Sometimes it better to lie down first...

... before you fall asleep. Click here to find out why.
(I wish the lighting was better.)

Happy 3rd Birthday, Joe!

Today, Joe turned three. We celebrated last night with cake, ice cream, and presents. We kept it small this year, since we've been having such a busy month, and at three years of age, Joe didn't really notice that he wasn't having the biggest party ever. His enthusiasm for his cake and presents was unparalleled. 'LOOK! My cake, it's a tractor!!!'

The other day, we sat down to lunch, Joe sitting around the corner of the table next to me. He gently laid his hand on my arm, and just looked at me with the biggest, squinty-eyed smile he could muster... like he had just told me the funniest joke ever. I couldn't help it. His joy washed over the place, and we just laughed. For no reason. What a great kid.

At Last...

Last Saturday, I prepared to move Chet and Waylon to the big tank. After allowing them to adjust to the new water for a while by slowly adding new water to the bucket they were hanging out in, I tossed them into their new environment. Waylon looked good. Chet... not so much.

I decided to put Chet back into the 'hospital' tank for another round of treatment and let him recover from his illness for a few more days.

Waylon spent the rest of the day against the far wall of the new tank. He didn't seem as if he was under stress, just uncertain. When Chris got home that evening, I had him unplug the bubble wall we had along the back wall of the tank. Immediately, Waylon started to swim around. I guess there was just too much going on, and all that bubble chaos freaked him out. It has been so nice to see Waylon glide around in the tank, not having to stop short at close walls, or just rest with his fins floating gloriously.

Today, I put Chet back in the big tank. He has recovered nicely. There is still some fog remaining in his eyes, but I am hoping the clean, new, bigger environment will wash away the rest of his stress and eventually he'll be back to 100%.

Now that Chet and Waylon are reunited, they are keeping close: catching up, I suppose. There is a third fish in the big tank... a little feeder we bought to test the water the day before I moved Waylon over. Finley has named him 'Jim'. I feel a little sorry for the guy. Waylon chased him around the first few days, and Jim would hide behind the aeration tubes. Waylon isn't pestering him as much, now and Jim is gaining some confidence, swimming out to the middle once in a while. We'll see how it goes.

Oh, and isn't the stand fantastic? Chris and I designed it together, and Louie (Chris' stepfather) built it for us. We had thought about putting some plant life in the tank, but I'm a little worried that the fish will just tear it up. I'm not so fond of the castle. (It was Chris's from a past setup.) I have my eye on a Chinese dragon statue I saw at the pet shop, but I haven't been able to justify the expense yet.

Revelation and Relationship

I see life these days through the eyes of a parent. It is the lens through which I interpret nearly everything. I think that it's a good thing, as it causes me to always add others into the interpretation, and not see life just in terms of my self.

As my kids grow (and I think I've mentioned this before), I find myself all too aware of the difference between actions based on rules and actions based on relationship. There is such a huge difference when the kids share toys because they have to, and the sharing that comes when they are enjoying each other and playing together.

A friend of mine had a vision. In it, she was touched by God, and on his fingers was written in wet ink the word 'worth'. She noticed that the word was transferred to her own hand, and she realized that she would give value to whomever she touched. She said it changed her... that she was more affectionate toward others, filled with the desire that they would know their worth.

How beautiful! When I read that, the thought ran through my mind, 'I need to be more affectionate.' Then I realized that unless my actions weren't based out of a change of my own heart, then I would have turned her revelation into a rule. And most can see that actions out of obligation are empty of love.

Isn't that really the greatest motivator and changer, love? I keep thinking about how empty life is without real relationship: relationship in which there is honesty and depth, the kind of relationship in which you feel truly known, the kind in which one is willing to cause some pain in order to bring to a greater healing.

It leaves me with a greater desire for revelation. It leaves me with a desire for deeper relationship with the Source, so that the place in me from which flows love can hold more...

I have long had this poem by Rilke on the wall above my desk:

I believe in all that has never been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing You as no one ever has,

streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

Another Day in the 'Dirt'

This morning, after an especially long soak in the shower while I thought too hard about things that probably don't matter, I was ready for therapy.

Thankfully, Zivah is taking a regular morning nap, so as soon as she drifted into dreamland, Joe, Fin, and I headed out. My goal was to plant a row of potatoes in a new section of the veggie plot. The Bermuda grass was starting to makes it way back up through the soil from the chunks of root that got left behind, and the planting would help rid the plot of some the weeds.

