John

It's strange that there he sat in my kitchen chair with glasses, with a gentle air, with a giggle or two when the banjo clucked like a pained chicken. He gripped his guitar during his solos, attacking the new runs, participating in a singular joy of musical expression. He, in fact, was a professional trombonist, but his lungs refused to answer to the mouthpiece after awhile. I never heard him play, but he used to for a local group, going into bars perhaps, perhaps inhaling the smoke of others, never from a habit of his own.

All I knew of him was that he liked jazz, the Em chord, his friend James; he had a sweet wife; he sat unknown in front of me in church for a couple of years; he showed up at the same bluegrass class; then, he made a way into my kitchen on Tuesday afternoons. The cancer was already there, they say. Yet he seemed quite healthy five weeks ago as we played at his family reunion. Three weeks ago, he occupied his normal spot at our practice. Yesterday, he died; the lungs refusing any more breathful musical progressions whatsoever.

The last time, he came over, I tried out a new song learned from a Laurie Lewis c.d. called "When I Get Home"; it's a peppy tune which talks about going to heaven, finally being satisfied, about making music with a million angels, "gonna play me a harp of gold that's just like David's", etc. John heard it and smiled and commented that he really liked it.

I hope heaven is not a myth. I hope it has harps and mimosa-flower-smells and God's crushing love and reunion. I hope John is basking in its music right now, upheld, reunited, regarded as chosen, swaying, tapping, sliding his trombone once more, smiling.

I must trust that John is there. I must be thankful that for awhile, my kitchen reflected a small bit of its grace and light and welcome to him.

Thank you, God, for John's life here on earth.

Rhonda

Unwinding from the sounds at Queen City. Hearing the ring&roll of the fivestring. Hearing the doodle, doodle doo doo of the small one. Hearing the dadadadadda from the soundboard. Hearing the harmonies, clinging to one another and then rolling in the hay and back up again to do the work. A bluegrass festival. Rhonda Vincent took our money at the gate, and then she entertained us on the stage. Wonderful. Smooth. Enviable. Enjoyable. Missouri bluegrass girl making it big now.
My friend and her friend and I sat and swayed and talked, clapped and laughed and made plans for our own groups. It was super. Bluegrass is an amazing art form.

ZZzzzzz.....

Fifty-seven

As my class was leading "Panther Boy" from the alumni banquet stage this weekend, I saw my tall, strong dad in his striped polo and Levi's, at his '57 table, pointing me out to one of his fifty-years-ago sidekicks. His dimples were flashing as customary, eyes a-glinting. My sweet little mother with her natural brown hair by his side. He was indicating, later I learned "the prettiest one up there" said as a funny, but meant pridefully. And, as I see him now, the past, present, and future meld together, making me realize that I was granted that opportune glimpse.

And perhaps now I'll always see him pointing, waving back at me when I did so to egg him on, to aid him in his offspring identification. When he's no longer here, perhaps we'll still be waving, pridefully, gleefully, to signal our enduring, immortal blessed connection.

I'm counting on it.

Eighty-Two

Walking into the airport VFW Hall ushered me into a confrontation with age: faces appeared from all over to the country to reconvene again as alumni celebrating a 25 year high school class reunion. These faces were lined, fuller, interesting, inquisitive.
We stared searching for evaporated years, inquiring, collapsing the time from our joint starting gate to the present. How many children? What are you doing now? Where are you living?
I stared at my best friends from basketball, student council, band, church. Why didn't we stay in touch? I silently ask. Why did I go through a tough spell quite alone? What happened during those years to me? What have you suffered too? What have you celebrated? When will you disappear again? It was wonderful to hug them and remember, yet it made me somewhat tired and melancholy.
We arise in our different plots, set apart now, once blooming and fading together, now in another perennial bed. Rising, blooming, and falling around other forms. It's as it should be, yet the loss hits me somewhat because those friends were the early safe giggling smart loved ones. We tripped and skipped and laughed together as small town youth. We have many solid memories of equal superficiality and depth.
When I saw their faces this weekend, they were the same, but we had traveled far apart, keeping with us the memories, but inevitably replacing each other. I know that's the way the world works, but I'm sentimental and feel loss.
Yet, I have pictures of us in the year 2007 arm-in-arm. Still holding on. Still moving forward. Still planted together by virtue of the gazebo-ed Square, the long maroon building, the choices of our parents and God to plunk us in that soil, that grouping, that cycle. That infamous class of 1982.
It's the strangest thing to think about: those who are granted to be our side compansions. It never ceases to amaze me regarding its purpose.
May my old friends be blessed and safe until we meet again.

Leaning upwards

I should never feel guilty about floating around my flowers here at my lovely home. Yet last night at the Bible study I attend on Thursday, it struck me again how unfair life can be, and I'm glad for the beatitudes, promising good first to those who suffer here.

Many of the women struggle with poverty, addiction, racial, family issues which are foreign to me. When the sweet woman next to me, squirming baby in arms, tried to tell me about her DFS visit in order to find housing for herself with a drug record and an abusive man in her life, I could only listen and offer to pray. Sounds quite mild, although prayer is a rope.

The women just reminded me, though, of what is often distant to me: the trials of rising above circumstances, thick and heavy ones, the suffering. When I choose to draw near to it, and not just go to a more comfortable study in my affluent white church, I am made aware. It's difficult to be aware because pain isn't enjoyable to look at. It reminds me of the comment that Mary Sheehan, the anti-war mother who lost a son said recently that Americans are more interested in who wins American Idol than who is dying over in Iraq.

It's easier to look away and become distracted and indifferent. I came home last night with her baby's smell all over me, after taking turns with him. She's got an uphill to still press against. I pray for her and the other women there and ask for help in not avoiding how I can help. To not look away. To not become buried in my bounty.

The precious name of Jesus gives hope to us all. Amen.

The calico stepmother simply wants to clean that spot she sees on the side of the young'un's head. Yet that always gets her into a wrestle and a thump. It's difficult being a Mom at times, we think in my household.

