Quiet Memories

I think that anyone who contemplates the intrinsic mysteriousness of life has in their metaphorical suitcase an incident or memory that is, for them, the quintessential moment of connection with something greater than "me". Maybe that memory isn't infallible, but I'd like to think that it is the use to which we put our memories that is important, not the scribe-like quality we might hope that memory could have. I don't think I can link to the post that elicited these thoughts (as it's on a friend's Facebook page) and in the interest of maintaining her privacy, I'm not going to share her name here. The core of her piece that moved me to words is a belief she holds that she is destined, as it were, for something larger than even the amazing accomplishments she's already achieved - something greater than her single self in which she will take part and thereby improve by giving that most precious and abundant resource: love.

I've worked hard on a number of occasions to give voice to a similar feeling I've had for as long as I can recall. Perhaps it's become embellished in my mind, but I consider that serendipitous - that the idea, feeling, compulsion, drive has a life of its own which keeps it growing toward manifestation. That's a good an explanation of any that Spirit / Unity / God works in our lives without our having to be consciously aware of the connective force going about its business.

When I give myself over to stillness and quiet the thoughts that race unceasingly through my overcrowded cranium, it is very easy to sense that there's a larger whole of which I am a part and which simultaneously is a sum greater than its constituent parts. When I allow that sense to fill me up, push out the extraneous bits, "defrag my hard drive", I feel peace. The same peace I had as a child, standing in a newly mown field adjacent to our school playground, gathering up the dead, dried grass to make a bird's nest. What I couldn't have known then but see clearly now is that I was learning about cycles of nature: the death of the grass gave in turn a home for the birds in which they could raise their young. Just a small part of a large cycle, but holding the nest in my hands, I could feel the remnant life of the grass, clearly see it connect with the life inside myself. I could imagine myself a cat creeping through the tall grass, stalking the bird making its nest. I could imagine myself the bird, doing birdy things, soaring through the air, and gathering worms for my cheeping babies. All of which made re-entering the school building at recess end an endeavor of re-entering my physical body, taking back on the heavier feeling of walking about in this corporeal form. I would have been about 9 or 10 years old at the time yet I can recall enough scraps to reconstruct a beautiful picture that holds meaning for me now, 25 years later.

I've never lost that ability to set myself loose. Indeed, I've endured a fair bit of good-natured ribbing for being in my "own little world". I don't mind, and I never will mind - it is when I'm in my own little world that I feel most complete and connected to all elements of creation.

Oh, Are You?

"Oh, are you blogging again?"

This question, innocently asked by a dear, dear friend, has sparked yet another round of self-inquiry. For years I've felt like I was on the cusp of something. Something incredible, something wonderful, something life-changing. Then nothing happens.

At least, nothing happened with the fanfare I apparently expected. Ten years ago I was on the cusp of entering into a relationship with the man who would become my husband. That was something special. Nearly eight years ago that man became my hubby when we made vows to one another. That was something really wonderful. Five-and-a-half years ago, my eldest son Noodle was born. THAT was life-changing (to say the least). Two-and-a-half years ago I made a career change that has opened up a whole new world of employment opportunities for me. That was incredible. Just last Christmastime, my little munchkin arrived just in time to be a late but lovely gift. That, again, was truly life-changing.

Perhaps the reason I feel like "nothing" is what's happened is because I'm considering only the one part of the whole I consider "me" that I feel to be lagging behind: my writing. It's like a forgotten room in my brain that is occasionally cracked open so something else can be chucked inside before the door is slammed shut for an undisclosed duration. Sometimes I loll in the doorway, surveying the morsels and nuggets and hidden gems within. I smile sadly in their direction and close the door again.

What am I hiding in there? What am I hiding in my brain? Why am I hiding at all? What, in heavens name, could possibly cause me to be so afraid? I'm hiding behind very tangible walls: 50 lbs. of bodily "padding", pony-tailed hair, unremarkable eyeglasses, Mommy jeans. I am proud of my mind, humbled by both its capacity and its foibles. Why hide so deep inside this carefully maintained fortress?

I confess: I do not know the answers to my own questions. Perhaps it's time I break out.

Good Heavens - Great Scott!

Even though it's been a terribly long time and I've intended to get over here more times than I care to admit, I was nearly thwarted yet again. No, it wasn't a kid this time. No, it wasn't any other responsibility. It was Google! I swear that I used to be able to go through Google to get to my Blogger account... Apparently I've lost that ability somewhere along the line.

So, there's the perfunctory opening babble out of the way. Perhaps I ought to just skip it next time (did I just hear a "YAY!!!"?). Anyone who's spent any time around me at all knows that I talk a lot. I also tell stories. I talk about ideas I have for stories I'd like to write. I talk about books and letters and articles that I'd love to share. Yet... yet... I haven't.