Speaking of soil, it gave me one of those inward smiles when I heard my children talking about the worms in the 'soil' as opposed to worms in the 'dirt'. There is a difference, which I won't get into, but there are some that cringe inwardly at the mention of plants in 'dirt'. (I suppose it is similar cringe that some of us experienced at Bush's pronunciation of the word 'nuclear'.)

And speaking of worms, the kids found a doozey. It must have been 8-10" long stretched out and was FAT.

I had to use the kids' wagon to collect the grass clumps as the wheelbarrow is hopelessly buried in the garage.



Finley is a bit unwell today, but I would rather have her in the sun than cooped inside in front of the TV.



There are a lot more weeds that are vying for attention, but unfortunately, laundry seems to take precedence.

Tragedy Averted

If you have seen Seven Years in Tibet, you might remember a scene where the Tibetan monks are sifting meticulously through the dirt on the construction site of a new building. They were searching for worms and bugs to save from possible destruction by the new construction.

Sometimes I think I would have made a fairly good Buddhist. I remember hiking once, and discovering that the crunches I had been hearing weren't twigs I was stepping on, but snails. The rest of the hike found my eyes glued to the ground in an attempt to avoid any more carnage. I can hardly stand seeing worms crawling on pavement after a good rain, and have to resist the urge to spend hours 'saving' them.

When I discovered that Chet (my white goldfish, Waylon is the orange one) was sick last Friday, I was, shall we say, distraught. Louie had crafted a nice stand out of white oak for the 55 gallon tank we just acquired to move the fish into. They had outgrown the 20 gallon tank, and were in desperate need of a larger home. I couldn't stomach the idea, that one of them might die just at the point I could get the fish into a more appropriate abode.

I did some quick research on fish diseases and discovered Chet probably had a bacterial infection. I went to the store on Saturday and bought some Melafix, hoping this would help. When I saw that Chet looked much worse Sunday afternoon (nasty red spot at the base of his fins, bloody-red streaks on his body), I did more research, and discovered that Chet had hemorrhagic septicemia and the stuff I bought wouldn't help. But the pet stores were closed, and there was nothing I could do until the morning.

I spent the evening in a state of self-condemnation and regret.

The next morning, I got the kids ready, then went to grab my wallet and run out the door. My wallet was missing. After a frantic search of the house and a phone call to my husband at work, I nearly lost hope. Thankfully, Reanna had some money I could borrow, and I drove very carefully to the store (since I didn't have my driver's license) and bought the appropriate medicine.

I am please to report that Chet is recovering nicely. All the redness is gone, and the only evidence that remains is a gimpy fin and some fog in one eye. I am hoping he will be well enough to be moved to the big tank on Saturday.

Zivah- 8 months

Memories of an Irishman

I started my first job on St. Patrick's Day, 1994. I worked at Mulhall's Nursery in Omaha, NE, owned by John Mulhall and two of his sons. He had migrated from Ireland to the U.S. in the 50's, and proceeded to build a lucrative business. (I have yet to run across a retail nursery that compares, though I am surely biased, and have not traveled the country looking.)

Mr. M was quite the character. The day I started, he celebrated St. Patty's Day by playing his accordion in the tropical greenhouse attached to the main store. He was apparently under the influence a bit. At the time, he was in his 70's. He had crazy white hair and fairly thick glasses that were always in need of a good cleaning.

He vacillated between mirth and ire, depending on who he was talking to and how much he liked you. He was known to yell at customers that rubbed him the wrong way or employees that weren't living up to his expectations. He once invited a landscaping crew member for a ride in his car, only to 'fire' him and drop him off a mile from the store because the man had long hair. The crew chief picked the poor guy up and told him to stay out of Mr. M's way in the future.

But he loved to dote upon the women who made up a large part of the clientele. (Not only did the store sell plants, but home furnishings, gifts, and, during the winter months, high-end Christmas decorations.)

I managed to stay on his good side, mostly because my position at the cash register was fairly obscure. I don't think he ever remembered my real name. He called me 'gran-yoge,' a name he made up that meant 'young granny' because he said I had an antique sort of beauty.

Mr. M was very fond of Irish poetry, and frequently would recite verse to whomever would listen. More than once, presumably because of my long hair, he quoted 'On Raglan Road' by Patrick Kavanagh to me:

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;

I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,

And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

Here's to you, Mr. M. - I hope you are able to enjoy a good bit of whiskey with Yeats in the great beyond this St. Patrick's day. (John Mulhall died in 2003.)