For those of you who haven't seen this while on the Mansfield shaggy square:), here is my new Bible which I received from my husband for my birthday. We went to the Christian store to preview the purchase, and I stared at the row and row of Bibles trying to make sense of it all. I saw "The Quest", which is my beloved first NIV version, yet it was a bulky hardback with a commercial looking picture on the front. Many Bibles employed the use of a famous evangelical guide (like Henry Blackaby) who commented bountifully upon the Scripture in forms of printed sermons tucked in between books. Quite arrogant, quite idolistic, I thought, no thanks.

I saw Bibles for men, children, teens, firefighters, nurses. Pink Bibles for women with pretty fonts grabbed my eye, yet again the didactic lesson-pointers/testimonies ruined the purity of the truth-language.

There were comparative Bibles, thick study ones with Greek and Hebrew, and parallel versions side by side, footnotes filling half the pages. Marginal boundaries crisscrossed all over, aiding the analytical reader in a pursuit of heady holy hermeneutics. Not a relaxing read for my morning coffee at the kitchen table, or on the deck, or in the coffee shop. Too intricate and dizzying.

Then, I saw her. A sweet, flower-embroideried, brocaded fabric with gold threads, and a leather hold which says: Holy Bible: ESV, English Standard Version, Crossway. Opening her pages, I encountered only the words of Scripture (with a few, few footnotes) for me to meditate on as I encounter them. Perfect!

We brought her home, my feminine window into God's language of wisdom and rescue and love (which isn't alway delicate, by the way), and I'm satisfied. We should be friends for quite some time if all goes well.

Summer graces

Some of my favorite summer flowers grace the front of my house right now: scarlet bee balm (monarda); and a white balloon flower. I drive up, always participating in their glory. The bee balm blooms fairly long too, approximately 2-3 weeks.

















A summer bouquet for my table includes:


coreopsis
bee balm
loose strife
antique roses
corn flower
amaranth
daisy
stoke's aster
tea rose









The back view of the arrangement; here you can see the Stoke's astor (blue); the daisy and a tea rose.

More Grace

I just joined another online support group for parenting an autistic child. This past week has necessitated it (it's better than beer and book in the long term:) per yesterday's post). And, it's a decidedly Christian one, making it a requirement to pray for one another. It's called PREACCH, or Parents Rearing and Educating Autistic Children in Christian Homes. When I read my first digest today, these lines encouraged. Looks as if if they're from a hymn.


HE GIVETH MORE GRACE

1. He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater;
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase;
To added affliction, He addeth His mercy;
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

chorus: His love has no limit; His grace has no measure;
His power has no boundary known unto men.
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

2. When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father's full giving is only begun.

Beer and mosquitoes

It's been an evil evening here: two beers and a book about Dracula for me. And, I have mosquito bites on my legs after taking them lovingly out to the deck. The beers had been in my closet for the last five months, leftover from someone's gift at a gathering. I chilled them today for the men who come over on Tuesday's for bluegrass, intending to joke with them and set one in the middle of the table to see who reached for it first (they all go to my church), to see who was in greatest need. However, one of the men was absent and so I thought I'd save them for next Tuesday. But, the beers remained chilled, and when I popped one open, took the first swig, I exclaimed, "Ah!" And, then I thought how if I weren't a pious Christian mother that I would be swigging the wonderful amber elixir more often and out in society and laughing in a carefree manner. Perhaps I'd be in Germany over a stein. Perhaps down at the local brewery. But, oh my, it tasted good with my spaghetti and homemade bread. Before I knew it, the second top had been removed. And there I was at my table first, and then moving to the deck, lighting some candles, taking my bookclub novel called "The Historian" (unfortunately about Dracula. But, with beer, I don't care nearly as much). I've waved my husband off from talking and ordered him to play with the son and tuck him in. Now, I think I'll make the evil evening more complete and find a place against the pillows in my room and hunker in for the total-experience.

Yes, such an evil, unforeseen evening, which I am grateful to swig.

:)

Butterfly weed

Language, words, dissection, redirection, reassembly.

My life as a parent of an autism spectrum child brims with re-words, redefining, re-clarification. Re-wind. I just took my son and a friend to a laser energy/light class, plunking him into a confusing nominative-classification driven discipline. He wishes that the teacher spoke English.

That's understandable. It's a jargon for sure. I felt the same way at times, being a right-brain learner.

Yet all the way over there, Cody perseverated on a gaming issue of his, a desire for hacking, which needed a motherly ethical overview, an empathy insight, a golden rule. It's exhausting, and challenging, to help him understand other views than his own encased one. Each word, jargon, of a new idea requires slowness, examples, a requested replay back from him for comprehension. And, then, suddenly, once you're satisfied, he'll ask the same question over again. The road towards understanding resumes with the same landscape features. A tangled vine, a patch of meadow, a stand of brilliant orange butterfly weed. Perseveration is the vehicle towards eventual destination, I guess.

This summer, Cody is going to a social skills training class at a local autism clinic. I met two mothers the first night. We had a small debriefing with a staffer and then we visited, shared. I mentioned something about "incessant counseling", and one of them laughed! Ah, it's nice to be understood in this particularly unique mode of motherhood! I would be abundantly wealthy if I charged the going rate!

Onward, backwards, and onwards we go!

Mulberry and friends

It must have been the recent birthday. Perhaps it's Alzheimer's setting in (today, my daughter had to write a check from her account for both our driver license renewals as I forgot my checkbook. A sign of things to come, I told her, get ready, defend your senseless mamma.) But, old things are coming back to me, like the feelings of the sudden death of my young boyfriend, encountered again per last entry.

And just recently Mom reminded me that I liked to climb things as a girl. Ah yes, trees in particular. But instead of climbing them just to conquer them, it was best to go live up in them, for hours at a time. The ultimate was our mulberry wide-branched tree, with an old teapot hung up in the "kitchen". When the cows walked under, oh that was a mighty giggly treat of twig aimin'. There were flowers and fruit and lots of rooms to scoot or climb to in the mulberry. But, mainly, it was nice to hang out in the tree and just think. There was an elm not too far away. A stately walnut with ladder branches. An oak with enchanting seeds. I still remember them well and sitting in their branches, and no one knew where I was. Then I'd hear the yellow ford truck horn honk three times for lunch or supper or town. The dog waiting below and I'd head on up to the house.

