feathery leaf and rose and lavender flowers. I love how they self-seed. He loves the asiatic lilies too, particularly the red or powerful orange ones. A friesland salvia loyally adorns any first garden. What happened to the perennial geranium that he planted? The boy does love flowers which makes my heart patterful.

Here's another look at the peony profusions.

The peony. What more can be said? I once read an entire book on peonies even though I did not care for biology one bit in school (strange that one of my fave magazine's is now National Geographic!). Botany is different, though. I've lost the name on this peony, but it looks like the Belleville described and shown here on the Heartland Peony Society page. I've seen many of these in people's yards. Do you have one too? I think I could live life for the peony (created by God to glorify him of course!). Ah, beauty.

For some odd reason, I was in a citrus mood when I shopped for the front of the house annual splash of color plants. Orange celosias?! What was I thinking? I'm rather a rose/lavender/impressionistic blend girl myself. But, here they are shooting up like torches of righteousness. You might be able to see a yellow rose just beyond and above the daffodil foilage. I planted two yellow antique rose bushes. Yellow and orange: I need to take my vitamin C for my deficiency, methinks!

"Blaze" climbing rose sears herself against an ugly concrete retaining wall. I'm so grateful! She's also lovely in any vase with a spiral of indigo next to her.

This is my abundance bed: everything is smashed in together, except for a bit of room at the border for bedding plants. I'm a collector, what can I say!

My last post about dresses was way too depressing, so I'm turning towards flowers for more cheer. I'll be posting more pictures for a walk around my garden. The above will start us off well. False indigo is one of my flavorite plants. It gets about 2.5 feet high, has lovely flat bright green leaves, and clumps in a nice form. In the fall, it sports black seed pods which can be used in dried flower arrangements. The blue flowers that are pictured are lovely-lovely in a flower bouquet.

I've spent the night going through stacks of clothing in my daughter's room. My widowed friend has a motherless daughter who is growing and could use some. My daughter has lots of too small ones.

She always has had a sense of style, much more than me. I dressed much differently as a teenager; she's always had such body comfort, whereas I was awkward with all the rumbling and sprouting below. I envy her this in a way. Yet as a mother, still uncomfortable with showing cleavage (I even tried one time during a romantic dinner out with my husband. We kept laughing at how I self-consciously kept pulling my shirt together. Geez!), I've always had the sense of discomfort when seeing her being so bold, even though I admired her beauty. Yes, I think our symbolic differences with dress and modesty impacted the relationship we don't have today.

Yet as I went through her closet, I kept remembering our shared female delight of pretty things like skirts, shoes, ribboned shirts. I remember, for a formal business get-together, trying on fancy dresses. My daughter was right in the dressing room with me, trying on women's dresses whose necklines plunged down past her little girl belly. She was in heaven, prancing around in the grown up beauty gear. She always wanted to be fancy.

She told me two days ago while at the front door that she won't be going to prom afterall. Her dress cannot be altered soon enough for Saturday night. It's a neck-plunging number which made me again think of our differences when I saw it. She looked sad, and so did I, but dresses never lie. That same dress was crumpled up on her closet floor a week after she bought it ~~ a valuable thing tossed aside. What has happened to the small girl smiling up at me, twirling around in her gown, trusting me with her dreams? I tried not to betray them, yet other factors have stepped into the changing room with us. This princess-ball prom won't happen this year for her.

I think my friend's daughter will like some of these clothes. She's a wonderful girl, and I keep thinking of how she will have fun going through the sacks. She's a big t-shirt dresser, though, an athlete, more like I was as a kid. Tomorrow, my son and I will deposit the clothes on their front porch. May she dig in with a tempered glee.

It has been a purging night. I think God is allowing the feelings again for which I'm thankful. Maybe He's allowing them for her too.

She beckons us to burn and offers us roast for remuneration.

Yup, on the crop farm today with my mother-in-law who had sticks for us to pick and toss into a roaring inferno in the ditch. Yup, I wore my overalls and old running shoes, and my mom-in-law guessed correctly that I was dressed for haulin'. She likes to point and sharply yap and bustle about the place, making tidy and decrying bedlam, dandelions, sticks, lazies. She has fake red hair, and stalks about on thick strong legs like Godzilla at home for the weekend yard drill (?). Yup, she sets a solid table, though, and we ate and ate like we bucked bails for years on horse drawn wagons. I think I have some new blisters. I'm not so muscular as those old timey men were. Right now, Mom-in-law's yard is likely shimmering in the Missouri river bottom moonlight. In her categorized fields, the little wee forked corn pokes upward searching for orderliness in order to grow straightlaced. They smile all together. Mom-in-law is rocking in her normal rocker before jumping up to do one last self-assignment before collapse. All is well.