It's About Time!

Finally, there was something Finley cared enough about to draw instead of her traditional abstractions of shapes and swatches of color...a horse...

I can't help but laugh at the pink hooves.

a not-entirely-processed thought:

If one man's revelation becomes another man's religion, the meaning of that revelation has probably been lost.

While Joe was napping...

the girls were out enjoying nearly 80 degree weather.

It is the kind of day that seems big. The clouds are thick and heavy, letting only glimpses of strong sunlight through. The wind is blowing and warm, the plum trees are in bloom, the grass is growing. There is a weight to things that wasn't there last week.

I had started some broccoli (among other things) indoors several weeks ago, but as I haven't a greenhouse, or a proper seed-starting setup, my plants are a bit leggy. My tomatoes, I am less worried about, as I know I can bury the stem deep when the time comes to transplant, but the broccoli? I've never grown broccoli before.

I took the kids to a farmers' co-op store, where I picked up some seed potatoes and onions. I also bought a pack of broccoli. Just because I can. I'll still give my scrawny seedlings their chance, though.

Out in the garden, there are miracles happening. The radishes, spinach, and romaine I planted are sprouting. It never ceases to amaze me that things grow. For me. I never get tired of the yearly treasure hunt, looking closely at the places where I know a plant has lurked underground all winter long, waiting for the right time...

If ever I was born to do something... Let the dishes and laundry pile up. Let the dust collect. Just let me sink my fingers into the earth.

'... We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary.'
'What is that, grandmother?'
'To understand other people.'

-from The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald

Flicking the Switch

Ever have one of those flourescent light bulbs that takes a while for the light to come on? First, you hear the buzzing of electricity. You see a faint flickering in the ends of the bulb. It flashes on, and the hope of light rises, then fades as the light goes back out. On again, off again, in a cruel cruel cycle, until finally the bulb gains enough strength to stay on for good.

Parenting is like that, except in the slowest of slow motion.

I am realizing how little control I have over the condition of a child's heart. (none)
I am feeling a rising desperation for my children to begin to make choices based on relationship and real understanding rather than an 'I don't want to get in trouble' mentality.

I'm waiting for that light to go on.

These are a few of my favorite...

authors.

Of course, I'm stuck in a slight rut. In the past year, I've read a series of books on farming, soil conservation, etc., and I've come to see a thread of commonality among the authors I tend to fall for... First there is the obvious ability to write, then the absolute love of nature, the love of beauty, and a sense of humor.

(My husband likes to say that my sense of humor is frequently lacking. The truth is, though, that what I find amusing is very different than what tickles him. Will I end up being an old woman telling jokes that nobody finds funny but me?)

I find myself wishing that I could spend a week with some of these fellows. That is, until the fear that my image of said author was/is nothing like they were/are in real life... One who seems as if he/she would be a bosom buddy or kindred spirit may, in reality, have a personality that grates against mine. Who knows.

Louis Bromfield is my most recent read (apart from various works of fiction I've read just to give this tired mind a break). What I absolutely loved about him in From My Experience... was his up-front admission that any book written strictly on the nuts and bolts of farming should bore anyone to tears, and so he mixed up the technical with stories, musings, and philosophy.

Scott Chaskey is similar to Bromfield. Bromfield and Chaskey were both writers before seriously taking up the task of farming. Chaskey also mixes in stories, poetry, and other thoughts into his depiction of life on an organic farm in This Common Ground...

And then there is Wendell Berry.

Veering off the subject of farming and nature and heading off into the more 'brainy' subject of science...

I, once upon a time, stumbled upon a book in the university library entitled Science: Sense and Nonsense by J. L. Synge. The title was too intriguing to pass up. A quick glance at the date stamps inside the cover told me that the book had only been checked out once or twice, and not since the 70's. After reading this book, I would have given anything to have been transported back 50 years to be a student in one of this man's classes. I can't even begin to tell you how fun this book was to read. If you have any sort of mind for math and/or science, there are several copies available on amazon.

Finally (for now) there is George Gamow. Mr. Tompkins is a work of fiction about a man who goes to sit in on a series of physics lectures. He invariably fall asleep, and in his dreams, learns by 'experience' about the concepts of relativity and other fun topics.

So, now that you know that I really am a nerd (I am so glad to get that off my chest)... I'm going to bed. Let me know if any of you take the trouble to look up any of the above authors and give them a read. I'd like to know what you think.