A LITTLE GRACE

EVERY SUFFERING can be blessed because it hollows out a place in us for God and his comfort, which is infinite joy.

Peter Kreeft, Back to Virtue

May I share this...

dying-6-year-old-girl-leaves-love-notes-behind

IN WHICH I CRY, AGAIN

A Gift From My Daughter Who Couldn't Possibly Have Known

son arms pulled her into his promise

spine folding over the drying case of her stiffness

and she wondered if he felt it

as though he were again infant and she could let down

and flow life

his lips brushing brow

hard with worry and softening floating memory

she keeps the house dimmer

cuts down November roses

monthly cycles scrape

tears

grey light seeps in

a daughter 's caress

floats down

as that leaf that somehow sighs

in ending

brilliant crimson gift

in living

in dying

her song is deep in dark underground of earth

of trampled muddied drink

of time taking and giving

where she will wait for spring

for the eternal

I received this sketch of a photo of me, in an email from my oldest daughter, who is away at school. I miss her terribly , and when I saw this , words just touch the surface . Of how much I love her, love my children, my husband. The reminders that keep coming down on my often gloomy soul. That I am loved. And I hope I love enough.

~~~shared with other Light seekers, receiving joy in the everyday and night of it all @ Chatting at the Sky

1000 Gifts, Angels and Heroes Among Us, In Remembrance

Dear Father,

Well Dad, here I am again writing you a few lines. I am all safe and sound but pretty well broken up. I have been trying to write a few lines to you all since we did our little job, but believe me Dad, I was so shaken up that I could not write. ... But say Dad, they talk about there being a hell, well we lived through it for three days and three nights. ... Just think, 48 hours without rations and hardly any water and stuck in the trenches not able to move, under shell fire, both shrapnel and gas for 24 hours, waiting for your turn to come, half choked and your eyes bulging out of your head. ..Oh father, it was cruel. I only hope and pray that I never have to go through the same again. The best friend I had, a Sergeant McLeod, shot, just the second fellow in front of me while we were crawling along the trench, there were 10 shot in as quick as you would say it. One went through a fellow and got me in the leg just a touch like a hot poker. I went to see the Sergeant and he died with just a shiver. I had to leave him, I could not touch him,...I got his cap badge and sent it to his Mother in Glasgow.

Do I remember to give thanks for the sacrifices? The storms and uncertainties endured. The dreams put on hold, years of living worn out , making do. What colour painted these sepia smiles, what songs danced through tired and hopeful bones .

As I stare at old photos and words, why am I now listening for their stories. Their voices.

I had already shut them out, anxious to write a story that isn't there. Eager to erase. Ashamed to admit. Closed down to them, as I supposed had been done to me.

My heart cannot tell lies to itself.

In the dark , alone, these eyes find me.

I am ready to listen. To see. To understand. To set words down so that I can connect all the people to each other. To us, and to the future of .

That poor box of history keeps getting moved from one place of relative unimportance, to another of easily forgotten. It's been misplaced and out of sight out of mind.

It's time to remember. To pay respects.

To learn and teach and honour.

To place them carefully in a place of gratitude.

May peace be with you

The photo above of my Great Grandfather was taken in 1905. The excerpt is from a letter sent home during the war in Ypres, France, May 1915.

This post is shared with the gratitude community @ Holy Experience

LESSONS FROM TEEN ATTITUDES

Imagine just flipping on the sunshine like that.

Turning around with love and acceptance and forgiveness.

Imagine not saying all those things that come to mind, things that want to spew forth and lash out , coming from that place where reason has gone to cower or sit in self-righteous indignation.

Imagine embracing and letting it go , and not puffing up and filling up , with anger or resentment or bitter crying out tears of that's not what I wanted to hear.

Could our perspective just change so easily, without going all the way there, all the way down , all the way too far past?

So that you have to dig around for extra pieces, rebuild from the dumped out mess of it all.

What if they have it right, these young at heart silly teen babes of mine. What if they know that we don't have time.

What if this is the last chance, the last day, the last moment?

The end of our forever to get it right.

