Mosaic

Mag 46

2010-12-21T06:35:00.005-06:00

When I was a child
I would run my fingers
Over embossed pictures of you
Sitting joyfully
In your mother's lap
And wonder
If I could sit in yours.
I would slide my creamy hand
Around your olive neck
And hold tight,
Burying my shame in your shoulder
And we would weep together
Over the loss of my innocence
And the unfairness of life.

I am older now
But not quite grown.
And I still long
For the intimacy of your embrace
Because even the joy of life is too much
To bear alone.
And I wonder
If you would gather me up, still
And let me, like beloved John,
Press my ear against your beating heart
And trace the softness of your beard
With a childlike hand.
Would I be able to drink in your scent
And let peace consume me
With every breath
As you gather my tears
Again

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Hello, Again

2010-11-03T21:32:00.003-05:00

It feels a little strange letting my fingers move over the keys again, saying hello to friends whose beautiful words I still rehearse in the moments before my eyes open. I have missed writing and long to feel my creative mind stretch, yawn, and spill juicy lines on waiting pages. Until I can come back, though, I wanted to repost something dear to me, a reminder of the night my youngest child was born. He will be two on Friday.

(re) BIRTH
At age 40, I had a baby in my bed. I died that same night.

The day itself seemed unremarkable--steady contractions still lingering from Monday and Tuesday. Nothing a nap and a bath wouldn't cure, I thought. But during my nap, I awoke several times with contractions that made me grip the bed. Not so much from pain, but more as though someone were squeezing me from the inside out.

I wasn't quite sure how to imagine the day and the delivery because this would be my first time. Not to have children--no, no. I have lots of those. My first time to have a child at home. Decidedly away from the hospital. And doctors. And pain medicine.

When I embarked on this journey, I was a sojourner in Austin. A transplant from Stepford, where there is a proper way to do everything--including having a baby.

After just a few months in Austin, I met women who moved freely and confidently through their days--every step an independent expression of the beautiful dance of their lives.

I was jealous.

Panicked, I questioned the thoughts churning under my perfectly-coiffed hair. I ran head-on into my planned, conservative life, and I hated what I saw: a bound woman. I remembered the girl I once was--a fiery, independent force who discreetly took a back seat to make way for a pat on the head. Somehow I had lost that girl, and I was going to find her.

When I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child, I relived every other birth in my head. I saw myself, sitting across from my doctor. Assenting to the "need" to be induced, to be pumped with pitocin, to have a needle in my spine to be relieved from what I believed would be unbearable pain. In that moment I could not stomach the thought of another anesthetized birth. It was just too indicative of my numbed life.

I began searching for alternatives, and as soon as I heard my midwife Michele's voice on the phone, I knew I found my answer. The thought of a birth experience that would be authentic and all mine made me cry. With each visit to Michele's home, I felt grounded--right, somehow. But Stepford Girl was right there. Going through a list of worries and reminding me that I was crazy.

On Jonathan's birthday, I got up from my nap and looked at my birth kit that had been tied in neat bundles and tucked away like Christmas gifts. I was giddy and nervous at the same time. I called Michele around 7:30 that evening--still not sure that I was in labor. At 8:00 Michele's assistant Scottie bounced in with her sunshine smile. She took one look at me and knew it was my time. Michele examined me as soon as she arrived, and told me I was dilated to 8cm. I was already in transition, and although my contractions were enough to take my breath away, I could smile between them. I relaxed in a warm bath waiting for complete dilation--but that was short-lived. Michele heard me sounding "pushy" through my contractions and came in to help me to the bed. Suddenly everything that seemed so peaceful and slow began to speed up. I bore down on Michele's shoulders through my next contraction, afraid I would crush her tiny frame as my water broke. After having another contraction in the bathroom doorway, I made my way to the bed. As the next contraction came, the pain seized me, and I turned and screamed into my pillow. I heard Michele's calm voice telling me I was safe. I remember thinking I feel safe, I am just in immense PAIN. Nevertheless, Michele's gentle words and soft touch on my back helped me focus. With the next contraction, Michele spoke relief to me: "Roll over. It's time to push." The pain burned white hot, time rushed through me, and my heart throbbed in my ears. Suddenly suspended outside of time, I felt my Jonathan come into this world. A wet, warm miracle crying on my belly! With each pulse of the umbilical cord, the pain subsided. Peace enveloped me, and, still suspended above this surreal scene, I looked back to see someone I vaguely recognized.
Lying there on the bed was Stepford Girl. Anemic and breathless, she cried out to me. Wanting me to give her my hand--to confine myself again in the ordinary life she created. The comfortable life she desperately wanted for me. But it was too late. I had tasted real pain, real life, real freedom. So I left her there, gasping and pleading. Stepford Girl died that night, but I . . . I held my beautiful son and lived.

