stealing rotten pears
to feed the donkey—today's
farm misdemeanor
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
poetry found
Digging up old poetry journals has caused me to both cringe and wonder why I don't make the time to write verse anymore. For much of my life poetry was cathartic. Let's just say I released a lot of hurts onto the page, and because said poems involve people I still love dearly, they probably won't find their way onto this blog.
Since I've had kids, I've only written a handful of poems. I guess motherhood took hold and my brain scattered so far and wide, and any chance for coherent thought was lost to me.
One poem I found yesterday was written while I was trying, hoping, longing to get pregnant for the first time. I still like it.
Waiting for Grace
Three minutes—
I try not to look.
Instead I unravel a string on my sleeve
and think about the other woman
praying
for a different outcome.
Plastic oracle flat on white porcelain
transforming a stream of urine
into an answer.
Since I've had kids, I've only written a handful of poems. I guess motherhood took hold and my brain scattered so far and wide, and any chance for coherent thought was lost to me.
One poem I found yesterday was written while I was trying, hoping, longing to get pregnant for the first time. I still like it.
Waiting for Grace
Three minutes—
I try not to look.
Instead I unravel a string on my sleeve
and think about the other woman
praying
for a different outcome.
Plastic oracle flat on white porcelain
transforming a stream of urine
into an answer.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
good intentions
Last New Year's Eve I wrote a post with my intentions for the year. One of them was to start writing a book.
I feel the pit growing in my stomach when I even suggest that I am going to do this. I fear failure. I fear that I have nothing new to say. I fear getting stuck and not being able to get unstuck. I fear bad reviews.
A couple weeks ago, I was invited to join the Redbud Writer's Guild. Being among these amazing women writers I feel a little like the awkward new girl at the lunch table, but I know the encouragement and accountability will give me the kick in the butt I need to get to work. And, with my newfound confidence, I pitched my idea to an agent (full disclosure: my cousin) and he told me to get started. Gulp.
Not knowing exactly how to begin something that's longer than a blog post, I've been digging up my old journals and poetry notebooks. Amidst hundreds of broken lines of scribbled poetry and prose I found this advice I copied from Jane Kenyon:
I think my younger self knew that if I lived this poet's life, whatever I wrote would come from a place that mattered. It would be beautiful, whether anyone else read it or not. Book or no book, I am going to start, and hope my younger self was right.
I feel the pit growing in my stomach when I even suggest that I am going to do this. I fear failure. I fear that I have nothing new to say. I fear getting stuck and not being able to get unstuck. I fear bad reviews.
A couple weeks ago, I was invited to join the Redbud Writer's Guild. Being among these amazing women writers I feel a little like the awkward new girl at the lunch table, but I know the encouragement and accountability will give me the kick in the butt I need to get to work. And, with my newfound confidence, I pitched my idea to an agent (full disclosure: my cousin) and he told me to get started. Gulp.
Not knowing exactly how to begin something that's longer than a blog post, I've been digging up my old journals and poetry notebooks. Amidst hundreds of broken lines of scribbled poetry and prose I found this advice I copied from Jane Kenyon:
Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.
I think my younger self knew that if I lived this poet's life, whatever I wrote would come from a place that mattered. It would be beautiful, whether anyone else read it or not. Book or no book, I am going to start, and hope my younger self was right.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
the haves and the have nots
If you are trying to preserve a happy-go-lucky, life-is-good mentality, I have a little advice for you. Don't hang out with people who are suffering.
Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.
I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.
A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.
The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.
These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.
One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.
I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.
Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.
Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.
Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.
If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.
Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.
Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.
I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.
A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.
The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.
These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.
One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.
I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.
Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.
Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.
Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.
If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.
Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.
Friday, September 16, 2011
friday haiku
sometimes you capture
the perfect moment, two boys
who love to hold hands
{Liam at the ballgame with his young neighbor Kyle.}
Thursday, September 15, 2011
right outside our backdoor
Every year or so my college roommate Lauren and her husband come to visit. They run along the Fox River. They ride our bikes. They walk to town. And Lauren never fails to shake her head and say, "Girl, you live in a little paradise here."
I wish I lived like this was true. But too often the dishes pile up, I'm stressing about a work deadline, or it's deep into February and my home turf feels anything but magical. I think how nice it would be to live in the mountains or on the beach or somewhere in Europe. But that's just me trying to escape the ugly parts of me. Laziness. Boredom. Discontent. Not the best reasons to move.
Over the last few months, thanks to my husband's newfound passion for fitness, we have been riding bikes a lot. Nearly every day either me or my husband straps our four year old into the bike trailer and takes off along the Fox River. This breathtaking trail is, quite literally, right outside our backdoor. We ride by the Japanese gardens and the old windmill. We spot ducks and heron and cranes. We stop at parks with an exquisite view of the river. All this for the price of, well, nothing.