What if we're supposed to let it shine on and forward, in case suddenly , as we believe, this is the beginning of how it is meant to be.

I unwrapped this gift from my children. Because they aren't the ones that always act like them.

Shared with the other posts @ Chatting at the Sky, for Tuesdays Unwrapped

1000 Gifts, Full Circle

I have driven past , walked by, jogged toward, rushed away. From the beacon that illuminates our neighbourhood. For 13 years.

In the fading light , dropping colours, slowing end of yesterday's time, I finally saw it.

The splendour and serenity of a warm and worn guidepost .

As a symbol of our subdivision, aptly named in representation, it points the way into our criss crossing of streets and crescents .

Yet I'd always seen it as a wreath on a door, a marker on a road, a sign.

In taking the time to look closely and hopefully bring home a few seasonal pictures, my breath caught and heart opened .

And it captured me , converting complacency and a take for granted attitude, into the power and flow of gratitude.

151. as a wellspring of life, lifted spirits, companionship, community,

152. as support, protection, safety, peace, home

153. as a blessing, providing roots for deep nourishing families, solid foundations to build strength and character and integrity

154. doors that welcome, shelter, invite, protect

155. windows of opportunity, views to tolerance and diversity and differences. Gazes out in hope, growth, new mornings, restful nights

156. reminders of how things change, or stay the same. Validation. Promise. Grace coming down and up and around without end, in spite of , instead of , because of , always.

157. comings and goings of years, seasons, stages, despair, excitement. The passing of time, pets, loved ones, neighbours. The changing of patterns, ideals, priorities, situations, friends, attitudes, sight.

158. the predictable, sameness, rituals, expected. The norms, the same olds , the tried and true, the truth and proven good .

159. the subtle shifts, the gradual steps, the little things that make a difference, the first attempt, the brave beginnings, the move to the right way

160. the inspiration to see the small as the whole. The one as the Body.

To view other shared lives of gratitude, visit the community at Holy Experience

FINDING A WAY

When grace descends , the world falls silent before it.

~Philip Yancey , What's So Amazing About Grace

I can only try.

I can believe that it is enough.

But then , I must , in gratitude, do it again, and still more.

I want to sit in the dark , in the shadows, and stay in the anger that protects me.

But then pride and selfishness will leave parts of me barren and without sight.

No one else can do these things for us I suppose.

If you are making your way into the Light, even ever so slowly, you are not alone.

We are not alone.

HERE I AM , THERE YOU ARE

An almost finished project , a donation to a great cause initiated by the one of the sweetest blogger friends I've come to know. If you aren't already a fan of Megan, of Sorta Crunchy , her authentic , wholesome, wise and gracious site... I encourage you to get to know her. Read about her faith, her love for her daughters, her concern for the environment, and her journey into book writing.

Time to get back to a charity I learned about last year , and plan to plunge full out crazy into when the last of the gardens get put to bed. I think this will be a whole post. With a mission.

Finished reading Writing Home , by the I don't know how she does it artist/writer ( and Mom, blogger , inspiring new friend that lives near my daughter and I'll write about more of this later) Cindy La Ferle. There is more to her website, and more to her life, that I'm eager and honoured to continue to learn the story of .

Making the best of where  unseen greater than invitations lead . Making it count for something, because we can. Because why wouldn't we.  A little giving here and there pulls us out of our Self and into the  each other. That's where we're called to be I think.

The hormones and cold fronts I can't avoid, but the light shifts I can do something about.

         Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us.  The labyrinth  is thoroughly known.  We have only to follow the thread of the hero path, and where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god.  And where we had thought to slay another we shall slay ourselves.  Where we had thought to travel outward, we will come to the center of our own existence.  And where we had thought to be alone, we will be with all the world.

                                                                                                    ~~ Joseph Campbell

1000 Gifts, the village