Magpie 19

2010-06-19T12:13:00.004-05:00

maybe pruning is too kind a word

for this cut

one flinch

and the crucial circumcision

becomes the mutilation

of my faith

preserving salt

burns the wounds laid open

so I stare down into empty hands

with heavy shoulders

and agonize at how life came

to this

when the prickle

through numbness comes

is it the green bud

of dreams newborn

or the phantom itch of hope

amputated long ago

if the tender rain is a gift for the unjust

then wash me

come to me healer

sing over me

the song of life resurrected

cut the bonds cinched tight

and beckon me to take up the bed

of my selfishness

and run again

to the place where laughter

dances on my tongue

where frigid expectation

warms in your perfect light

and you and I are in love again

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Letting in the light

2010-06-08T18:18:00.008-05:00

When I was a literature teacher, my students would often stare at me like I had one big eye in the middle of my head after we would read a piece. They would sit, still and wide eyed, and wait for some answer--some explanation. But more often than not, I would try to lead them to a way of understanding for themselves the magic of the piece. We would discover together that each piece would give up its secrets if we had the right lens through which to look--whether it was historical perspective, biographical significance, understanding symbolism and so on. The basic tools we--this community of writers and readers and photographers and artists--draw from without thinking. Describing the deep satisfaction of watching their eyes change from confusion to wonder to awe is nearly impossible. And it was the sweetness of these memories that pricked my heart when I came upon a more profound application for the tools we have innately within us.

I came across an explanation of people that has lingered in me like a crackling fire for my chilled and searching soul. If God is light--perfect and pure--then we in our imperfection are as light through a prism. Each an incomplete but vital component of that pure light. And just as looking through the proper lens will unlock the treasures of literature, appreciating the unique light of each other gives us a fuller and richer experience in life. Isn't that just beautiful?

A few weeks ago, I enjoyed a wonderful dinner with Melinda and her dear friends(and my new friends) Diahn and Crystal. And our little table was aglow with joy and pain and wisdom and hope that illuminated our piece of the world that night.

In tribute to these amazing women, and if I could simplify something so complex as the human experience, I would start by saying Crystal (pictured far left) burns crimson. Passion flares around her so unmistakably, we can almost warm ourselves in her glow. She laughs as she lives--she gives herself fully to it. She pours it out like full-bodied red wine, and invites us to drink our fill. In matters of love and life, she doesn't hope for the right path--she feels it. And once the decision is made, she steps confidently upon it without looking back. But she has a vulnerability of deep gold that, to me, is the best part about her. In fact, she took the scariest head-first dive right into love rekindled (which you can read all about here).

If Crystal is red hot, then Diahn (left center) glows verdant emerald. Along with having sea-green eyes and being enviously gifted, Diahn is quick witted and super sharp. Her wicked, dead-on humor kept us laughing right through dinner--and for days after. Everything just seems to take on a new form, new life in her hands. She could easily be the woman who intimidates others with her myriad of talents. Instead, her many gifts serve as offerings which make us feel welcome and alive around her. Whether she shares her art, photography, writing, or even her marvelous sense of humor, she helps us remember magnificent life is in bloom all around us, and we don't want to miss it.

Which brings us to Melinda (right center)--the sturdy branch for us curling vines in this dinner party. I tell Melinda that she is kind of a goddess (which she is). So, I would say Melinda easily radiates rich golden amber. She has such a warmth and depth about her, that her soul fans a continual slow burn for the suffering of humanity. Her ex husband used to chide her by saying I know you would like to buy the world a coke; you can't. But she never turns her back on the one because she cannot save the world. Consequently, her compassion is a salve for the hurting and an inspiration to the blessed. Melinda's journey does not end in acknowledging a problem--she keeps walking until she finds her place in the solution. She never commits the sin of doing nothing because she sees her offering as too small. Through her generous spirit, we recognize that our most satisfying joy comes mostly from the kindness we share with others.

As for me (pictured far right), well, I came away from a dinner with these beauties a rich woman, indeed.

Photo courtesy of Diahn Ott.