Don't tell anyone in her county, but for Mother's Day, I've a self-mission to undertake the purchase of a delightful bird bath for her. She can haul it (or direct one of her men to haul it) outside her bay window, and she can waste a few minutes each morning in luxurious mesmerization as the little birds play and splash. Perhaps she'll spy in the afternoon as well. Maybe she'll stop her stalk and remember her own childhood in the creek. Yup, Mom-in-law needs a bird bath; a hammock would become an automatic stick gurney for her next order of incineration. Next Sunday, she will pause, perhaps, to know that she is loved like she, self-ascribed, is, and more importantly to her, because of what she still, stringently, does.

Grateful for the preliminary news out of Darfur that a peace agreement has been accepted between the factions. Now for a movie for how the world stood by and did nothing while atrocities happened? I know that there's been work within the U.N. to impact this country, though. It's a hard call ... when do you let countries work out their own struggles, when do you step in? I think the time to step in was getting closer at hand; hopefully, now the frightened people there can be resettled into their lives. Yet, there will always be the memory ....

In Iraq, a British helicopter went down, and the crowds that shot it down there (they are against occupation) cheered. Four died. News like this makes me wonder about whether our involvement has been worth it. Iran believes so now that their primary enemy is gone. The world is confusing; I'm just sorry for the loss of lives and the political causes of hatred and power which causes it to happen.

I googled an old best friend from college and found out that he and his wife (who was my resident assistant) are missionaries in Central America. Because of his cynical inquiring mind, I found it to be doubly gratifying that he had plowed through the questions, plowed through the doctorate in philosophy, plowed through the preponderance of mighty thoughts and kept hold of faith. Kept hold of a hand. It was fun to see his big grin (and to know the silliness that accompanied it most of the time) posted in the middle of playing with his kids or the natives in the land. I'm certain that he's a gift to them, dropped from the north, full of heart and energy, and good thoughts.

And then, I felt inadequate. What was my week about? Taking care of my one sick kid in a big house, meeting for poetry or coffee with my friends, playing my guitar, tidying up after a long pleasurable trip. It all seems selfish in a way. I'm hardly doing any visible work for the "Kingdom" these days. I used to be active in ministry at church, but l've withdrawn from that because of feeling the need to be home more, to burrow due to the daughter situation, to travel more with my husband to Little Rock. As a matter of fact, my connection to church community feels slim at the moment. I know there are seasons of activity ....

I communicated these thoughts to a friend, and she was encouraging. She's a musician and said that perhaps, during this time, I'm supposed to be doing just this: nurturing the family (an important calling); playing and perhaps writing music; and, just learning about my faith in relationship to God, not the church, not in serving others in a community at the time. She's right of course. However, I pray that when it's time for active, outward service, God will kick me with strong intent (along with my husband too. Kick him too, God!) so that we will get out of our comfortable places, which is often hard to leave. I pray that here I can still be mindful of his work in my home and heart and in other forms of giving.

I'm so proud of my friend for responding to the need. May his family's work be protected, blessed, and influential in bringing Christ's love to areas which are needed. As a ripple effect, I'm glad to be reminded, convicted, and influenced regarding my part as well.

We're sick inside today, but my tree peony displays rosy hopeful health.

While my napping son is on the couch, I tried to ignore my encroaching signs of sickness by transplanting hostas from a crowded side bed. The four larger hostas shown weren't here before. Usually impatients or begonias add some color in this shady, dry area behind our house. I must remember to water and fertilize during the heavy days of summer. I often neglect if truth be told.

It was soothing to garden in the soaked quietness of the morning. I tried to pray. I was more successful at focusing on the weed in front of me. Prayer has been hard lately. I have a notebook, yes, with some letters in it. I rush through the Lord's prayer from time to time. I burst out pleas for my daughter at random moments. My prayers feel sliced, though. I trust God takes them in particles. I trust God waters with care.

The trip is over, and the boy is now sick. Perhaps the germs were swirling in the Museum of Natural History? There were student groups swarming everywhere. Or, maybe it was in the National Archives where multitudes leaned in to see the fading glorious documents of old? The metro where Cody, hands on seat rail, excitedly looked out the window at the next station?

It was probably in Louisville, when after the "mini-marathon" I took his fleece jacket, as we walked in the rain for 35 minutes trying to find the van as Mom forgot where she parked. I'm to blame! I used his jacket! But regardless, he is sick, and I'm feeling the mother sympathies that slow down the day into a waiting room. Now, I feel the sorrow for the chronically ill child and the parents and the pulsation of time and blood. Life is difficult.