~~ edited to add to the Unwrapped Tuesdays posts with Emily of Chatting at the Sky. I am still walking around full to the brim with revisiting these memories, and while I used time allotted for other things that I now must scramble to achieve, it was the story that I wanted to be written for the day. For a day of living with more than just folded laundry.

The conversation began with that laugh of remembering, so I sat to sew a button back on a coat, and started at the beginning with my youngest.

Her fingers turned the sleeves and we counted pudgy smiling cheeks like reading name tags over their hearts.

I agreed to babysit first one and then another and then they came in and out the front door over and over , in and out of the years and endless minutes of small child mothering.

Our home opened half-day or 2 hour gaps.

The every other day , once a week, or 2 day halves part-time, adding on to us , but still leaving it as just , enough.

Cindy La Ferle, in her book, Writing Home, notes in one of her brilliant essays on finding the sacred in the suburban,

" They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I've never doubted this maxim. But I've also grown to believe it takes a village to raise a mother."

I couldn't agree more.

I wonder if any of these precious children that passed through our lives realize how much of a gift they were to us. To what my children are becoming. Are.

To me as a person, a woman, a mother. A child.

I am so grateful to each and everyone one of them.

In His image they were made. Unique and important.

I hope the storms that were sometimes rumbling in the distant me didn't cross their dark clouds over my face too much.

I hope I looked them in the eye and hugged their souls , sending them out with a little more joy. A little more pride and sense of community and creativity and empathy.

I hope that by sharing what little we had , what little I could muster up some days, their growing up hearts have a little full space that belongs to us.

For coming into my life just the way you were, at just the right time, I so appreciate you.

I couldn't find pictures of everyone, and in most some of mine are included.

And they are not in order.

In humble gratitude ,

Pria Matthew Wesley Andre Concetta Sonia Jessie Michelle

Borden Tyler Mark Paul Daniel Christopher Jonathan Laura

Kaitlyn Jason Dana Kira Jessica Samantha Brooke Ryan

141. for crafts , and all their messes. Bins and pails and piles of art , creativity , and your sparklings

142. for trips to the park, and along the path, down to the lake, over bridges, up ravines, and into snow forts

143. for games and contests, mini-olympics, and races, winning and losing and playing fair

145. for sharing, and waiting, and letting go and missing a turn

146. for books, from our shelves or yours, from the library, or homemade, for the stories we read together or alone and for helping you make a few pages of your life one

147. for singing and dancing and clapping and bopping. Letting happy and you know it voices layer the walls of all the rooms , the streets, our beings

148. for quiet times, and listening ears, and gentle fingers and holding still . For rest and renewal and patience and peace

149. for dress-up and superheroes and make-believe and pretend. For weapons and wands, helmets and princess gowns. For being strong and brave and innocent and wishful. For knowing what I should have, and believing it.

150. for lessons and examples and exploring and guiding. For globes and maps and secrets and ideas. For different languages , cultures, ideas , foods, and faith. For having it without question, and teaching it to me

This post is shared with the Gratitude Community , a gathering of thankful and joy seeking hearts. It is an attitude that is life changing, life making, and yours for the keeping.

GOOD ENOUGH

No Longer For'

Nor Behind

I Look in Hope or Fear

But Grateful, Take the Good I Find

The Best of Now and Here

Here's to a weekend full of living and loving and maybe some laughing.

Here's to a day where even the dog says come on come on come on.

I keep those words on a piece of paper in my purse.

I try.

Sometimes the cold morning air claws at me .

I scoop out loving, trying to even out the sides of the hole.

Now. Here.

~photo of our dog, Diesel, quote from source unknown( to me)

1000 Gifts,The Three Sisters: A Modified Version

The grilled red peppers spit and deflated in the crisp morning sun, ready to be used as part of our Thanksgiving menu in Roasted Red Pepper Soup, along with Prime Rib, stuffing etc.

I had spent the dark of the morning looking through photo albums trying to find the Harvest picture that captured the essence of our years of celebrating this holiday. I came to the conclusion that we've had incredibly varied experiences. None better or worse. Just different.