Insanity

2010-06-04T13:30:00.006-05:00

many times have I walked your shore

tentative steps

on unstable sand

the breeze whispering

a Siren's song

for my questioning soul

every thought woven into the rhythmic

beat

of the compassionate undertow

blurring the line between focus

and release

the seductive descent

into lukewarm slumber

and I think

maybe today

but hot verve breathes electric

across my shoulders

as dancing eyes on flushed cheeks

look for me

and words yet unwritten

from creamy pages

summon me

home

your waves lap my toes

drawing the unfaithful foundation

from beneath me

and in one measured recoil

I know

not today

A crawfishy tale

2010-05-31T15:18:00.011-05:00

I suppose my grandmother (Mimi to me) had always been a rebel. At 5'9" she betrayed her Cajun heritage by growing taller than almost everyone in her family. Her shoulders and hands were tiny, though--very French. After her first husband left her, she married a non-Catholic--very scandalous in her family. She loved life and had a wicked sense of humor. She once told the lady at the Lancome counter that for what they charged for a facial cleanser, "it ought to clean your butt for that price!" I would have been horrified but for the look on the sales lady's face--like she was painfully waiting for the punchline, while Mimi gingerly adjusted her purse on her arm and walked away. Because of her diabetes, she was well-known by the pharmacists at her local Wal-Mart, and she made a "better-than-sex" cake for a young man there who was particularly kind to her. She made him eat it--with his hands--in front of her and all the customers waiting patiently for their prescriptions. While he was mid-bite into the cake, she shouted, "Isn't that better than sex!?" and laughed her sweet, diabolical laugh. Poor guy.

Mimi taught me all of the Cajun-French I know. But I cannot tell you about it. Not only because true Cajun-French is a spoken language, never written, but also because all she taught me were curse words. I do not remember her cursing much in English, though--I guess that, and her many pairs of delicate dinner gloves, were the indication that her rebellious spirit had some familiarity with decorum. She gave me a pair of those dinner gloves, creamy velvet with rhinestone cuffs. I loved those gloves, but they were not my favorite of the things she passed on to me--that gift would be her love for cooking. When she cooked crawfish etouffee (AY TOO FAY), her kitchen seduced me with fragrance and held me there while I watched her serve up big bowls of this earthy stew over steaming white rice.

In the spirit of both Paul and Willow--whose posts are always filled with juicy information, I will tell you that etouffee means to stew, smother, or braise and is considered primarily a Creole dish--rather than Cajun. According to Chef John Folse in his Encyclopedia of Cajun & Creole Cuisine, Creoles--first named for the children born on Louisiana soil--were once considered the cultural aristocracy of Louisiana. They were well acquainted with fine wines and superb cooking. Creole cuisine was inventive, refined and generously seasoned. A sophisticated, aristocratic cuisine based on European techniques, Creole cooking used wine- or liquor-based sauces to enhance its subtle delicate flavors. Cajun cooking, on the other hand, was more rustic and dependent almost entirely upon home gardens and local wildlife for its ingredients. Cajuns were the homestyle cooks, while Creoles were the chefs. Another piece of information to note is that both Cajun and Creole dishes rely heavily on "the Trinity" (onion, celery, and bell pepper) and "the Pope" (garlic). With terms like these, it is easy to see that these Louisiana cooks take their cuisine very seriously.

Which brings me to the real reason behind this post. I will not bog you down with details, but I will tell you that I recently read a comment from Mark--a merchant seaman and friend of Melinda and Diahn who commented about Melinda's etouffee having cream of mushroom soup in it. Cream of mushroom soup? Are you kidding me? Clearly this is dangerously close to sacrilege. All I know of Mark is that he is a vegetarian, has excellent taste in show tunes and books, and is married to a very pretty wife (I've seen her picture). So, he seems to be a pretty together guy. However, I fear that if Mimi (or any other crazy Cajun) read Mark's comment, she would introduce him to some Cajun-French. So, for the sake of sparing Mark a possible good Cajun cussing in his future, and to provide you with a taste of some fantastic cuisine, here is a recipe for crawfish etouffee (without cream of mushroom soup):

1/4 C. butter

1 C. diced onion

1/2 C. diced celery

1/2 C. diced green bell pepper

1/2 C. diced red bell pepper

2 Tbsp. minced garlic

1 large shallot, chopped

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp. ground red pepper

14 oz. chicken broth (or crawfish stock)

1 oz. white wine

1/4 C. fresh parsley

1/2 C. fresh green onions

2 pounds cooked, peeled crawfish tails (you can use frozen--defrosted and drained)

Hot cooked rice

Melt butter in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add onion and next five ingredients; saute until tender.