But the wind is lovely up high, and you're like a bird almost, and you make squirrels curious, and the tv wasn't blaring so Dad could hear it. And there were no other annoying sounds like the water faucet continually dripping. But the sounds were pretty and relaxing, and I wished to not be human and to be something more like a fairy.

I semi-forgot all of this; but, when I went to Europe two years ago, I kept exclaiming to people how the climbing of things was one of the best part of the tours. Comes back somehow.

I'm going to climb a tree before too long, and if my bones permit, just sit and think. That would be lovely.

Hensley

The fact of the turnoff, behind brushy hilly growth, materialized at the last minute, and I swung the wheel to the left, to the narrow gravel road, up a jot, to the drive, though the open ornate gate. A small rectangular really of a field. Could not have been more than 50 markers. I drove up a faded, grassy, gravelly lane to mine and spotted his face smiling above his sixteen year old shirt selection of a day, of an eternity. Wide white collar above a tan bodice with white sleeves. His hair feathered into style, longish in the back, wide wings. His eyes' sparkle hidden by the glaze, yet known to those who remembered, whom he loved. Including me, a young and everlasting girlfriend.

Old plastic blue dirty flowers were leaning over next to his stone, contrasting with the bright new Memorial Day attire of those next to him. I pushed in my bright yellow irises and saw a future mission. Where were his parents? I think they moved to Ohio. They haven't visited for a while. Am I the only local one left for him and this cold stone? Why is the cedar tree closely planted? What are the roots destroying down below? The practical questions when one suddenly becomes a steward again. And then it hit boldly: the short life, one unlived, the parent's dream cut short, the wreck, the sadness, the unfairness snuffing a bright spark.

My son and I drove on, up curvy Highway 5, where trucks sail away, where tears are blinked. Twenty-six years ago. It still appears to shock.

As I drove quickly through Lebanon, Missouri, enroute home today, I spied a sign which reminded me of the essential. It said,

Jesus is preparing "myspace" in Heaven.

Only in the Bible Belt would all things be perceived in evangelical vibrant possibilities. At Silver Dollar City, a basketball one-man show dimmed the lights to narrate a one-on-one to 21 between Jesus and Satan. There was a resurrection, after Satan won, but Jesus arose to win by two. He slam dunked, of course. The angels roared. A small sermon ensued, and then the lights came up and we were allowed to leave the theater. Transformed? Well, not quite, but sweetened by a dribble of faith syrup.

Perhaps it was to prepare us for the funnel cakes just around the corner. Everywhere, people were eating. I heard a man crunch pork rinds across a wide walkway. A group of cousins slurped some honey sticks. A family ate kettle corn on the green tram to parking lot C. We carried taffy and peanut brittle back to our men. I think I dreamt that night about swirling in a potato and sausage skillet hash, with a man hacking at me with a big wooden knife.

I think I screamed for escape, but, yet year after year, I ended up sizzling once more, jumping in due to some foolish nostalgia, paying the $43 entry fee for such an experience as this.

The cycle needs to end.

Silver Dollar City (aka Steal Your Dollar City) farewell!

Cody happily asked me to categorize people in soil types this evening after our bedtime reading of the parable of the sower. "That's Dad!" he yelled after a review of one category. "There I am," he said about the thin soil description. I enjoy that Jesus made it quite obvious of our location on the sower's seed-scattering path. It's a parable that clearly tells us to "Quit it!' if we have too many thorny worries, or to stop being superficially delighted only in God's message. It tells us to press on towards the dark loamy nutrient-full soil which produces the fruit of paradise for others to taste, for ourselves to joyfully experience. All it seems to take is full and endearing reception of the seed, an obedience to the sun and rain, and a thrilling upward unwinding towards fruition.
My son seemed to take this passage as a movement of becoming. I liked that.

Last year, she showed me her prom pictures taken at her grand- mother's. This year, she's supposed to bring the boyfriend by. I've been pacing. I bought her dress last month, shoes today, and I even made her this wrist corsage. She says she'll be here.

I made her date's boutanier (sp!) also. If you have one flower in your garden, you must have false indigo. It's a lovely cut flower and in an arrangement with roses (when they've not been frozen away). They were perfect for today's prom. Statice from an old flower bouquet outlines it. This will go on her wrist. I await!

our wild knight's festival

The women slurped spaghetti, made with peppers, mushrooms, sausage, tomatoes. The women bunched together in the small living room. The women testified to the Lord's goodness in their lives. The women laughed. The women held a baby or two. The women sorrowed over a breast cancer in the room. The women prayed with hands touching her. The women hugged. The women connected in the kitchen before saying goodbye.

The toddler girl felt my hair as I carried her around. Her name was Taneisha or "Nana". Beautiful child!

I came home. My son and I prayed. My husband and I talked.

The glow lingers, and I still tug.

Here's a good word from this morning for this life:

When I said, 'My foot is slipping,'
your love, O Lord, supported me.
When anxiety was great wtihin me,
your consolation brought joy to my soul.
Psalm 94:18-19

I was so lonely for my son yesterday! I was so worried for him!

The women at the Thursday evening faith group speak about releasing your children to God: every day, release the anxiety which can grip you, let go, He can handle their issues. I understand to an extent, but I still want to defend them from the mountain lions which stalk.

Today I will try to be less wary, though, and more confident.

I've been in the throes of decision regarding school for Cody next year. I was offered a chance at teaching Creative Writing and Language Arts at an area private Christian school, geared for homeschool children. Yet in further thought, prayer, consultation, I realize that this school could not accomodate Cody and would most likely end in a negative experience. We've investigated the school before for him. I still remember the wave of concern visible over the administrator's face when I told him about the autism diagnosis. Although Cody is mild, yet he still would need some grace provided in the form of patience and love and time. He doesn't fit in the candle holder there.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a Christian school who could make room for all types of children? In Little Rock when I looked, there was one that had an outlook like this. However, the slots were full.

As it is, another plan is in place for Cody for next year, which includes a few public school hours and some tutoring in math and an emphasis on Social Studies and English at home. One door closes, some will open.