Yesterday, though, he and I planted our new plants that we bought at Monticello ~~ plants that Thomas J. had in his garden: tarragon, antique roses, tiger lilies. We took our evening walk and found our old cat who lives somewhere else now because of the "girls", Trixie and Cassie, who took over our home. He followed us down the sidewalk for a while in our healthy pleasure.

But last night was interrupted. Now the kid is sick. The day is literally gray with thunder storms. May a healing wind blow in for tomorrow.

Beautiful Spring garden at Mount Vernon!

I dreamt about Virginia all night last night. When our son came running into our bedroom, as is customary in the middle of the night, I asked, "But what about Virginia? How's it doing?"
This craziness follows my piecing together our itinerary for the trip (all the Virginia and DC details) which begins on Saturday.

I've already packed my laundry basket (yes, I packed sacks for each day so that I won't have to lug my heavy suitcase from the van to the hotels. Thought I'd try this for the first time. My arms are so weak!). I've contacted Eastern friends whom my mom, Cody, and I'll be seeing or staying with. I reminded our Representative's office about our need for Capitol tickets. I've engaged Cody in boring studies about presidents, bills, national relics, spies, military. It's time to go!

Here's what we'll be doing:

Visiting friends in Richmond
Going to Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown
Touring Mount Vernon
Riding the Tourmobile all over DC -- focusing on monuments
Going through the White House (saying secret prayers of influence!)
Feeling the sadness of Ford's Theater
Visiting friends and a cousin
Skipping around Monticello
Possibly, but probably not, running in the Louisville half-marathon with a friend

I'm not sure if I'll be posting much, but I'll post a few pictures afterwards. Pictures like "here are lilies by Capitol building ... here are pansies in front of the old Burgesses House ... "I remember the roses that were in front of the White House which I have an old photo of ... the gardeners are the most important people in government afterall. So, bon voyage! I'll post when I return.

What Kind of Cookie I Am ... here it is the ultimate personality measure. The words 'traditional and conservative' scare me because I'm picturing a polyester-clad RushL., but I'll take the rest which sounds more attractive. :) What kind of cookie are you?

You Are a Chocolate Chip Cookie

Traditional and conservative, most people find you comforting.You're friendly and easy to get to know. This makes you very popular - without even trying!

What Kind of Cookie Are You?

/a>

"Boys are stupid, and girls become evil at this age," said the junior class principal today when I called him to change contact information. He confidentially tells me that my daughter's boyfriend is not known to be mean, only goofy. He keeps telling me to hang in there, although I've only briefly met him at a school orientation. He has a reputation of being caring yet tough at his difficult job as a disciplinarian.

The conversation gives me a lift because I know that she is being watched even though my eyes can't. When I talked to her private practice counselor today, she related to me that my daughter is sorting a few tangled feelings out during sessions. My ears are plugged, but she is being heard.

Fortunately, the Body takes over like the involuntary contractions of the heart. Today at guitar lessons, I turned to "Cat's Cradle", the old Harry Chapin song about a father's regret regarding lost time with his son. Fortunately, my instructor sensed after a couple of bars that I really needed to turn the page quickly to find another song.

The graces within life that God gives become stark in their meaning during times like this. Thank you all for your prayers. Thank you for your automatic non-judgment. Thank you for your messages of hope to me. I do have a core peace that, even though I can't be the mother to the little girl who used to want and need me constantly, God is working in her life in the only way she will allow right now. She is being seen, heard and known. One day, I'll get to enter back into that room where she will willingly allow me to sense-mother once more. The prodigal's fattened calf ... yes, it makes sense now. I'm looking forward to the party.

Once upon a time, I had a little girl who loved kittens, fancy dresses, Polly pockets, and me. She told me quite often, "You're gooooood, Mom; you're goooood." With her cooing, she would snuggle up to me and we would look deep into each other's eyes, understanding that we would always be together as much as possible. Thirteen years later, she is 17, and her words have changed; the gleam in her eyes have turned from love to hatred; and, on Thursday, she ran off, to live with her grandmother and/or to be at her boyfriend's house as much as possible. She is skipping school and most likely will be behind in her credits. Unless she can look beyond the immediate, she won't graduate next year. My husband and I don't understand what happened ... well, one always knows one's parenting weaknesses, but we felt that we all would get through the normal potholes along the way.

One mother I met on the sidelines of the soccer field made this normal as she told me her son ran off at 17 because he didn't want to comply with a curfew. A good kid all the way up, until limits were put on him. Another mother's son lived in the streets until he decided that home was where he belonged. A wonderful Christian friend's son lives with a dealer who wants sexual favors. These help me know that sometimes learning must happen this way.