I have a beautiful friend who blogs every day. I have another lovely amie who blogs quite frequently. They don't let the excuses of motherhood or responsibility stop them and I applaud them loudly (insert audio file of clapping here). Why aren't I more like them? Makes me think of that song on The Jungle Book. I wanna be like them! They write thoughtful, relevant, cogent pieces. (Have I mentioned how tickled I am to be friends with such incredible ladies?)

So, rather than beat myself over the head (yet again), I'll resolve to take another little step forward. Who knows? This time it could build on all the others just enough to give me the quantum leap forward that I'm really looking for!

Truly, Deeply

In Love - My husband fulfills me in ways that I didn't know I needed fulfilling.

In Mommy - For the first time, I love being a Mommy, even when there's spit-up on my bare shoulder.

In Awe - Of the hardships and challenges my family and friends endure and through which they find the strength to thrive.

Grace-full

An ex-boyfriend was fond of saying that I start every story with, “I was sitting on the toilet the other day when…” He was exaggerating (though only slightly) but I have become aware of a tendency of mine to tell stories on my friends. Let that be a warning to all my once and future friends – I will likely tell your story to someone else at some point in time. Important details, like your name, may or may not enter into the picture.

Upon further self-examination, I found that my reason for retelling others’ stories falls generally into one or the other of two categories: I’m trying to understand the story better myself or I feel that the story has bearing on the listener’s situation. I am not always conscious that I have engaged in one of these retellings nor am I often concerned with placing a story into a category or context before it starts spewing forth. The stories arise of their own volition and I suddenly find myself sharing things that the stories’ owners may or may not be prepared to share. Apparently, my storytelling apparatus cares not whether it is engaged in impropriety, however, because try as I might to apply a modicum of control, stories belonging to others continue to flow from me to new ears. This has caused some strife (especially within my family) though not enough for me to completely subdue my impulses.

Lately my difficulty has been even more perplexing. I have all these stories gathered and I’m being drawn to share them with an even wider audience, in written form instead of passed along orally. Since I was quite young, I’ve always considered myself a writer whether I am actively writing or not. Now that this new passion is gripping me, I find the words difficult to wrangle into their proper place on the page. Why do I want to share these stories? Why am I having such difficulty? Am I not supposed to share? Is telling the truth just really hard? Or is it that I want to be true to the content of the experience while learning how not to always share all of the TRUTH?

I argued ardently and at length with an exasperated professor in my first Creative Writing class during my sophomore year in college over telling the TRUTH. Two of my characters shared the same first name and he said that detail made the story difficult to understand. Why didn’t I just change one of their names? My impassioned answer was, “They have to have the same name because that’s how it really happened!” I railed on for quite some (yawn) time and never did concede during the course of the class that he was right. The duplicate names made the story unnecessarily confusing and just because “it really happened that way” did not make it a good story.

After a discussion about Elizabeth Gilbert’s wonderful book Eat, Pray, Love, a friend suggested that a couple of us choose words for ourselves and for each other: one word that exemplified or encapsulated us. I chose “blue” for one friend and “capable” for another. My own word was more elusive. Finally I rested on “sunshine”. I often feel bright and cheerful. When I don’t, I can be scathing. Other sunshine-related descriptors come to mind: warmth, life-giving, bold, harsh, center of the solar system, part of a galaxy, tiny speck in the universe. (I wonder if my husband might say, “Celestial body,” ha ha.) Sunshine is a word that can express those qualities I am proudest of as well as those I recognize as areas ripe for improvement. My friend who suggested this exercise blessed me with two words for which I cannot thank her enough: “beautiful” and “grace”. I find it difficult to simply accept these gifts with an honest and whole-hearted thank you. My tendency would be to find reasons why I don’t embody those words. Instead, I would like to express my gratitude by not slipping into self deprecation. When I looked up “grace” at Dictionary.com, I found a long, multi-part definition. Two particular definitions jumped out at me:

grace –noun
1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action.
2. the influence or spirit of God operating in humans to regenerate or strengthen them.

Obviously, the first one is amazingly flattering. The second one feels very comfortable to me, like returning home from vacation to a clean house. The “influence… of God” is something I’ve been feeling keenly during the past two years, especially in a regenerative sense. It might be worth a brief mention that my concept of “God” doesn’t equal the modern Christian definition of the same word, but it’s the word I still feel most comfortable using.

So here, then, is the point of this ramble: I would like to call on this Grace to strengthen my resolve to finally get my work “out there,” in the hands of publishers, without all the attendant fears, worries, procrastination and foot-dragging I’ve been doing these many years. It’s a prayer of sorts, that I have the right words to set down in the right order at the right time and I’m jumping in the water fully clothed, asking only that I don’t drown.

Good-for-Your Soul Food

This evening's dinner fare was inspired in part by my continued reading of The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. It was cobbled together from a slightly unlikely assortment of ingredients: whole clove garlic, hearty wheat bread loaf, corn, leeks, kale, olive oil, sweet balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper.