With the Virginia Tech specter in our minds these days, I pray that children who don't quite fit in will not be even more ostracized due to a fear or distrust issue. Protect our special children, please Lord! They need a full scoop of directed love, mercy, grace. Amen.

Laughing Song
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He;

When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live & be merry and join with me
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.

William Blake

This week has caused a need for a laughing song. William Blake writes in his Songs of Innocence and Experience about the division within us : the reality of innocence blurbing out within a reality of experience and its grief and pain. There's both. We retreat again and again within us to a longing of a world without guns, to a place where there's laughing, and childhood awareness of joy. We need it now and always. We need a song about laughter, although we know the song of tears too.

May the hope of a future lessened burden of grief somehow land upon those who are deeply grieving over the loss of innocence which can never be erased from their experience. Amen.

This is a calf who lost his mother quickly. Are you my mother? he asks Cody.

Bo refuses to get involved, remembering the last time he chased some cows, he got whooped. He sits and watches the yummy testicles fly. Disgusting!

Cody "turned" / took on a big worried Mamma Cow with his stick and won! She was coming right at him all alone by the corral as she tried to return to her calf. We were all watching him, wondering, if he would be the one to turn and run. But, he didn't; he faced her and inched his way towards manhood that day there on the farm, working cattle like the men (and teenage girls).

A check for the granddaughter cowpoke

Someone earned her keep at the bi-annual cattle drive! It was important to look glamorous as well while filling the blackfoot vaccine and pouring the blue wormer on the cattle's back.

spring break in the Ozarks

Around this time, as we pull into my parent's lane after a 3.5 hour drive, we are exhausted but exhilerated. The sounds and the smells of the fresh country swamp our weary city senses, and we always roll our window down, no matter the weather, to let it engulf us and declare us: Hillbillies once more! Yeehaw!

Here are the kids; the daughter insists that it's high time for the not-so-little brother to learn how to do his time at the gate.

The daffodils to the left were planted by my great-grandmother Vietta, a beautiful woman who once was engulfed by the beauty of this land too.

A Lady Reposeth

Gifts

The question of purpose likes to fling itself full-force into one's face periodically. It especially likes to choose a time when the weather has swung into bleak coldness as it did in our area this week. I've been a scurrying figure, holding on to a tree,trunk,stump,branch,twig until late Thursday, I felt a snap, and I was hurtling through space. (Btw, I've always felt so much like a Virginia Woolf character when this happens. I can't even read her books at times because of that connection I feel to some of her people.)


The question of purpose, of connection, of non-random plans was at my throat again due to some prompting that happened at a couple of groups I attended on Thursday. It had been building too. I sat catatonically afterwards on my red couch with my husband peering at me in concern. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You couldn't understand," I said. And the intense questions became mixed with marital issues until I had to get away and collapse unhappily and troubled to sleep. He didn't know what to do.


The morning, cold, came, and I could barely function. I was confused and within the fog. My husband left early for a men's group from church, and I asked him to have them pray for us. Later an online Bible study prompted me to read a chapter in John which held the verse: "I am the light of the world. Those who follow me will never live in darkness." I held it to my forehead and cried and prayed for the light to remain in me and to shine forth, despite the night of confusion. He is our constant help, the Bible says repeatedly, in time of trouble.


The question of purpose had stared me down, mocking that it was even a possibility, taunting me by saying that my life was just a series of random events which had only the meaning given to it by a personally subjective method. I had found out on Thursday night that even women who had no belief in God/Christ, even many of them had a strong sense of their purpose, of corresponding things which reaffirmed their identity and activity. After this group, I went to a faith group where lovely emphatic black women were saying parallel things but in the beautiful language of faith, with conviction and empowerment, and hope and love. Coupling the belief with a belief in a caring Deity, I knew they held the best possibility, the most light.


Meanwhile, my sense of these things had increasingly decreased. My belief in transcendence, in God's design, had been skiing down the mountain towards the fall-off cliff. Yes, He allows me to swerve and stay safe, yet I've gotten closer by some habits of unbelief and skepticism. That night, I felt like I had plunged off, because I felt that I really had no sense of control in how to believe in these things. I just didn't much.


The day went by, my husband brought me flowers, and we went out to a movie, and we were close. I finally told him bits of pieces of some of my load. He seemed to take the time to listen. That part was helping me. He was kind and caring, a gift.


Then, on Saturday, I went to a local folk festival with a friend. During the lunch break, we talked about some things, and I shared with her some of my confusion on the question of purpose and correspondence of things for that purpose. I shared that I had a hard time believing in that in a highminded way, but I wish that I could. She shared her view and questions, and then she told me that she thought I had a purpose of guiding others, of touching others in a unique way, of being a friend that's needed in other's lives. I have a habit of shrinking back and not receiving these things, which I did, shrink. But, I thanked her and remembered a few instances where I have been necessary to others. Of course, I know that I'm necessary to my children, but aren't all mothers? Nature requires it. Why do I minimize things?


The conversation helped me, though. As I ran this morning, I thought of it, and I thought of God's touch in my life. I always think of the positive things as gifts, and I'm always a grateful recipient. Yet, I stop there. I felt like God was telling me this morning to not stop, to understand the the connection between the giver and the gift. A gift cannot be random because it always issues from a giver; it always issues with a name on it: To Teri: a friend; To Teri: a talent; To Teri: a loving family; To Teri: food; To Teri: light. Therefore, a gift from a giver must logically involve a reason and most likely a purpose. A purpose to accept, like a gift.


I still feel like God wants me to continue and not stop there but, at some point, to understand more and fully accept my part within His purpose, regardless of whether that simply involves who I am now and what I'm involved with. Or, perhaps within something else down the road. I'm opening myself up to that. I prayed for more certainty and confidence again within that.


The light is shining more here in the middle of Missouri. Those dark times are telling. Several gifts for sight were given to me. I pray that we can all follow the light He intends for us to follow.