Adapting to sports events, opportunities for short vacations, school schedules, and company.

This year just the six of us eased into the dining room at a leisurely late afternoon point. A daughter's voice on the speaker phone confused the dog as he tried to figure out where best to work his sad and starving look.

It was abundant and ordinary, quirky and routine.

Gratitude let's you receive it as more than enough.

Let's you see through Friday's stubborn rain keeping the day in a grey morning state while you head out of your city to the next . To joust for groceries, aisle room, parking spaces and turning lanes.

When the road has turned into a highway in what seems like just these past weeks, strip malls and stoplights and commuters clouding the view of horse ranches, farm fields, and crumbling mills.

You're in a slow motion trance, smelling the frying eggs as the audio book pages fill the car and seep out into the rivers where the ditches are inching up and you wonder if you could float alongside the cattails instead of riding the shopper ' s car in front of you.

No wiper speed seems to be right, and you're trying not to get cut off again, and at least the construction mess is finally behind you.

It seems completely normal when ever so quietly just then, with the warning of flashing lights dimmed behind the shower door, that you see 3 cows, possibly sisters, grazing in the bent green of the shoulder. Today the fence was finally in the way and it crumpled easily and freed them just enough so that when you get home to start doing what families do you're as thankful as they probably are.
Sometimes things just come one after the other, unfolding just as they can, and happening just when they do, and it fills you with a sense of peace. Like how the first frost dusting all the shingles like gingerbread will remind you that you always forget that it can, what with everyone wearing shorts just the hours before.

Seasons melt and wrestle and take turns whether you dance rituals for them or not.
It's routine and extraordinary .

Only the awareness of it as a gift for which you are about to receive sits you in the chair at the table of thanksgiving.

shared with the Gratitude Community @ Holy Experience. The routine and extraordinary.

MOTHERS, MARY, AND OBEDIENCE

L.L. Barkat , at Seedlings in Stone, is leading a community of discussion about Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

I wasn't raised Catholic, but converted as part of marriage. While I don't pray to Mary, I pray for her wisdom .

With dignity and grace she submitted to God's will, and for that type of elegant faith, I can pray without ceasing.

These poems are offered as part of the Random Acts of Poetry prompts. The first one refers to a trip I chaperoned with my eldest daughter's class . Part of the tour included the Saint-Anne de Beaupre Basilica in Quebec City.

The second is from an earlier post .

students at the temple

i rode the bus

with gr.8 hormones

clicking tongue at the short skirts, screeching , hacky sacks, and cursing

the talking before and after and during

not sure I was getting this

the mothering stuff

who was i but a child

riding the edge of my seat

to grandma's house

tell it to me straight

not that bed of roses from eye corner while i'm shushing and kneeling

meet me in your mother's garden

reconcile the questions

whisper the secret under her cloaks

even then in the shrine

they slipped away

rushing ahead so that they lost me

turning my holy moment

into angry pursuit

past corners of marble and plaster and mosaic

until i found them

those too young know it alls

and they offered no explanation but their tears

seeking

burning candles

dancing hands in the sign of the cross

i should have known

should have believed it of them

better than me

past their pulled down jean waists and black rimmed eyes

through the human to the divine

through Saint-Anne and Mary

and the bleeding blood of us all

to His

THINK IT TRUE

I'd like to think
that I would give you all my possessions. Even the good stuff.
I'd like to think
that I will always be in the stands for you , cheering, praising, craning neck to catch a glimpse of you coming around the corner, in the crowd, pushing to the front so you see my salutes to your triumph , feel the joy in your victory, support in your losses and misgivings.
I'd like to think
that I'd bow without prompting, padding your way , easing your journey, smoothing the road with my stooping and serving.
I'd like to think
that I'd trust in you, have faith and believe , even if I don't understand the explanations you gave, quietly respectful when you choose to show me without words.
I'd like to think
