I blame this little lady for my overpowering sugar tendencies.

Mmmmm.... they were all delicious. She's a wonderful baker (and mother)!

A Thanksgiving tradition:
Everyone was sore the next day, except for the spectator dog.

The feud between Harold and William set it off. Right before their medieval battle, a fireful, fearful flash streaked in the sky. It was a bad omen for Harold as he fought for the English throne. He was killed in battle and William the Conqueror, from Normandy no less, became victorious and was crowned! Yeah for the Normans (so saith some of them)!

Halley's comet was therefore documented in a tapestry depicting the two foes. Scientists later were able to use this to help measure the frequency of the 76 year repetitive orbit.

From that point on, Cody had a million questions, and we researched. And, coincidentally, Astronomy day was orbiting unawares until I saw a notice regarding a lecture at an area high school's planetarium. It was on meteorite impacts in Missouri. And, we hustled and bustled over there late one evening to hear how we are not immune to devastating hits here in the middle of the U.S. A big geologist scientist huffed and puffed and told us so. We also saw the missives which had been dropped or drilled out. Then, the planetarium owner/teacher lit it up and we were staring at the seven sisters, and the evil eye of Medusa, and Pegasus.

Cody was happy to hear that Venus could be seen with the naked eye here in a couple of weeks. He loved the word naked. Yes, in your southwest sky, look for the bright star which is quite the lovely planet, Venus.

And now in the latest National Geographic, we see that the feature of the spread is on Saturn. There's even a pull out map!

Homeschooling has no rivals, me happily thinks. And, so, here on this Thanksgiving week, I am happy for all the syncronism that just happens when it comes to learning.

Yeah for William the Conqueror!

The sermon this weekend was outstanding; I take back what I said about my pastor's irrelevant sermons ~~ I could certainly relate to this one. We often lean on rickety stools for relief from our pressures / desires (and thus the pastor leaned upon one) instead of the firm seating upon which our Lord provides. This firm seat has no other problems surrounding it that could cause us to crash down. I need to go to the sturdy more often than the shaky.

He also commented that trying, trying, trying isn't enough to overcome our genetic spiritual weakness, our sin nature. Only trusting in grace, and not our own efforts, will work.

Ah, often I set myself on fire for not trying hard enough. I forget about grace which will help me, guide me, uphold me. Trying is important, yet perfectionism is impossible which is what I often seem to judge myself by.

Afterwards, an elder banjo picker from my bluegrass weekly class stopped me and asked if we could get together to play some time. Others will too. I think the music migration from the south to the north is occurring. Heehaw! Us'ns are pickin'&grinnin' in the city!

I wonder if this is the season's last floral bouquet? Anyway, I'm thankful for their tenacious blooms. God made mums for melancholy.

Cody strikes his muscular Viking pose with the yummy non-yeast Viking bread that he helped make. It was delicious dipped in herbal oil. I wonder if the Vikings did that too? They probably dipped it in the blood of the Franks ... aiii!

The foreign language public school teacher came out and shook my hand today when Cody hopped in the car after his class. She praised his efforts, and I could tell that she was proud of him as a student, despite some earlier difficulties. I'm proud too which is why I'm unabashedly sharing! He received a B+ for his class grade. Yeah!

My daughter's grandmother died earlier this morning of the cancer. It's all sad. I'm glad that I was able to say goodbye to her. My daughter is naturally extremely sad.

The elections ... wow! They're over. A calm is settling. The old pattern of change in the House and Senate happened during a president's second term. We'll see. Missouri here surprised me with its vote on several issues. Cody had thousands of political questions as we went to the polls, lit a candle yesterday for God's favor, and followed the coverage. All learning experiences.

I'm wresting with a huge country ham for a bookclub dinner tomorrow evening here at my home. I have a thousand things to do before approximately 16 women come over. Must stop blogging then!

The thought of "mailbox by mailbox" keeps me going in the morning when I want to extend my course a bit farther. It's easy for me to get near the end of my run and feel as if quitting is completely due me. My mind and body begin working together so that when my feet go past the designated mailbox, I'm slumping, holding my side, leaning over, and walking slowly the short distance home.

However, these days, the idea of persevering through the process of discipline is enough to motivate me to try another mailbox. Anne Lamott expresses the idea in her wonderful writing book called "Bird by Bird" which talks about setting short-focused goals to help move you on a longer path. Don't think of the whole novel, think about the next paragraph.