.

instrumentals

It is Monday morning, very early; I've been a bad blogger lately. My head is filled with tunes these days instead of words. I find myself going to my bed, opening my mandolin case and songbook, and working on "Arkansas Traveler" or "Irish Washer Woman" or "Black Mountain Rag". When I went to the Wednesday evening jamgroup, I was incited by the melodies once more. Thus last week's pattern was 1) picking, 2) penance; 1) picking, 2) penance. My picking was glorious; my penance was housework and time spent with family members. That was good, yet I must confess, my fingers wanted to be picking. My dad has bequeathed a hopeless, helpless life of taunt strings and melodic challenge.

Yet somehow a life was managed, and now it's a new week.

I found time to begin a wonderful new book called "The Yellow Wind" by David Grossman. Beautiful, lyrical, haunting, impactful ... and, I'm only on Chapter Two. Check out some excerpts at this site.

Oh hail the black and white Eye-Ball that rolls in its grassy socket!

Recently several of my friends have described their weekend to me. In short: soccer: soccer: soccer. Their kids have been wearing their league t-shirts around since kindergarten at least. Their refrigerators are full of age progressive magnet-backed photos of grimacing, grinning beckham-tots, clutching the ball, lest it rolls out of the boundary-frame. My friends always sound tired about the whole schedule, yet resolved in all-pursuit of collegiate scholarship (if it turns out that way) or at least resolved in keeping their child happy, healthy, and out of trouble. If anything can do that, it's soccer, they seem to think. A debatable theory, I think.

Nevertheless for myself, I'm quite thrilled that my kids are hopelessly inept at ball maneuverment. For one thing, I can't imagine all of those years of finding shinguards and socks. We were intensely stressed out those two and a half years our children found themselves mesmerized by the Eye-Ball (due to parental or peer pressure). One shinguard was always in an unlikely place like the freezer or feminine protection drawer. The mismatched socks were always dirty or vacationing. Often, I used my husband's dark work socks when I was in last second frenzy prior to leaving the house for a practice or game. I should have used his tie for a headband, I guess.

So while the soccer parents drive all over the city or state, I'm glad that we have Sundays for rest, or reading, or grandparents, or church. Saturday mornings are good for the farmer's market, or friend coffee, or home cleaning, or garage sales, or longer visits to farther away family. Or, just for relaxing around the yard, watching the new season's flowers sprout.

If my kids were athletic, given what I enjoy and prioritize now, I would only hope that if a black and white Eye-Ball happened to cross my path, I would kick it out of its boundaries and into the Missouri River, where it could travel to the Gulf, and then beyond to perhaps a castaway on an island, and he could give it a name to fulfill all of his deepest needs. The Eye-Ball would be happy again, but not in my weekend!

(nothing against any of you who have kids on a soccer team:)

Most Blessed of Women be Jael

Commemorates the song of Deborah. Jael acted with stealth as she gave Sisera, an enemy king, milk and not water. The music of seeming refuge lulled him to sleep in Jael's tent, where she offered hiding after a losing battle with prophetess-judge Deborah and army-leader Barak. When the king was fast asleep

"Her hand reached for the tent peg,
her right hand for the workman's hammer.
She struck Sisera, she crushed his head,
she shattered and pierced his temple.
At her feet he sank,
he fell; there he lay.
At her feet he sank, he fell;
where he sank, there he fell -- dead." (Judges 5:24-31)

The song rises with righteous entreaty in the final verses:

"So may all your enemies perish, O Lord!
But may they who love you be like the sun
When it rises in its strength."

In the book I'm reading now called "Army of Roses: Inside the World of Palestinian Women Suicide Bombers" by Barbara Victor, I'm introduced to modern day women just like Jael and Deborah. Fighters. Killers. Praisers of Allah and his allegiance to those who love him and do his bloody work.

And, I thought that such feminine militaristic zeal was a new thing. As long as there are religious warring men, there are religious warring women -- equal in life, death, and spiritual ambition for glory.

Photo: Ann Hermes, Columbia Missourian, March 18, 2007

Maya smiled and the world was calmed. That's how it felt last night, even in the back student section (thank you lovely student friend for the invite) when we watched her, in person, smile out over her latest enthralled audience. I'm sure the smile went over into the Gaza settlements and into the outposts in Nepal where children march with guns.

Okay, most likely, it didn't. People died today because of violence despite Maya's smile and grandmotherly advice and benevolent hope for humanity. Yet wouldn't one who died today wish for someone who cared, who spoke about caring, who used her time to be expressively hopefully about a better world, who marched her words outwards to spread the care? I would want that in my shocked and final suffering at the hands of hatred.

Maya was funny. She said that she was trying, trying to be a Christian now, but it's so hard. Sometimes, someone will come up, shake her hand, and announce that they're a Christian. To which she likes to respond incredulously, "Already?"

She received many laughs, many claps. I sat there moist-eyed, because I had started to feel like the world was sinking into the mire of hopeless conflict and subjugation. And, perhaps we are. But, if we ask for more from ourselves and each other, as Maya spoke about, a "rainbow in the clouds" can appear: promising hope for even us, for even Israel and Palestine, for even the disenfranchised in New Orleans, for even Iraq, for even around our own homes.

I'm quite glad that I was introduced to Maya Angelou only 12 years ago, despite the gaps in my biased education. She truly is an amazing torchbearer of human dignity. Below is a poem written by her on the subject, written and delivered for the 50th anniversary of the United Nations:

A Brave and Startling Truth By Maya Angelou

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn and scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

No Rock

Nothing against the gorgeous state of Arkansas and the fine people there, but hallelujiah!, we are not moving to Little Rock. I'm embracing the trail here as I run it, the friends over coffee, the church parking lot, the cheery cardinal that swoops now by my window, the perennials that are peeking up from my soil. I can remain a "Show-Me" girl, and I am mighty pleased, and did I mention hugging all that Missouri offers, every flyin', flowin', rooted, spittin', twangin', show-offin' thing? (even Branson and Republicans!). One big bunch of love goin' on here for the best state and people in the country! Don't you agree??

:)

Friendly fiddlers

The shrieking fiddle boys on Friday nights are especially cute and courteous. Not only did they brush off our windshields, they shoveled an individual path to our snow-covered cars after the jam, during a snowstorm. I like them. However, another venue seems to be necessary for me to hear myself play the meek mandolin.