It's all sad, though. Last night at the grocery store, I systematically dismissed from aisle to aisle what she would like stocked in our refrigerator. Today, I go her counselor's office to see what to do this time. It has happened before in the last several months. My hope and expectation is now on a low simmer deep inside. God's process often takes longer chapters instead of a quick poem, depending upon the character he's developing. I release and trust as much as I can to his loving composition.

It is finished, and my mind bossed my legs around successfully, up the hill, through the Budweiser complex past the Clydesdales, up the hill, past the interstate, up the hill, and down across the finish line. Thirteen miles warranted an **impressive** medal (which I think I've lost), a free bag of Panera bagels, an aluminum foil blanket .... and most importantly, two hours and nineteen minutes with my best friend from high school! We rarely see each other and just recently reconnected. She's still an amazing Christian with a beautiful spirit within. That was the inspiring part of the run. Thankful. Priceless.

This is a rare photo of my garden owl on his pedestal. Mostly, our cats, Cassie and Trixie, jump on his head to get on top of the fence and send him sprawing. It's exasperating because there's no way to tell them, other than a bbgun (kidding!) that they're desecrating a friendship idol. I received this owl from one of my fave friend Nisha when I worked in her garden when they were trying to sell their house prior to moving to Iowa. He was there for her, upright, casting prudence upon everything. But, in my garden, prudence gives way to whimsy and flight. Cats rule.

At the police station, the culprit lines up, hoping to not be recognized.

Life grants us frames, gratifying-living-natural as we throw rocks in an amber creek. Dark toads line the bank, framing frogs against mud. I watch my son's every move with my camera lens. If I turn and look at a rustle in the weeds, he will shoot up and no longer be a boy. Why are moments intense, and even moreso when the weather soothes us? The peace promotes a feeling of time unboundedness. As if we have this moment forever. Yet, if I turn away, the time has crumpled; I've lost my attentiveness, and then I wonder: will he be gone, and might a tornado uproot us all? What is important for one to treasure? How do we accept peace and anxiety together?

I don't mean for this post to be bluesy. I just appreciate the questions that comes to mind in nature, the 'transcendence' that directly approaches when you're within it. God can be heard, inquiring of you, inviting you, replying. I have the need for more natural frames in my life.

Tree peony in the earliest form is as tantalizing as its later bloom. I once wrote a poem about this plant; once in a mood; once when the implication didn't scare; once when I was foolish. Now, I'm willing to leave this particular plant behind when we move. Yet a faint sigh? No, I will not bring a root, a single solitary root, because it should stay out of sight in someone else's home and mind, never mind the heart. My heart has hosted too many roots before and no telling what type of extending mass of invasion a transplanted root might suggest. But, what springs from the root here, in early April, is indeed lovely.

You Are a Soy Latte

At your best, you are: free spirited, down to earth, and relaxed At your worst, you are: dogmatic and picky You drink coffee when: you need a pick me up, and green tea isn't cutting it Your caffeine addiction level: medium

What'>http://blogthings.com/whatkindofcoffeeareyouquiz/">What Kind of Coffee Are You?

I got this fun link from Dawn who got it from ... , who discovered it from .... funny, but I've never had a my alter ego, soy latte, before; I prefer my coffee black and strong -- what kind of coffee do they think you are?

Isn't that a cute little wee bill? We are cramming in as much U.S. government lessons as we can prior to our trip to Washington D.C. at the end of April. The above cartoon (and subsequent others to explain the process) came from a helpful colorful site here. Geez, I homeschool in order to realize how much I don't remember!

I wish that I could write a fitting ode to my garden aid cart pictured above. I first thought that this birthday gift was for geriatric hobby gardeners prescribed under doctor's stern orders. So, I initially sat on it smirkfully, looking for the reactions of those watching over our wooden fence (these townies do continuously watch our movements, you know). And, then, voila!, it became my favorite garden tool. I just sit and scoot along the dandelion row without getting my knees or butt wet from the grass. I love it; it's just so sidesaddle ladylike. (My kids also like zipping down the driveway on it as well.) And, so I'm wondering, what is your favorite garden tool?

Perhaps we five women looked like this poetic revolutionary last night at a local restaurant? I hope so. I've always wanted my hair to have the contemporary flair that she has.

Seriously, we were a bit blatant about our ambitions too, with poetry books spread on the table, one of my copied poems at every plate (gulp), indepth, fun conversation over appetizers and ice cream. I love the fact that I can have such wonderful dialogue with women that I care about. For me, the caring is as important as the poetry. Perhaps it equals the same.