that I would find joy in my life even if you fill it with immeasurable suffering .
I'd like to think
that I wouldn't curse you or turn from you or doubt that you ever loved me at all.
I'd like to think
that I will always give thanks. For all the gifts. All the grace. Even if the packaging is a little misleading.
I'd like to think
that I wouldn't judge you or condemn you or forsake you.
I'd like to think
that knowing you and loving you will always be enough.

I'd like to think
like Mary, and just let will be done.

As your mother.
As your wife.

Hosanna

photo from Saint-Anne de Beaupre website

THE PARK BY MY HOUSE

Just here, right over there, marks the beginning of me.

I over think everything.

I suppose.

But I wander.

It's what I did that day, as black capes gathered in sorry whispers when my father took his life. Our life. That perhaps wasn't much of anything but rented or resented.

I felt it breathing down my neck and I ran to the tracks, the secret place where our 10 year old legs snuck. Cutting through and behind and past , so we could cross over to ice cream and secret gardens and bleachers where some of them lit up.

What was it about lines of steel and rush of air and noise that cut through morning groggy and dark evening news.

Why do I still pick gravel from wet sandals and catch burrs and a sweater to squeeze through into the enchanted forest.

Kiss the top of my head here sun.

I've joined the ancient circle.

I want blood red sumac batwing sleeves.

I want birch bark anklets and hayride damp thighs and red sand running down my cheeks.

I want to wear a poncho of fog rising off the river and dance with pine cones jingling from hips.

You meet here too.

In the crackle, with mold and death and dark pushing your hands into your pockets.

You troubled teens, or angst filled tweens, or wandering 10 year olds.

Looking for the breath coming down with the moon drops and running under your shirt and skin and into your soul.

Wanting totem pole cornered rings to help you pray to the gods.

So the river of blue skies and red valour and white peace will run off in the rain and wash over and into the green of your earth and the black of your power.

And you'll keep dancing and swaying to the beat of a living heart.

These words are shared as part of Tuesdays Unwrapped @ Chatting at the Sky. I refreshed my soul with a simple walk to the park this morning. An ordinary day, a sacred gift.

It is also the beginning of some thoughts connected to the book club of sorts at HighCalling Blogs, in a discussion lead by Laura. If you've never visited all of the amazing and inspiring and beautiful people that work and play there , go ...wander.

1000 Gifts, the wholeness of the picture

 

 

 Just an ordinary week of perspective.  Being carved out, tested, stumbling, and losing my focus.

   What often  appears wicked, or sinister, or barren,  can of course , more importantly, mirror our self.

   I am grateful for the reality of our lives, that throw us into conflict with illusion. I take solace in all of the  ugly, and angry, and broken. There is always the impossible to ignore dark of my own making.

   But then the illuminating. See beyond and through and  with eyes rested from the sacred places,      

   present in the eternal.

131.  refuge from cruel words
132.  silence to allow others to speak


133.  gossip that ended where it started

134.  temptation to retaliate, to rant , to hurt, that ended in strong comforting arms of my husband,  wrestling with his own fury about these sports situation, drawn first to lean on each other






135. pride in a child's humble acceptance of an award, knowing she understands that it wasn't all about her, knowing she doesn't want it to be

136. gaining new friends, realizing others really never were, and accepting the bigger purpose in all this

137.  being appreciative for days  that may appear impossible and feeling them unfold as uniquely beautiful

138.  fear of the unknown, of the consequences of our actions or lack of and reassuring moments of a presence  greater than our worries

139.  bitter thoughts that reveal vanity and pride and insecurities, again

140.  home and family  as sanctuary, and determination to keep  sweeping my dusty corners to keep it that way

posted with the Gratitude Community, counting the gifts , with Ann Voskamp @ Holy Experience

          

MAIDEN FAIR

If everyday, I could meet your little face at the door, laughing, as you kick up gold dust,

a cascade of gilded candy apples leaving a trail from the outside in

Where you've ridden a pumpkin coach in a snowglobe world to grow richer and wiser and slowly inside out

Would I?

Like some commandment of mothering?

Because there are the days