I can apply this idea in much in my life! Here are a few for fun:

church service by church service ==> at times, I just want to skip the whole irrelevant relevant sermon my pastor preaches, yet I know its helped me before, and I know the discipline of going to church is a small act of worship.

tea bag by tea bag ==> I have way too many boxes of tea on my stove. Some boxes I've dipped into for at least five years now!

chapter by chapter ==> when I'm stuck wallowing in the lovely abstraction of a Thomas Merton book (and put it down to never return because I want to be stuck there without closure in the loveliness), I know there are a few more chapters from which I can learn from if I keep going.

lesson by lesson ==> at times, it's delightful, other times excrutiating ... the homeschool life can be both, and I need to keep planning and believing in the choice for my son.

beef by beef ==> we have about one package of beef left from my parent's farm: it is neck bones. Do I really wish to see this project to its final end??

political ad by political ad ==> November 7th cometh! I'm grateful for the political process and its deadline!

toilet paper roll by toilet paper roll ==> is it possible to create a mammothly big roll which lasts at least a week?!

forgiveness by forgiveness ==> okay, I'll try better.

kiss by kiss ==> an essential gesture to the loved one, even when it doesn't cross your mind for days!

pie by pie ==> that thought makes me happy.

Do you have any by-ies to keep you going? Please share if so!

Two different recent conversations caused me to think of the following wonderful poem, which means that I must post, must post. Enjoy!


THE PULLEY
by: George Herbert (1593-1632)

WHEN God at first made Man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by--
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way,
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

She was frail, small, shrunken upon her wheelchair. But her intelligent large eyes lifted as she saw me enter through the front door. The hospice nurse was wheeling her into a much needed shower, after an hour of her stubborn (il)logic refusing to yield to the cleaning process, the lack of control over small things.

We grabbed hands, hugged, and I kissed her cheek. She then looked at me and said, "Thank you. Sometimes a person doesn't use the chance to say 'thank you' and then they feel guilty, and time passes." And, I told her it had been an honor to know her and that she had been a good mother, grandmother, mother-in-law. A good and faithful servant that God would reward soon. She smiled and cried and was wheeled away.

Her husband related the deterioration struggles to me, and he wept, tired, bone tired.

After her shower, she came back fatigued, barely able to speak, and I rolled her light brown, graying hair for her..

We've had ambivalent feelings about one another in the past. Sixteen years ago, she was my mother-in-law, a complicated relationship bound by the complexities of her son's deep issues combined with my upbringing, and the clash and pain and the ending, all exaggerated perhaps by her (yet, when does a mother stop caring?). However, she proved herself helpful and caring and faithful in regards to her granddaughter. These last years, we have dialogued and prayed more than ever to figure out what we can do to love and work together for her.

The cancer will take over before too long. She watched me with her big, sad eyes, curlers all on her head, as I left. One final look perhaps before she peers over the edge and goes.

I was glad to have been accepted by her at the end. She is a noble person who will be missed. May God grant her serenity and comfort as she departs.

For some reason, in this season of strong natural outdoor pungency, I'm finally appreciating the old time sacrificial system. For instance, a young bull, or a baked bread, or an undefective animal, or a ram, or a tenth of an ephap of fine flour all are outlined for the honor in the chapter of Leviticus.

It's all rather strange still. We like our animals. We hold high the standard we gently call "caretaker" of created life. And, we follow a substitutiary system in the modern faith. However, I find comfort now in knowing that a strong elemental force of spiritual determination involved such sensory activities as burning grain, dipping fingers into blood, and, mostly, laying hands on the animals head in gratitude, honor, and obedience before asking of them the sacrifice.

I think if I lived back then I would cry for the animal, for the warmth of life under the fur, and for the serious commitment that its death would mean. The critter would be unaware in its innocence; the death, for it, would be unjustified. For some reason, I think perhaps this would make me feel even more obligation to attach myself to the meaning behind the symbolic act. It died, therefore, I would live in greater gratitude for what its death meant. Of course, for some, the loss of life itself would mean horror and sorrow and resentment towards the meaning/force behind the act. I've been there myself. Certainly, many wrongful acts of sacrifice have been committed, as we tend to sully things here on earth.

For some reason, though, in this pungent season, I can read this today and appreciate these ways of yielding to the supremacy of Spirit and the methods we've been given to speak to Him. Tangible things of smell and taste and sight, from tangible things like grain, mean, and horns, were the touchstones upon which we demonstrated our desire of communion.