We were at different experience levels with poetry. One remembered the rigors of metrical, formulated verse from high school. She's sadly carried this as the definition of poetry all these years, and she's now 47. One friend wants to return back to herself, which is poetry's role. The hunger and light in her eyes spoke of need and hope. The power of words .... It's interesting to see what called each of them out from their busy, work performance lives. One of the poems we all marveled about is one by James Wright which I post below. Enjoy!

A Blessing -- James Wright (1927-1980)

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have gladly come out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

What's more beautiful than new growth on a viburnum bush?

Doesn't the lady in front look happy? And, it's encouraging to see that she's surrounded by men, willing to carry her like the secret female-pharoah she is whenever her gluts give away after 100 yards.

My half-marathon is on Sunday, and my nasal tone announcing event sounds like it isn't an option. I'm just not sure that I'm ready: nothing is as unforgiving as a long, hilly, windy thirteen miles on thigh and gravity-sucking concrete.

I've only completed 10.5 miles in training, suffering several days afterwards. Even now, my nasal-pitched lower back forgives nothing. I should be on a walker at this moment, shuffling for a cookie.

Why did I sell my George Sheehan book "Running to Win" at my last garage sale? I've asked myself that question only 1000 times since. I'm totally on my own, trapped in my sordid, diseased, dumpy thoughts of pound-dumb.

The race t-shirt had better be good.

T.S. Eliot cheerfully tells me, though: Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go. Hmmmm.....I wonder what his training program looks like. I think I like Shakespeare's realism here better: Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

Impossible. Yes, I do like the sound of that today. Surely they give refunds?

HAPPY APRIL!

We've been enjoying Elizabeth George Speare's books. We first read "Sign of the Beaver" which hooked us. We love the adventure, character development, historical setting, and, at least in "The Bronze Bow" the Tablespoon of romantic love thrown in for good Cody-squirming-smiling measure. We just finished this book and both of us can't get it out of our minds. Cody wants a Bronze Bow II! Next of course, we'll read her most famous: Witch of Blackburn Pond. She's a wonderful writer!

"To write poems I need to be alone. When I avoid being alone I avoid poetry and the messages it brings me." from poemcrazy, by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge.

Being alone. What does that look like anyhow? Someone out in the crowd, please shout it out to me. It's like I'm seeing faces all the time. I see faces. I love the faces, moreso than the empty places without the faces. Strange, strange times as extroversion ignites. I remember being the incredibly shy one, being angry at my wordlessness, hoping one day I would speak, and speak well, and speak in a subject-verb perhaps adjective-direct object construct. (Yes, I diagrammed it too.) Mostly, I didn't want that fear of approaching someone else. So I fought it by forcing situations where words had to come out of my mouth. In front of others. I stuttered and spat, spat and stuttered. Those addressed wiped their faces. Shyness covered me with a wooly shame. Ugh, it itched. I got eczema from it. (Isn't eczema a cool word??)

But, it's true. If you practice, twenty years later, you become adept at going overboard. Tonight, a woman called to possibly set up a running date, and I blabbed on the phone to her for about 20 minutes. I don't even know her. Frightening. Do I chitterchatter erratically to the serial killer at my door? I'm thinking that he would have an interesting life to hear about.

Now, according to Wooldridge, it may be essential to backtalk, to return to the feelings and the mood of solitude because it contains essential poetic material, an attentiveness one cannot have while in the presence of others. "Everything's got to do with listening," she quotes WS Merwin. Didn't we just have this talk, Cindy and Jennifer? Yes, indeedy, I can get caught up in the contemplative beauty of the quiet. Thomas Merton, Paul Jones, Julian of Norwich, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Thoreau, Me ... it's all elemental and good.

But then ... I've got a coffee planned on Tuesday with a friend who must tell me all details about his new girlfriend and a ski trip. In turn, I will tell him about baby calves on the farm. And, I've got running planned with mothers who breathe out stories regarding their children or faith. Or, there's a group gathering soon to talk together (for goodness sake) about poetry. Then, there are e-mails to old friends. And, of course, my son rarely ever stops talking which he got from his father who tells me the meat of all of his exceedingly exciting business calls with engineer types. Therefore, I rebel from Wooldridge and poetically assert that society can also be the signifyer of messages and that ~~

Words, words, words pile, pile, pile
like leaves raked to a glorious
glorious glorious
monument
of breath.

Perhaps that little song could have been better had I walked in the desert alone for a while? Yes, most likely. :) I'm just, however, surrendering to my noisy season of life, knowing quite well that in a year, or two, or twenty, silence might surround me once more. For better or for worse.

"Something wonderful has happened," Cody kept saying to his grandmother.