The garlic roasted whole in the oven while I sauteed the corn kernels (sliced from the cob) in olive oil with the sliced and halved leeks. When all was nearing completion, I turned the heat low under the corn and leeks, added the roasted garlic, vinegar and kale then turned the mixture over until the kale was bright green and wilted but not mushy. I ate the rather tasty concoction along with the wheaty bread dipped in olive oil, salt and pepper.

Heavenly: A meal you prepare yourself in full knowledge of each ingredient and whose sum total is greater than that of its parts, food which nourishes your body as well as your mind. (Also, the addition of a good book with which to sup cannot be over estimated.) Happy dining!

Why WFWY*?

The reasons are myriad.

I grew up in the southern, central part of Michigan, surrounded by crop fields of all sorts. Wait, that’s not entirely accurate. I spent my early childhood moving state to state across the United States and landed in Michigan for a greater period of time than anywhere else during my first ten years.

In retrospect, a great number of the places of which I have memories were more rural than urban. Living on the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, we had a modest-sized garden, grape vines and goats. In western central Florida, we had direct access to the natural world – there was a canal bordering our backyard in which there were sometimes alligators. When we lived on a logging road in Washington, we could see Mt. Hood (Oregon) in the not-too-far-off distance. In Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, well, I don’t remember the landscape all that well because I was quite young, but I know it wasn’t “Big City”.

What does that have to do with eating whole foods? I think those experiences created for me a strong perception that it is possible to live off of the land. I admit that I don’t have the knowledge required to do so. (How many of us – there are some – do?) The time has come when I feel a strong desire to acquire more of that sort of knowledge. For me, knowing where my food comes from – and exactly WHAT my food is – has become of paramount importance to me. I am tired of eating just any cheap, readily available food. Furthermore, I am convinced that no one should WANT to eat “as cheaply as possible” and I’d like to bring as many of you along on my journey as I can.

Anyone game?

(*WFWY: Whole Foods for a Whole Year)

Whole Foods for a Whole Year aka WFWY

Before I begin documenting my progress toward a more whole foods-based diet, I thought a little explanation and planning were in order. Being (somewhat) realistic about the constraints on my time, I plan to post on a weekly basis for now. Those of you who peruse this blog's archives prior to today will find that this is actually a pretty ambitious goal for me. : )

I plan on using a loose template so all the posts will have a familiar structure - and so that I can keep my wits about me instead of flying all around the map!

A little more about my impetus: I've incorporated a number of natural foods into my diet over the course of my adult years. As a child and (broke) college student, I ate a rather deplorable diet of soda pop, hot dogs, snack foods and fast food. It was while I was in college that I first began to challenge my long held (though largely unconcious) beliefs about food. Now I'm a married mother-of-two who's always striving for a healthful alternative to mainstream gustatory fare... Though often enough falling short of the target.

As they say, when you put intention toward anything, it begins to take on new life. So here's to the life of my life. After all, what is food if not your link to continued existence?

Whole Foods for a Whole Year

Wooo - It's a big challenge. I'm throwing down the gauntlet for myself after starting to read Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. For the past several years I have strived, to a greater or lesser extent, to eat more whole foods than the average American. I avoid fast food much of the time as well as the middle of the supermarket. My commitment, however, has wavered on many occasions.

Sooo - what will it take for me to improve my eating habits and those of my family? I will acknowledge at the outset that I am fortunate not to have one particular obstacle that many people have: my hubby will (I'm sure) gladly follow me down this path. (Thanks, babe!)

Come join me - I'll be making the effort to blog my progress with the intent of reminding myself of what I've accomplished. What comes first? Looking at where I am right now, defining my starting point, and examining where I think I'd like to see myself in a year's time.

Let the games begin!

The Engineer

Okay, so I'm beginning to wonder if the Noodle Dude is going to be an engineer. He loves order and creating new things using unusual combinations of toys. Here's one such creation:

Now he's even starting to do it with words, too. This evening, we were sitting in the office and he was playing with letter magnets. His set isn't that large so that after he spelled "CAT" and "MAT", he didn't have any more A's left. What he wanted to spell was "A cat on a mat." Here was his (phonetic) solution:

Brilliant little booger!

Where's My Camera?

How often have you wanted your camera when it was inaccessible?

How often have those moments occurred when you were on the toilet?

No, this isn't going to be a sophmoric essay about massive poo. No, not at all. What captured my desire to have a camera available was a small train that came zooming under the door as I sat "enthroned". It was followed by a small hand I knew to be attached to the larger of the two small people in my home. The moment provided the quintessential image of parenthood - constant, never-ending, unceasing attention. To everything. Coupled with an utter lack of privacy.

Anyway, the scene made me giggle, always a welcome event, and I regretted the lack of photographic equipment.

And, yeah, it's been a while - I'm not interested in dwelling on the matter.