When you knock out my breath, gold flecks glisten on soup steam and gushing tears.

In silence I try to answer all the timeless questions, as you brush off cinders.

Would I lean over the wishing well and take away the mystery?

My hands stroke sun gold and satin softness that stood tall against a bully. That found the words to make it stop.

When you comforted and embraced the shocked and innocent and still grieving friends, were you wrapping yourself in our each other?

In our One body?

Perhaps we cannot dance in sparkle dreams where leaves swirl about clinging like armour .

We must greet each other in doorways and windows of the unsolved, the painful, the unjust.

And chose our words and our silences.

And our actions.

Carry the love of our neighbours as ourselves into the misty mornings and dark nights.

SCRAPS AND STUFF

***edited to add***

I am sharing this as my Tuesdays Unwrapped post with Emily and all the wonderfully inspiring bloggers that I am learning about and loving through her site @ Chatting at the Sky.

I am not sharing to show off the lovely award that the amazing Erin gave me. Honest.

But I do want everyone to know how much I appreciate them and to give a huge cyber hug and teary Thank You to Emily.

I can't begin to explain how much joy and insight and confidence she gifts by just being herself . And then to have the opportunity to share in this life altering coming together of beautiful spirits just floors me. Honestly.

So I think it would be fitting to share these little about myself words, and to let you know how terrifying it was to write this, and how it moves me to new places to have you guys to share it with .

I know that I have a community of trying our best broken and working hard and praying for grace always people to receive it.

Thank you ! You didn't have to . But I'm glad you did.

This picture from our honeymoon was the first thing that came to mind when I read that Erin, of Together for Good fame, had honoured me with a blog award.

Thank you for thinking of me, for reading my "stuff", and for being in this blogland. I can't begin to say how much the encouragement and authenticity of blogs like yours means to me. You are a sweet soul, and share your heart and it blesses.

Can I assume this provides an opportunity to share some of those "things you don't know about me " bits.

For better or worse.

As Erin so wisely quotes on her site, good true words among many , "when we love God, all the things that happen in our lives are working together for our good. "

So for some naughty and nice,

1. My firstborn, a son, was conceived outside, in the hills of Tuscany. While we obviously didn't know it at the time, the above "Hills are Alive" snapshot now says other things, like "Touchdown" , and "Yeah, Baby" , and "I' m the Man".

2. I have a degree in Economics, and a partial one in Commerce. I used neither in my years as a stay at home mom, part-time daycare provider and volunteer. Unless you count squeezing our tiny budget to allow for vacations. They weren't fancy or all-inclusive , but I hope they've contributed to the core of who my children are. Looking at oceans and mountains and forests and sand . Together.

3. I used to own a small restaurant/catering business with my sister-in-law. We had no idea how much work this would take and got out while the going was good. While sometimes tempted to return to this passion in some manner, my husband quickly reminds me about the 24/7 thing. My children eat well I think, if the mood strikes, but usually everyone is in a big rush and has helped themselves to most of the groceries, and we end up with gourmet pairings like veal in a white wine sauce with frozen fries.

4. I wooed my husband in our university pub by boldly buying him and his engineering buddies a pitcher of draft. With my student loan money. Which he later paid back.

5. I birthed 5 babies without so much as a Tylenol, and now start many mornings with 2 extra strength ones, and a couple of extra strength Ibuprofen. And prune yogurt with probiotics, and no more than half a coffee so that I can go for my run without a potty break. Refer to previously mentioned multiple births.

6. I moved at least 11 times growing up and dreamed of letting my own children know the stability of one home and neighbourhood. Roots. We moved only once , not too far, and while it hasn't been easy for my husband because he has to travel for work quite a bit, we hope it has been worth it.

Ironically I covet all the exciting stories of families who transfer and travel and live unconventionally. But I kind of have a history of running away from stuff, and don't want to drag my kids into my baggage.