He knew, though, the wonderful event could turn horrible if his grandpa found out that Belle, the Walker coondog, had birthed Bo's (the white lab) puppies. So Cody tiptoed down to the far end of the fenced yard, down by the scraggly garden plot, to the old clapboard doghouse where doleful Belle looked out expecting the worse, suckling her six mixed-up prizes.

I get proud of Cody when he's this way: the champion of little things that should live. I can imagine him having about twenty thousand small animals when he grows up. I can imagine him taking care of me when I'm older too like I'm a mutt of some sort that needs a safe house.

My dad, aunts and uncles are in the throes of caretaking this week as my last living grandmother fell on Tuesday and broke her hip. She was carted off to Springfield to the hospital where she had surgery. When I went to see her on Tuesday, she was all smiles, full of love, holding my hand, not knowing whether it was summer or winter, whether she was at home or at a restaurant. She kept saying, "Well, yes, from time to time, I like to go out and visit places like this." Her gray hair was wild, teeth were gone, once steady gray eyes blurred. She has a form of dementia, possibly Alzheimers, in which she can't remember much of anything. Then, in the hospital, she became confused and when night fell, she became alarmed and demented.

Old age, new unwanted births. Life cuts. My grandmother is now in a nursing home where my dad waits in a recliner, answering the same question over and over, dreading nightfall. She's not allowed to be on her feet for six weeks, yet she has no inkling why not. Her strong character remains undaunted. God, send her grace in the throes of her slow death. She was always so ferocious for God and his purpose in her life. Always on fire, always preaching.

All of us family members wonder if the night will fall hard on us in our winter years too.

All of us hold onto our current health in a gripping sense.

In the hospital waiting room, we only wanted to talk about upcoming vacation plans instead.

God grant us all grace in our throes. Amen.

My daughter is in NYC tonight visiting her father. I drove her to Kansas City earlier where I left her at the gate, and she, the full fledged seventeen year old she is, headed off to her gate, ipod in ears, burrowed protectively down in her songs. I called her an hour and a half later, and she had just landed in Milwaukee for her layover, and, guess what, mom?, the stewardess forgot to give me and my seatmate peanuts! We had to ask for them! She, reassuringly, still needs me to know this.

I called her an hour and a half later, and she was already at stepmother's parents, fully emerged into Dominican Republican flare, far from the midwest, surrounded by tall multi-eyed structures. Secured in the City.

She had been reluctant to go. Other classmates' parents had allowed them to travel to Panama City, Florida, alone. I had been oldfashioned and mean. We had more than too many heated discussions about my decision. Thankfully, she's where she is, supervised, parented.

And now, a breather from the teenager. Like my brother, I must agree parenting the teen is difficult; we've had a tumultous past two months which has stretched me into unbelievable postures and places. I believe I'm going to enjoy my week off, even though still as my child, she's ever present in my mind. Secured in my heart, she'll be waiting on Friday, half kid, half adult, sighing, aaaaaghhhhinng, primed for another go around, which I won't think about until Friday. :)

Are Christians really for torture? According to a Pew poll, the "results" are in to the favorable. Check these out:

http://ncronline.org/NCR_Online/archives2/2006a/032406/032406h.htm
http://www.salon.com/
http://time.blogs.com/daily_dish/2006/03/americans_and_t.html?promoid=rss_daily_dish

Somehow I can't imagine Jesus holding a match to someone's skin and saying he's doing it to protect the country of Israel.

I wish things like this wouldn't blight the name of following Christ.

Sigh.

Is the run supposed to make you feel revved up or wasted? Scientific research sitting on my chair says wasted. I'm so tired, and I'll blame it on the six a.m. run instead of staying up late organizing my son's millionth room object. I'm just so glad that I energetically peeled the potatoes and sliced the onions and seasoned the roast early this morning when I didn't feel as if I dragged a semi around the house twenty times. Now, the smell winds around the corners. It says, "May I serve you?" It says, "Take a bath. I've got it covered." It says, "You deserve a night off." Mmm.... I like my talking and kind pot roast.

Okay, my tribute to Pride and Prejudice is over.:) We had just rented the movie, and I remembered my mulling thoughts, particularly in the interesting angle some take with the book, and it just had to come out. Strange!

The poetry group is forming. We have nine who are interested. It strikes me as crazy that women (and a potential guy) are seriously saying, "Yes! I'm there! (Or, interested in finding out more). I guess I've been a closet type for so long that I forget that the world longs for uplifting language and words. So cool.

Here are the books I'm reading to help me obsess about the topic!