Fortunately, a couple of men at church were in my bluegrass class. And, they're flexible workers which means they can come to my house in the late afternoon beginning this week. They both have musical backgrounds apart from their beginning instruments, and I trust them, although the BTK man was from church too.

Nonetheless, I'm quite excited about a smaller group, where we can diverge from fiddle tunes which split the air. And, I can improve my hypocritical musical contributions too. I'll still play from time to time with the little boys on their various instruments (mainly fiddle, but occassionally they pull out a jaw harp, a harmonica, and an old mandolin). I'm sure one day they will be famous, and I'll rue the day that they gave me a headache.

Candlelight

This entire week has been one of early risings (well, okay, not one morning!) in order to embrace the quiet of the morning because.... I have a new writing project which envisions a novel or a book of sorts. It's just ... all my life, I've desired and then procrastinated, desired, procrastinated. I even want to deny my actions towards this end even now, even here. The confession is hard because in some ways I'm ashamed. The shame voices of "as if!", an untoward ego ("as if!"), the echo of false starts ("as if!"), crescendo as I state. However, I can't help it. The decision has been made to myself, that I shall undergo a writing project: a book attempt. Why not? I have that English degree (as if that matters!), and, most importantly, as I, girl of about 13, kicked around in the cow lot one hot summer Ozarkian day, all glazed over from one of my numerous reads, I knew that I desired wholeheartedly to lead words into some sort of order, for some sort of reason, for some sort of joy.

Therefore, I confess and hope and arise early.

Crocus Gratitude

Yes, that's right -- the first flowers in my garden -- bursting forth from underneath the cold wind, ice, sleet, tornadoes and singing praise to the heavens. I'm so thankful for these little, loyal blossoms, hope bells of renewal and beauty.

As I was walking the block back from my running ending point a little while ago, I consciously yielded myself. I practiced this much while taking a small group where we studied Beth Moore's "Fruits of the Spirit". Many mornings, I forget or do so hurriedly. It felt good in the crisp air, on the quiet streets, with the geese flapping on in the distant sky, to relax my intensity and to be enfolded.

It feels like there's a new purpose brewing in my life, and I want to be surrendered to the will outside of my own. It truly doesn't take long for us to invite his fuller presence into us each morning. I need to do this more regularly, practicing the conscious act of releasing.

I went to the library yesterday to understand the Middle East, particularly one facet. As part of the stack of books I got, there's one I'm beginning called, "We just want to live here" which is a correspondence between two teenagers in Jerusalem. One is an Arab and one a Jew. Quite readable and a good primer on the perspectives of the youth on the hostilities between the two groups.

The Jewish teen recounts the story of MLK to the Arab girl, as a demonstration on how the two groups can get along without violence, through nonviolence. She wishes that she wouldn't have to worry about going to the mall without getting blown up. The Arab girl wishes that the children around her wouldn't have to live with the sights of guns and tanks and soldiers everywhere in the land which used to be their own. She wishes that she could have equal opportunity for education and work.

It's a wonderful small book. I hope to understand better the striving and the hope for peace among the youth, which we as adults are responsible for pursuing, I believe.

It's quite bizarre to me.

As American Christians, we can talk about the suffering that we don't cause, such as the AIDS epidemic in Africa; or the lack of good clean water in the Sahara; or the lack of food and work in some parts of El Salvadore; or the tsunami rebuilding in Indonesia. My recent Samaritan's Purse Prayer Point magazine showcased such the world in need. I read it and felt sorrow for the unfortunate and gladness at the offering of hope through Christ which is given through necessary outreach work. Some of which I donate money towards.

Yet, I'm confused about our noncommittal quietness concerning Iraq where today a female suicide bomber blew herself up, along with 40 other people, mainly students, at a university. Between 34 and 52 thousand Iraqi civilians have died since we began the removal of Saddam Hussein with the replacement of democracy. The Christian groups I belong to rarely speak of these citizens. There just seems to be a resignation to the fact that if you're caught in the crossfires of a war, it's unfortunate. An unfortunate price one might have to pay for being under such a dictator, or being born in a land with extreme cultural ancient tensions between the different religious groups there. My parents would probably justify it by saying that God is reaping judgment upon these people for their sins.

I guess that means everyone that suffers in the Samaritan Purse booklet is reaping God's judgment too? Perhaps those children in Liberia who step on a land mine inadvertently deserve it?

I'm quite tired of the resignation or the judgment. And, as a Christian, I'm extremely concerned for the people who are dying in the pot that we've also boiled.

What should I do, God?

When she was walking somewhere, a "kid" came up to her and said he wanted to get together with her.
"So I took off my hood and said, 'Do you still want to date me?' And, he said, 'Yeah.' It don't matter if you got gray hair these days!" We laughed at her exasperation with the youth not leaving a granny with grey dreadlocks alone on the inner sidewalks of our town.

And then, she began talking about her heartbreak with a 42 year old son who has hardened his heart against God. She even wrote him a poem, which she pulled out of her nearby purse. The rhyme scheme was predictably abab, abab, all throughout. The matching words were predictable. Yet it was tight (the old meaning of this word): a powerful invocation for the prodigal son broadcasted through an adept writer mom's heart and fingertips. She's using her creativity to call out. I was quite impressed with the entire poem which is published in a high quality anthology in heaven, I'm sure. This mother is beautiful, beautiful.

I had many bluegrass jammers (or slammers as this is a beginning squawking group) in my living room the other night. My daughter's old boyfriend, the one who caused me high-point grief at times but has proven to be a constant concerned friend to her, sat beside me on my red couch and picked along with us.

"We've got ourselves a rocker here!" I said in introduction to the others there. The two squawkin' fiddle boys looked envious at his genre. The rocker tried to show off to them a couple of times which got him a string-deadening hand from me. He's been yelled at by me before; he obediently grinned and silenced himself. Isn't that where we want all potential in-laws when they approach through our own children? Amen, amen.