Markers still remain, although different now with the ordained sacrificial act of Christ. I feel elated, at times, to be a part of the intricate, yet simply presented, touchstones of communion which ties back to the earliest records of our faith.

How pleasant must be the mind of the absolutist, I thought while punishing myself on the treadmill this morning. She/he knows the way to cut through the tangle of thorns I often find myself snagged upon. And, they cut through with such assurance, with a bit of swagger at times, with humble obedience to something in mind perhaps, with their directional compass rarely backtracking or moving to the right or left. They march down the trail, confident of their views, or the views of their advisors.

Perhaps I move also, yet my mind must absorb the particulars within the process, the individual thorns, the patch of light that breaks through. Advisors present their views of where to travel, but ultimately, I must sift it and view the other side of it, and then move on. It's not simply an intellectual process, but also one of an emotive nature. Perhaps it's caution or distrust or need for knowledge and wisdom before assertion. Perhaps it's indecisive foolishness.

All of these swirling thoughts come as a result of the constant croaking of politics that's going on right now. It's a croak which contains loud dissenting toad-views on multiple issues. On one side of the pond, the frogs croak loudly about morality issues, yet many individual frogs have been jabbed in acts of behavioral impropriety; these toads have also bombed the pond next to them which is now red with blood and horrible civil strife. The sanctity of toad life laughed at by the aggression of its neighbors. They also capture others and do not give them a right to a fair trial, as habeus corpus, an old golden rule of treatment, was taken away by their chief. It's quite a morally disappointing time for the frogs on this side. Yet, absolutists who believe in their ideals, and ideals which come from a higher spiritual source, march on for them, despite any deed done. Any damaging reports of these are disregarded with two highly powerful words: liberal press.

The other side seems a safer place to be at the moment. These toads are in the minority and do not have the power to change certain bedrocks of the civilization. They also wave the flag of compassion for the underrepresented on both sides. Supposedly. Yet these toads have no visible leader who can rally; they don't have the token blessing of language on their side which helps them to shape any beliefs into a palpable form which can be delivered to even small toads and be understandable. They don't stand on a rock, like the other toads across from them, as old prophet toad Moses did, in order to gain stature as a spiritual nature. Furthermore, they seem morally bereft, as one of their former chiefs indiscretely caused ripples of shame and guilt due to his horns, a perfect scapegoat toad. They often take the sides of liberty, despite the implications of it. They're in a bit of ruin right now, barely hopping, barely making splashes for any change.

Then there are issues such as stem cell research in the society at large there. Issues such as diplomacy standards. Other wars causing suffering among fellow frogs. Securing value of life to the born and unborn frogs (in war and in peace). Budget deficits and balancings (a budget is a moral document as well as a law perhaps?). Equal opportunity for all toads. Pond security. Pond natural disaster response. The list goes on.

I prayed this morning for an opening within the thorns for me to walk confidently down. Perhaps this will be granted; perhaps it comes from the hard work of truly peering into the limitations of frog government and into the thorns on each side; and into patches of clearing. I'm going to work at clearing a path; I know in what direction I lean, yet I've got to figure out if this is still good, despite the sights of those enviably tromping by me, so full of confidence in their direction.

I need to also pray and process upon why I use the anology of toads/frogs for my reflection this morning. Toads and frogs and thorny paths ... how about swans and gazelles and flower gardens!? I think I'm predisposed to 1) mix lots of bad metaphors! 2) see the political landscape as cold, squirmy, ugly, horny, and, um, disturbing. With all the soundbites of muck going on, it's the best I can muster!

What one feels when their teenage daughter is gone:

1) peace in the immediate air

2) unfashionably put together

3) failure

4) fear of headlines and doorbells

5) need of remaining family members

6) desire to scour garage sales for used nursery items

7) hope

8) eyeliner security ( no longer "borrowed"))

9) more fiscally responsible Saturdays

10) utter dependence upon God mixed with undulating faith

Our mother Kitty understands that her duty is to go for the jugular in case a robber breaks in during the middle of the night and interrupts her peaceful sleeping boy (who always finds his way to the couch around 3 a.m., grabbing his watchcat and preparing her bed as he goes). It's a good arrangement for both.