Frances Mayes, "The Discovery of Poetry"

Susan Goldmsith Wooldridge, "poemcrazy: freeing your life with words"

Mary Oliver, 'Rules for the Dance: a handbook for writing and reading metrical verse"

Robert Pinsky, "The Sounds of Poetry"

Heather McHugh, "Hinge and Sign"

Mary Oliver, "New and Selected Poems

Alan Dugan, "Poems Seven"

"Imagist Poetry: An Anthology"

Truly, I should thwart my following thoughts due to a popular (and dare I say political) following of this lovely 18th century novel. The book is a masterpiece, a compendium of social manners, a glimpse into a societal structure, a wit and dialogue extravaganza, a study in subtlety. My daughter could learn to be a lady from it.

However, something bothers me about the perfect "Pride and Prejudice". I'm sure it's personality driven which goes to show that maybe the whole lady concept is troubling to me. But, strikers out there would slap me down with retribution if I extended it beyond my own comfort zone and said the following:

"Pride and Prejudice" is a bleak look at womanhood. Of course, it was realistic back in the aristocratic England for a woman to be engineered for marriage; however, to see all hope and hype directed towards this saddens me. A woman's choices were narrow, yet in this work, stemming from the author who lived in that time, a romanticism caps the other contents. The love story between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth flows beautifully, we sigh, they break through obstacles, we sigh. And, yes, I've sighed. However, I sighed during Cinderella once upon a time too, and not because she became a woman underscored by princedom. Now, it's just I prefer more of an inner look. Perhaps Virginia Woolf has ruined me. Mrs. Ramsay (in "To The Lighthouse") spelled out clearly what the world of social and marital limitations might demand. It's the post honeymoon view, of which I'm more curious.

"Pride and Prejudice", although excellent in many ways, shouldn't be used as a moral and politically correct code book. I've seen quite a few bloggers who wave their Austen in one hand and their Bible in another (ouch, sorry). That's perfectly fine. I can wave my Woolf and Bible too. However, for me, some of this Austen waving seems also judgmentally proclamative in the sense that "a woman should be this way" not "a woman is this way". I guess I just value the suffrage movement (I prefer "Little Women" over "Pride and Prejudice" ) and don't want to return to the 18th century view of women. I also believe that "biblical womanhood" doesn't necessarily mirror an Austen novel where women are kept in neat safe categories. Yes, marital fidelity, goodness of character, are jewels in the Bible; however, one can embody that with some realistic complexity and some compassion for those outside one's own category (socially or religiously).

Austen was an outstanding, avant garde (for her day) writer whom I've appreciated. It just helps, though, to ponder the fairy tale a bit without adopting it as gospel.

Shakespeare: Sonnets. Everyone has heard of you,
and almost everybody can find something
touching in you. You are calm and control
yourself, even though your wisdom and your
messages are no lesser than those of others.

Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by

Saturday at my parent's farm, I sat on a hill that I had walked and ran to with the white lab Bo. It was far off. I had to crash through brown leaves on an old trail to get there. I had to be distracted by the deer stand which I climbed and sat in for a while. I had to examine a rock pile for quartz. Finally, I crested the hill and the trail and found a view of a pond, a couple of stark trees, and the roundness of the old mountain range all around me. I sat there for quite a while, breathing in the air to drive the stale, contained, small air out of me. Something about doing this consciously makes me want to cry, an inherent great need of purification strangulates and messes me up until the clearer air begins to make entry. It becomes apparent that the ability to think and feel has been lost and again rediscovered. I sat without the common anxieties that bite at me. I sat watching the last of a dead leaf flutter dramatically from a tree. I sat looking at a faroff slope where the Penner cemetery holds my grandmother and grandfather. Many of my people have been across this land, this hill. It was amazing to even be breathing and alive and there in the day.

When Bo and I ran back home, I felt buoyant, glad, thankful for spirit,life and air. So happy life offers us pockets of treats.

Now for news on the cul-de-sac ....
After a day of intense life-questioning tossing and turning yesterday (post hillside), I casted and so far... one bite from an interested participant! Thanks to the discovery of a bargain book at a closeout sale here in town, I picked up a copy of Frances Mayes' "The Discovery of Poetry: A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poems", I hope to form a small group to read or write poetry here in town. My whole body / person needs this as badly as sitting on that far off hill. I'm hoping something comes together. (Btw, Jennifer, if you're reading this, you're invited -- prob meet every other week at a restaurant. I know you're crazy/busy, though!:)

A new view. A sitdown. Time to breathe. Ah. Tears and smiles.