:)

Last night, my daughter and I went out for dinner and then to the movie "Pan's Labryinth" at the independent film house here in town. It was enjoyable, quipping before the movie, hearing about her boyfriend, talking fashion and people. Like old times, our similar faces liking one another (harder than love at times). We saw her old Contemporary Thought teacher whose class she dropped during her renegade period. We saw a student co-editor in one of her current journalism classes. We saw random people and things to comment upon. I bought her popcorn and cream soda. And, then we snuggled into the old chairs as the cute-boy-movie-host rattled hither and forth as he described the upcoming films. The lights went down, and we began to hear Spanish and we began to read along even after the initial terrible image mangled our vision. As the film went on, the fantasy was fantastical, the reality abject, and we held on until the final image connected the first. And, a lullaby was hummed, and a girl twirled in new clothes. If you haven't seen it, consider it. The guerrila war aspects are worth enduring for the transcendence in the storyline, although the weightier of the two will become apparent. But, we must know both parts.

Life is knowing the parts, I suppose.

My guitar class today at the parent homeschool co-op was wild. Several guitars of the eight students appeared ill-tuned, and fighting this at the beginning took a while. In the meantime, one kid aspired to Clapton, and the other one who talks, talked and talked. The others "warmed up" and the discordance floated down through the hallway. It was fun, however, as well to conduct the sound once I got back into the room. We controlled our way into two or three songs, and those kids like to sing too. I think we'll be a hit at the recital in April!

That was last week, prior to the ice and snowfall again here in Missouri. It was an interesting trip. It was miraculous to be on the beach in the warmth. It was intriguing to walk along the Playa del Carmen avenue with the calling vendors and the Canadians and Europeans and South Americans, everyone babbling their languages. It was enlightening and sad to see the poverty in the Mexican countryside. It was interesting to see the ancient ruins and to contemplate the Mayan spiritual expression through temples, writings, sacrifices, attention. The spiritual consciousness being universal. I wondered if a Mayan woman wished that there were no rites, no consciousness to abide by, more freedom for the spirit. Did she think that way? Did she walk on the same path I stood on, wondering similar things? She probably worried for her children. She probably cared about her relations with others. She knew she was getting older.

As we were flying over Louisville, KY, on the return trip, I looked down and the city was beautiful, sparkly; the curvaceous Ohio river outlined the lights, the markers of abundance. We landed in St. Louis and the smell was good; the water could be chugged without severity (as we experienced down South). We took our tan skin into the freezing long term parking lot and reunited with our auto. We drove home, and I wondered if the futile quest for perfection would resume again in our daily lives.
But, for a little while, my 15 year commited husband and I were able to break from it, and to enjoy one another apart from it. That was essential and good.

It was a bit regrettably cruel, I suppose. My friend, who is originally from southern California, and I met at six this morning, when the whippin' wind chill was below 0, and the temp was in the single digits. We were too layered to run gracefully, looking like those Antartica scientists who are not to be understood by anyone. Plus, we had to hurdle or skid over ice patches in the road, barely preserving our aging hips from a fall in the dark, dark, bitterness of this morning, which mocked global warming, and reprimanded us for being out of our beds, away from snuggly husbands, who still had their lazy forms prostrate.

As the wind snapped against our cheeks, I told her that I couldn't run next week as we will be on the sunny beach in Mexico for our fifteenth anniversary. She was not happy for me. Running partners are the most honest people anywhere. The elements just require it.

:).

Letting go is seldom easy ~~ whether it's letting go of our children, our parents, or our childhood feelings. But jast as the root systems of plants often have to be divided for healthy growth to continue, the different generations within a family may have to pull apart for a while for each to find its own healthy identity.

Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers: Things to Remember Along the Way. Fred Rogers

A wing

It's lovely and quiet at 3:06 in the morning. The wind is terribly cold outside.

I went to church tonight and found a spot on the last row on the second level. It's a good perch to watch people, to scout out my sixtysomething good friend and her husband. It's a comfort to see them: her blood pressure, his heart are functioning. She's still alive and spunky to affirm her life and me, which she's quite good at, without judgment or the righteous discernment. She bears with me, and she says it's reciprocal. A blessing. She blesses others too, seems to have a wing that she spreads outward, and we all know she's a safe retreat from cold wind. Once afer a terrible teaching day at high school, when the students failed to separate fiction from historical accuracy, when the other teachers grouped together, and I felt on the outside, I called her. "What are you doing?" An indirect scream for help. "Going into a department store to shop. What's going on? I can meet you." And she came over near the high school, my sweet reminder of women who cared, a Christ-abider who abided, and we had coffee, and she confirmed my identity in Love. She's one person who knows my thin tatters of being a human but can also recognize a royal robe on a beloved child. She picked me up to follow my daughter to the emergency room. She's prayed much for me. I'm quite blessed to have her in my life, like others whom she quiety nourishes.

Tears of gratitude.

Soon I need to sleep. We have a busy week ahead. We have a decisive week ahead as my husband must determine which of three offered jobs he will take. I'm wondering if we'll stay here. I'm wondering if my friend can still be part of my weekly tangible life.

I pray for courage and clarity

"And why do we have all these troubles? Because they done gone and ate that apple?"

I'm still smiling at the excellent question and attitude she displayed along with it tonight with her reddish black cornrows glistening and her eightmonth belly projecting. The apple is what our weighty grief balances upon? The rebellion of two who communed with God in the best possible world, the Garden of Eden, caused this pain and suffering? It's all so ludicrous in a way, unbelievable, mythical despite the literal-reading demands of my earlier congretation. It's a question that once made me lose my faith (with help from Twain in "Letters to Mother Earth").

It's a question I still wrangle with and am more comfortable with the evidence of damage: corruption, death, sickness, terror, envy, anger, shame: more comfortable seeing the results than analyzing the components of the scenario from which it issued. My Genesis "willing suspension of disbelief" is set into action, although it is craziness to believe in it. I've heard the literal belief in the Adam and Eve story called backwoods. Primitive. Ignorant. So forth.

So be it. If it launches me correctly into what appears to be the truth of faith, then I'll believe it somehow with humility.

The truth of faith was there again tonight in the circle of women. Those who can state still, stated it. Those who can listen now, listened (there I sat). Those who can question, questioned with a gesture.