7. I had crazy long hair like a Crystal Gayle wannabe, and finally broke down at age 20 for the first haircut I could remember. I imagine my mom must have taken me when I look at some of my shorter cuts before the age of 8 or so, but upon closer inspection it is more likely she went for it herself.

8. I don't really crave chocolate like I'm apparently suppose to, and I'm mostly vegetarian and gluten and lactose intolerant. The latter two totally mess with my head ( and stomach) , because I love beer and pasta and cheese and cheese on pasta, or stuffed inside, or well, thank goodness I love wine more than beer, and then just have to groan and moan about my mother-in-law's homemade pizza that she forces me to eat . Because she is Italian, and I am not, and obviously don't eat enough.

9. My taste in music is kind of eclectic. My favourite songs include She Sells Sanctuary by the Cult, Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin, and Pie Jesu by Charlotte Church.

10. In my tiny box of keepsakes from a less than perfect childhood, my most precious belongings are the bible given to me by my Aunt, and a bookmark given to me by a Sunday school teacher the Easter when I was 4. " I am the light of the world" , it quotes, JOHN 8-12.

I know, I have always answered.

I always just wanted to be a wife and mom and a writer when I grew up, and I think my dreams have come true. I'm going to keep working on the writer part I hope.

Better late than never and all that. If my children can forgive me for all the mistakes I made figuring out this mamma thing... I can forgive myself and open that box and let the light out in answer too.

~ I'm suppose to pass this on to other fabulous bloggers, and will probably use the email route.

STILLNESS AT THE BOTTOM

I don't know how to get to the top.

I know that I need to start with the first step.

Perhaps I'll find myself midway for awhile.

Neither up

Nor down

But in the grey mist

Like today

Where I can hear far off sounds

Like those Sunday drives to the river

The knocking of lighter fluid cans

Blending with laughter and water rubbing stone

Where I lost my ring but you showed me how to find it with a plum stemmed glass

Where I was afraid to look down

Afraid to look up

Just frantically molding sand to capture our now

COLLAGE

Oh what is a mother to do? I try to inspire. To enlighten. Live a little artsy. Leave poetry books near the remote. Fabric swatches next to the Fruit Roll Ups. Bring the camera to rainy soccer games and encourage a meander. A heart and eye aware.

And crafts like this appear on the fridge.

A combination Frankenstein's Top Model and What Never to Wear.

Seriously.

I give up. I laugh . At them. Myself. In the chaos of dinner dishes and neglected emails and missing socks.

Art surrounding me.

Priceless.

~~ unwrapping this tuesday gift with Emily of Chatting at the Sky

1000 gifts, Witness

The ever so beautiful you.

Caught in the rain, in afternoon sun .

Wearing teardrops of joy, of worry, of empathy, of humble thanksgiving.

For surviving against the odds, remaining radiant and reserved and living for others first.

The captivating bride, daughter, sister, friend. A source of joy and hope and grace and love.

120. gathering in community on this , the day yours dreams came true

121. knowing we share that embrace, the holding onto what is good, as friends who love deeply, genuinely, joined to share

122. the simple, the traditional, the classic

123. for autumn sun

124. for beads, sequins, glitter, tea lights flickering, reflecting, shimmering, glistening, holding, promising

125. laughter and dancing, filling in , and up and cups running over

126. comforting words, wise blessings, fond memories, prayers for the future

128. honouring with our presence, in reverence and purpose

129. smiles and blushes and hugs and nearness, remembering our call to be selfless and strong

130. moments of celebrating our living, together in our paths of good and challenge, change and renewal, in Trust

~shared with the Gratitude Community graciously and generously hosted by Ann Voskamp @ Holy Experience.

WALK INTO THE WILD SIDE

He recognized me first , but it was the belonging to that spun me round.

Is this what time does, time that rushes us along using it and saving it ?

Then distorts the living of it.

I grasped for my husband with a pleading and gush of old and younger. The graying, the creases, the filled out shapes of us that joined burdened arms like our wilder dancing beings.

My heart remembered the love.

We stood among airport strangers and knew we weren't, and the face was in the pages and the making of us yet still I was in the waking. Our smiles saying oh my god I don't believe this hello and how are you and I was groping for the light switch , for the floor beneath my feet, for the clock to align me in the now.