Some days, in the fall, when the sun becomes frayed by the clouds, wet leaves outside, on the ground, in the gutter, against the curb, seem quite sad and lonely. What I project on them boomerangs into my own presence against the glass, looking out, wondering where society and warmth are, wondering if I'll experience fullness again. I wonder where the Presence of life is, if it ever Is, if I ever knew it As. Hollowness haunts.

It has been an interestingly lonely type of day in this way. I had an old friend over to play music and for soup, but still something persisted and kept a sense of aloneness alive. As soon as the friend left, the feeling crescendoed into even more plaintive inward murmurings as if I had not seen a soul outside the cabin in a long time. As if a fuller emptiness had settled to stay. I looked out, and even in the cul-de-sac, it was only me and the gray sky and the geese and the wretched leaves, once living and green and hopeful, but now fallen, pasted, cold. One might could see this as the beautiful angst of the autumn season, the pulsations of the dying cycle, the final cries of end. We've been given the opportunity to participate in its own overt symbols and meaning, the reminder of earthly mortality. Still, the opportunity of this feels like a forced lesson, one we'd rather turn our eyes from.

Simply put ... it's just late October on a gray day with the sense of absence permeating the air.

I'm grateful for it's seasonal song, though. I feel lonely, but known as one with the hope of green growth in another season of good remembrance.

When I walked into her house, she had her instrument strapped over her neck, and she was plucking, picking golden sounds. It made me smile and think of houses that are full of music. I grew up with the constant clucking of a banjo, mandolin, or guitar coming from my dad who almost always had an instrument in his hand. I can still see him now staring out the window, practicing runs in an absent-minded dreamy way, as if somewhere there was a higher plane where everyone's fingers pressed forth to produce forth harmony. He taught all three of his children the rhythm guitar to accompany his runs. During special weekends, we had music parties, where men would show up with their instruments, and wives, and kids, and we would all become drenched together in the pouring forth of the full flow of hill music. I can still hear the three part harmonies and the instruments vying for leads.

Now, I'm trying to recreate that. My fingertips are buzzing even now from some obsessive practice, during television shows, when I have time between family and home duties. I feel as if somewhere there is a higher plane where music reigns.

I wonder if in other parts of the world (or perhaps in the States), a house full of music is perhaps in full swing right now? Surely this does not happen just in the developed parts of the world? Is music a luxury? Bluegrass developed really from the impoverished moutain areas in the 1930's, compliments of folks like Bill Monroe. The banjo even originated from Africa.

Did you grow up with a house full of music? Partially full? A little bit? What was that like? If you haven't, do you try to have a "house of music" now for yourself or for family? Please comment and let me know.

Thanks!

If life gives you an open mandolin case, by all means crawl in and purr like a princess. Tomorrow, you may find yourself begging at the back door only to find that your family has gone away for the weekend. Therefore, you should leave lots of variagated hairs wherever you like which helps the family remember who they may have left behind.

My husband is a rocker. Yes, in his day, he dug Chicago, Boston, and John Cougar Mellencamp whom he listened to in his blue, white vinyl topped 1973 Chevy Malibu. But what has transcended the charts and time is his affinity for the rocking chair. Any will do. He sits, reads, rocks, does his work, tells me his woes, eats, rocks, yells at Mizzou offensive coaches, holds a baby, rocks, brainstorms our problems, watches Andy Griffith and Little House on the Prairie (favorites) and rocks. If there was a rocking competition, his toes would be taunt, tenacious, triumphant!. We have many different rocking chairs all with different squeaks, thumps, glides throughout the home. I think he needs a shawl and an aphagan and a knit cap. He'll make a natural grandpa one day.

http://www.jesusrulez.de/pics/women_praying.JPG

During our parting prayer, Miz Verna thanked God for helping me let my daughter go this week. Some of the circled, standing, hand-holding women murmured, "Yayus" and "Amen". The expressions were mixed up, wrong, but right at the same time. A peace had settled in, a rightness to a prickly situation, and, for me, the women were affirmation markers, like breathing altars upon which similar sacrifices of raw blood had been spilt.

She's gone, observing her needs of defiance and independence. God granted me a parting gift, though: a hug and a mutual expression of love. A long time coming. It was an affirmation that my little one will remember my care and hope and desire for her. An affirmation that she's still able to receive love. May she be safe and a speedy learner, and open to God's murmurings.

May the Lord know that the state of my heart requires His constant presence.

When not asleep and worshipping the older cat, Jeremy is jumping on her head. Savoring (snapping) the peaceful moments around here.