The clear visionaries and discerners told us about the truth of faith. I began to get a hope again in my heart that I can want a fuller presence again; that I will allow it. The top comes off and the pitcher pours something warm like chai tea to flood to the toes. Renewal of the mind ... who is your god ... being silent ... giving up others to His work ... support. All those words, morsels of juicy steak, began to become nutrition again to a daughter who picks at her food, quite preoccupied with minimizing, minimizing, minimizing, to make up for a lack and to create one. May you lay out your long table of delectables, Lord, within my Spirit again. Amen.

The doomsday clock in our homeschool kitchen reflects the fact that my son has few minutes until I punish by dire consequence of no gaming. The public school children are out gallavanting and sleeping and watching Disney channel (due to the ice), yet here he is writing a poem, rewriting, having a mother tell him why learning is important for him. Sigh. Will it click? Or, will the clock tick? Aiiiiii ... !

In MLK's "I Have a Dream" speech, the crescendoing content of the rhetoric always causes me to sniffle a bit and pause while I'm going over it with Cody. It's just the most beautiful speech ever written by man, I believe. And, the courage and the fight for justice ... always brings out the idealist in me, and it makes me sniffle and happy that good can prevail over wrong. You can hear it and see it at this site:.

We had school today, even though the holiday, in which we paid homage to MLK, Cody ate a cupcake, and I sniffled. We also read about El Cid, health safety tips in hot weather (dreamy!), did penmanship, and the everpresent division. Perhaps there was more. I'm not sure.

I haven't been out of the house for four days! The ice isn't impairing me as much as my mental approach to the ice. It's as if my house is perched upon an icy slope high above Lake Lucerne, and if I go outside I might slide into the cold lake which I remember from the summer stopover in Switzerland. And, then Missouri might not even be a reality and I will be flailing my arms and panicing in the cold water and not doing the H.E.L.P float in cold water (which is like a cannonball posture) which Cody read about today in his health book. Ah, too many scary things out there, and I've got lots of songs and duties to perform here in the home.

I do have an appointment, though in a couple of hours to deliver some food to a family whose mother is dying. I need a cause like this to free me into the elements. If I slide into a ditch, I will get out and hoof my roast on over, because they live only perhaps a couple of miles from me.

It's snowing lovely flakes outside now. Isn't this what winter is all about: being secluded, resting up, accepting the mixture of harsh and sublime. Being in a stupor, eating too much, spatting with the husband some. Life in January in the Midwest. It's quite normal.:)

The news burst out tonight that the two Missouri boys had been found, even the one missing for four years! It is wonderful; my thoughts wandered many times to him and the sad mystery and his suffering parents. Now, he's found, along with the other innocent child who was snatched. Thank God!

There's been tiptiptapping all day on the skylights as the "wintery mix" descends, presses. Unfortunately, a bag of tulip bulbs went unplanted, I see, and now the ground is frozen again.

Life has been quite musical lately for me. Every Wednesday night (and some Friday nights), I pack my notebook of songs and mandolin and travel within a two mile radius (it seems that my area of town is an epi-center for bluegrass musicians unbeknownst to me before!) to an unknown man's house where I gather in the circle of unknown men. And, we uncase together, and take our turns to choose a song and perform a break if we're daring, or good enough. I'm not good enough, but I am daring and try fumbling along in a solo from time to time during the session.

The dynamics are quite rewarding within the group. I'm conditioned by women's groups where we link, connect, introduce, and reveal. Here, I just sit mostly silently within the men who quip their occassional one-liners, but are basically there to be submerged in the unity of the melody. No introductions are ever garnered. It's both aloof and all-inclusive.

Wednesday, I sat by an attentive man who let me try out his mandolin. He murmured encouragement after my song choices and breaks. It was nice but unnecessary. The week before, I sat by a clawhammer banjoist who must not believe in drycleaning frequently. My. I missed the women then.

On Thursday nights, I go to my women's group down town in a rougher part, where the women are transparent about rough lives which God has led them from: prostitution drugs gangs pregnancy divorce addictions caring for children. We cry and hold hands standing afterwards for prayer; even if we're strangers, we hug goodbye. The Lord is thick within, making everyone intimate and trusting.

Then during the days, we school. Cody grows grows grows! He is very interested in a woman being the president of the United States one day. He's very interested in Hiroshima. We're having a Knight's festival at our home next Friday, if this tiptiptapping will ever stop.

The daughter slides around, learning, growing, somehow she'll be okay. The husband tries to figure out a huge career decision which would cause us to move or stay.

Tiptiptapping, tiptiptapping, tiptiptapping, always motion, always sound; life mixes and descends to coat us in newness, experience

Happy New Year!

Let the cleansing of bad, unhealthy habits begin again! I must admit, I must start anew myself.

Sugar
For over two months, I kicked my unwholesome addiction to sugar with excellent results (five pound weight loss, better mental clarity, less emotional ups and downs). It was one of those healthy worth-it experiences. All the evil sugary foods were replaced by those with nutritional content which had been placed to the side. Fruits, vegetables, milk, nuts never tasted so good. I felt healthier than I've ever felt before.

Immediately post-Halloween, I succumbed to several Butterfingers ... and then, slowly with moderation, but surely, I began to intake more sugar again. The crescendo began around my son's 12th birthday party (did you see the picture of that cookie cake? Mmmmmm...). Then around Christmas time, I began eating whatever I wanted, thinking of the purging to come on January 1st.

Now, it's January 1st, and I'm excited to resume back to life without sugar. For me, it's a much better life physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I would be stupid to not go back to it.

The cleansing feels good, too. Christmas, to me, bah humbug, can get so overridden with junk of much kind. I like the minimal season that's approaching, and one that readies us for the flourish of Spring. We'll have Valentine's Day when the stores try to overwhelm us with red and pink, the chocolate, the due-to-us emotional sugary rewards. But, for the most part, the months will be quiet and preparatory for a warmer time, another spiritual season which we can approach stripped down and dependent once more upon the better Sustenance. Plus, those coming bathing suit days .... ah!

If you are wanting to take out sugar from your diet, I would suggest joining the kicksugar yahoo group at kicksugar@yahoo.com There's excellent advice and support from these people who put this together. If you want support from me, just let me know, and we can be accountable to one another.

Take care, and let the new healthier year begin!