Tomorrow is my book club, at my house. I should be finishing the cherry cream glaze on my cherry chocolate brownies, or my grasshopper pie, or tortellini salad, or my romaine sirloin steak salad. And, I definitely should be cleaning. However, stop the madness! No one will care, and if they do, they get booted for being anti-literary. Mostly the women will be wining instead of whining and will be loudly sharing their own personal interpretation of the book. I love the group and how we can agree to disagree on anything: religion, politics, Bridgett Jones, what to wear under a burka (sp?). I'm always replaying all the wonderful quips and laughter of the evening later in bed, wishing that the meeting was still bubbling forth. My extroverted side will glow with post-delight. Our book wasn't too meaningful this time; however, our exchange will still be, I'm almost certain. Now, I hope that I can stay awake for it, because I have a lot left to do. No wonder I don't volunteer to host only once every two years!

I'm a feelin' bluesy, and all I can picture as an antidote is going to the hills this weekend and walkin' it out alone in the woods on my parents' and great-grandparents' farm. I'm just feeling overwhelmed by parenting. I'm taking on all of their stuff. I'm blending myself to where I'm not breathing. I'm not doing some of the heart and soul things that I enjoy. I need to walk and sit on a stump and hear the squirrels scampering and the blue jays calling and the wind rustling and hear my thoughts and God's whispers and know that when I emerge, my deeper breath will have been restored. I'll still have kids, yes. I'll still have challenges to walk through with them, yes. I'll still have lunches to fix out of whatever's available, yes. But, perhaps I'll be resonating again somewhere within myself. Heading south, definitely needed.

It's just a beautiful day outside: blue skies, warmth, shiny-ness.

I just returned from playing board games with homeschool children during a coop period. I'm still envisioning a beautiful little girl who was hyperactively bouncing everywhere today with her big smile and beautiful black hair, off of her wheelchair, down with the other kids. She has no arms or legs, yet she manages on the small bits that decided to grow in their place. She always appears to be one of the happiest kids there. Definitely one of the most beautiful.

For some reason, my daughter is extremely late, way past her curfew tonight, and to waylay worry, I'll write about an event that happened by the potatoes this evening at my favorite grocery store.

And, I never reached for that bag of potatoes that I needed I now realize.

An old work friend was walking by the oranges, when I called his name to say hello. He and I used to run every Tuesday together on the trail (before I knew any women who would were runners) -- we ran through the seasons, hot sticky summer, the snow and ice of winter, four miles every Tuesday. Even though he's about 13 years older than me, and was a ph.d. student in educational and counseling psychology, I ended up being his listener for the many woes he experienced in life. He was a fellow post-Ozarkian which also snagged me a bit (besides the compatible pace and the occasional bluebird sightings we'd experience).

However, after a while (a year or two), the sameness of the woebegone issues began to be wearying, and I purposefully began to distance myself. I'm a fairly optomistic person, a believer in change, a hoper, and when I'd offer that to him, he would Eyore it away, only to return to his lament (Puddleglum is the corresponding character in The Chronicles of Narnia; I think there's some also in "The Inferno", swirling around a core of hell, always rejecting goodness just for the sake of rejecting it). It was sad and frustrating at the same time.

So there in the produce aisle, five years later, he appeared, and we talked for about an hour by those potatoes that I still need.

His lament began to pour fourth again, so readily, hardly anything had changed; however, this guy is in real straits with his profession (no job) and says he's extremely depressed. Not much had changed really. I began to feel the compassion well up inside of me again. And, began to tell him the journey of my faith which accelerated after the time of our running together. I told him the story of God returning me, how faith strengthens me, how it could him, how he could face his older age (56 now) with hope and comfort. He listened, said his faith is gone, commented that he did need a shift. We exchanged e-mails again, and I walked away.

I felt that typical heady, humble rush of hope that happens when I tell someone how lifechanging God can be based upon my own story. Then somewhere in the dairy department, I reminded myself how unlikely it would be for this guy to change. He, in some ways, had already hardwired himself into a certain mode of being, and I knew it too well.

Nonetheless, God does erode, doesn't he?, the walls of soul and heart brick that people construct? I pray for my friend that he can experience the joy, comfort, peace that comes through the belief of Christ. Perhaps there'll be a positive outcome despite the forgotten potatoes.

Five (okay, seven) Little Things that Bring Me Satisfaction or Pleasure

Per Cindy's prompting at Quotidian Light, I've been motivated to post again, after a break in which I've had to focus all of my attention on being a mother. So, here goes!

1. My son's laugh because it comes from his toes and spreads out like rays.

2. Hearing the birds sing on warm winter days like today.

3. Watching my husband's smiling face as he watches one of his favorites: "The Andy Griffith Show."

4. Silence, silence, silence

5. Getting an instant facial steam when I drain freshly boiled pasta in a colander.

6. Rolling down the windows to breathe in the country air as we first arrive and drive down the lane that leads to my parents' tucked away farmhouse way out in the hills.

7. Seeing two women walking and chatting like crazy on the trail or the street.