We've also been visiting the ballpark. Less than three miles away from our backdoor a Class A minor league baseball team entertains fans for the cost of a movie ticket. Our favorite Cougars game was one we attended with our neighbors Jae and Denton and my boys' beloved little friend Kyle. We ate hot dogs, drank beer and cheered like crazy as our team almost pulled it out in the ninth inning. And we watched our kids watch the fireworks. This is another reason why we live in paradise. So many people we love live here, too.
Speaking of people we love, another neighbor has been leaving big bags of apples right outside our backdoor all season. She is getting older and can't keep up with them anymore. As a result, I've processed more than 20 quarts of free, organic applesauce. I have enough of my mennonite grandma in me to know this: a generous neighbor with an apple tree is reason enough to call my home town paradise.
No matter where you live, be it a city, a suburb or a small town in the middle of nowhere, there is a marvelous world right outside your backdoor. Rivers and trees. Parks and baseball fields. People to love. So, rather than sit around longing to escape somewhere better, go out and look around. I'm betting you find a little paradise just waiting to be discovered.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
sensational salsa
I almost didn't post a picture of this recipe because, well, it probably doesn't look like the greatest thing you've ever eaten. You probably don't imagine you'll be dreaming about this salsa or throwing tortilla chip bags in your grocery basket on a daily basis. Prepare to be surprised.
I made this salsa for our neighborhood block party this past weekend. It honestly was gone in the first 30 minutes, and that was before anyone even started eating. And I made a double batch. And there were still lots of chips left.
People ate this salsa with a spoon. And if you were at this block party and never even saw this salsa, you can blame the first five neighbors there. They ate it all, and they didn't even feel bad about it.
Since I was sharing with my neighbors and only had a taste of the salsa - I'm nice like that - I made another batch last night for me and Andrew. Well, it was just going to be for me, but Andrew looked at me with his puppy dog eyes. So I took the bowl out of my lap and gave him some. We ate the entire batch.
The salsa is adapted from a little type-written recipe I picked up at our favorite Heritage Prairie Market. My goal was to use up odd CSA veggies that were about to rot in my fridge. Am I ever glad that I did.
Cucumber Avocado Salsa
1 medium cucumber, diced
1 avocado, ripe but firm, diced
1 banana pepper, diced
1/2 fennel bulb, diced
1/2 small red onion, diced
1/2 bunch cilantro, chopped
juice of 1/2 lemon
1 t honey
1/4 t kosher salt
Get a good knife and do some therapeutic chopping. Stir all the ingredients together. Find some good chips or eat with a spoon. You'll be really glad that you did.
Friday, September 9, 2011
friday haiku
some weeks every day
is so full, it's amazing
I can get showered
{photo by Liam}
::
Even amidst the busyness, we remember the significance of Sunday. Here's the TribLocal column I recently wrote about 9/11 and how I plan to commemorate the anniversary of that horrible day.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
hope is the thing smooth and round
On Monday, Elliott set off for preschool. Not the quaint neighborhood elementary school we're districted for, but the sprawling building with special ed teachers and therapists and aides a couple miles away. This year he'll even be taking the bus home. Starting today.
Every day this week I've dropped him off with a lump in my throat, watching him enter door 35 next to the girl with down syndrome and the boy in leg braces. It doesn't help that he cries.
During the summer, Elliott didn't seem much different from the two and three year olds he played with. But he's four, and when it comes to age-appropriate skills and school readiness, he lags pretty far behind.
Still, we have seen so much progress this year: spontaneous speech, alphabet singing, color matching. He can scale play structures with the best of them. And we're sure he'll be potty trained eventually.
Thanks to a skilled OT and an excellent book on sensory issues, we've been giving him a daily diet of wrestling, tickling, joint compressions and deep pressure massage. And sugar almost never passes his lips. We feel like we're getting somewhere.
But on Monday afternoon as I sat watching Elliott float and kick in his Ortho Kids Aquatics class, with a handful of other kids struggling with neurological conditions, I pushed back the tears realizing that this might always be his tribe.
In a pocket of my mind, I keep the thought that if we hold Elliott back a year, he'll catch up and enter kindergarten as a normal kid with his neighborhood friends at our neighborhood school. Frequently, I sneak this thought out of that pocket, like a little stone, and hold it, smooth and round, close to my heart.
On our daily walk to door 35, however, I accept that this may not be. Elliott may always ride the bus home from the big sprawling school, with wonderful teachers and therapists who see both his limitations and his potential. He may always be lagging behind.
Someone once said that parenting is just "a long goodbye." I'm guessing they meant that from the moment your child is born, he begins the process of leaving you. But I also think it refers to the heart-wrenching ordeal of unclenching your fist and letting go of how you wish things could be. Then eventually skipping that stone across the river and finding a new one to pocket.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