There had been a wrenching and a family broken. There had been a wedding and babies and blankets thrown on couches and tequila and a stolen dog.

Gasping for air laughter , clutching for breath crying. Housewarmings, coffee runs, bar hopping and piling into cars.

Taking us and bringing us and growing us up and tearing us apart.

And like a forgotten phone number or soccer mom name, this layer of me was ground as though sand. Having run through gnarled and rambling fingers and days.

The naming of it was in the wisdom. The intimacy.

We shared our more of the same , with a few more children than he knew of.

He shared what we couldn't have know. That he was not the same. Was more. And yet we did know , and it didn't matter , and he beamed when updating us about his children that he'd never stopped being a father to, but now stood somehow redeemed and full and overflowing.

We hugged our see you laters and how is it possible that we managed to run into each other and he rushed off to fly his plane, and we rushed to call a cab.

"It's because we still have our tree", he whispered, holding my hand in the old togetherness of us. The older us.

"I can't believe we couldn't remember his name. He was such a part of our lives."

We planted the tree , the little sapling wedding favour when she remarried .

When we sold our house it lived stubbornly in a pail, and then against all odds shoved in a holding spot . We couldn't bring ourselves to toss it out. So we used it in our final landscaping plan in a corner along the pool edge. A too small crowded by stones spot . And we waited for the inevitable .

But the Colorado Spruce has grown beyond reason. A prickly blue green anchor . A pointing skyward pillar. Of faith. And hope.

He didn't care that a name was lost for a few minutes, buried in years long lines of talking and learning . He cared that we saw what it stood for.

And in a glimpse of memory escaping , run off with endless mornings and nights of doing and thinking and putting it behind me, I know it will be that wanting to stroke the face of you love that remains.

That matters.

That keeps us wherever time tosses us.

MISGUIDED DO OVER

Missed opportunities. Regrets.

When I look through photo albums I feel as much guilt as I do joy and pride. How many perfect shots did I miss. How many outings and moments and milestones and adventures were captured by others either for me, or in spite of me.

I carried a camera for years but left it in my purse or passed it to my husband or sister-in-law , and then later my children. Sometimes shyness could take the blame. Sometimes just being in the moment of it. Often my mind was partially elsewhere, not in the now at all, but flitting nervously about the brain list. Things that weren't going right, or needed to still happen just so, or would now require more doing.

Sometimes it comes down to the performance. Why take a picture when the scenery isn't quite as I'd imagined. The costumes aren't up to par. Like the little girl me trying to play dollhouse with her life with used and broken and missing pieces. Except life can't be staged.

And when I look back at the holidays, the birthdays, camping trips and blur of seasons, it was all so glorious. How unbelievably wouldn't want to change a thing wishes come true astounding.

Of course there was some drama behind the scenes, or right there in the thick of it. But life is all of this and more.

So I'm posting the above picture. Click on it for a better image.

The first time we visited this breathtaking church in Arizona, I couldn't bring myself to take pictures inside. I didn't know if that was disrespectful or even permitted.

This time I was more determined. More sure of myself.

But there were people mulling about. Praying. Lighting candles. Taking pictures. Reading and reflecting. I waited and changed angles and grew more hesitant as others noticed me. I rushed and snapped and knew that I'd be disappointed when I downloaded the pictures.

There is too much contrast between the light and darkness.
There are people in the way of what I was trying to capture and share.

Yet I keep returning to this image.
My heart does know.


"Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. " Ralph Waldo Emerson


I am humbled yet again.
It is me who tries to simulate my moments sometimes.
It is me who is tainted and broken.

I cannot deceive myself.

As we are called to walk, in the here or there, to the vault of blue and rock , all is to be seen as sacred and beautiful.
Seething beneath the tender surface of me is judgement . Shamed out of darkness.

I share this, as it means trust. To see everything , not in the when or why not, but in the belief.

This post is shared with Tuesdays Unwrapped @ Chatting at the Sky.