Add flour, salt, and red pepper; cook, stirring constantly until caramel colored (about 10 minutes). Add next four ingredients; cook, stirring constantly about 5 minutes or until thick and bubbly.

Stir in crawfish and cook until thoroughly heated (about 5 minutes). Serve over rice.

Magpie #16

2010-05-27T11:06:00.016-05:00

what is the sound of your trial by fire

is it the soft unlatching of sandals

for the sake of holy ground

only to walk the coals

lusty flames

gorging themselves

on the last of your faith

is it the escaped groan

of watching your dream slip

the long, slow fall

shattering

like broken glass under bare feet

is it the mother's staccato lament

planting the son of promise

supinated and shoeless

into the eager earth

perhaps it is the trickle of a briny bath

while hope walks away

like a fickle lover

or the silent abuse of unforgiving heat

claiming your tongue and

turning your sweet songs to vapor

maybe your cries come

a mere echo back from deaf caverns

but of this I am sure

there will be the shout of return

glorious return

like the white wizard

full of light and power

or Lazarus unforgotten

and the deep sigh

of feeling the dewy, yielding grass

between your toes again

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She's cool like that

2010-05-26T14:06:00.007-05:00

This is Katherine--my fourteen year-old who just sort of oozes coolness without even trying. Somehow her sweet, tiny hand that barely used to fit around my finger has outgrown mine, but I drink up the joy of knowing she has not outgrown the need to feel my hand in hers. I like to call her my anti-teenager. She is, for the most part, thoughtful and witty and remarkably kind. I try to raise my children to live as though we are all part of an amazing team, and if that is so, Katherine is the quarterback among my children. When she was eight, she used to play hide-and-seek with her newfound neighborhood friends. When they made her three year-old brother "it," she hid right beside him while he was counting and whispered Evan, I'm right here. She still brings her younger brothers and sister along with her everywhere, and she still reminds them that she is right here--beside them--no matter what. They spend their days truly in awe of her. She always seems to dazzle them with whatever play she has in mind for the day's game.

At fourteen, she is so much more than I ever was at her age. Strong, independent, and completely comfortable in her own skin, she shines with the light of a true original--a fresh-faced, converse-clad, guitar-playing original. When she was first born, I imagined that she would be a small version of me--only, hopefully, without all of the mistakes. But who could have ever imagined the richness and dimension she would add? She has helped me to learn to let go of perfection. She makes me feel beautiful, and wise, and really happy to be growing older. She introduced me to Maroon 5 and Twilight and comfy t-shirts and JabbaWockeeZ. Most importantly--she inspires me to serve a little more selflessly, to live bigger, and to embrace change courageously. I think when I grow up, I would like to be more like her.

The little things

2010-05-24T09:55:00.009-05:00

My husband and I ponder together often. We sit in the cool of the morning or evening and try to figure out people and life and our place in this world. One resource that has given us much to think and talk about is a book he is reading: The Call by Os Guinness. I cannot tell you the countless lessons it has led us to, but this morning was especially profound. Guinness says that George MacDonald writes in his piece "The Shadows," "the mark of a true vision of things is that 'instead of making common things look commonplace, as a false vision would have done, it had made common things disclose the wonderful that was in them.'"

For the girl who gets trapped in the obligation of living for the glorious, this is a beautiful wake-up call. I am the sure product of a father who demanded not just excellence--but perfection in all that we did. He taught us that being the best, the top, the most celebrated should be the aim of our life's work--and he walked it out to prove it. Now, it is not for me to point a finger at my father and disagree with the choices that seem to have served him well, but this vision of a life well-lived just doesn't suit me. Probably because I have chosen to be a mom, to let my degree serve as a backdrop for teaching my own children, to spend many days nursing and making peanut butter sandwiches and, honestly? Cleaning lots of poop. For a long, long time I thought I turned my back on the accolades I was beginning to collect and choose, instead, the second-rate. Not that my life is in any way second-rate in my heart--just the opposite. But I felt that through my choices I was letting someone down, and that I was committing the great American sin of not "living up to my potential."

But in this life--the one that false vision would call commonplace--I have found the truest and deepest of meaning and beauty. In this life, I have discovered a passion for writing I never knew I had. I am the one who kisses my children's tears away and lays them down for naps. I listen to my children's jokes and their questions about life--and we try to find answers together. I read stories and learn along with my children every day. Some days I cry because we go without some of life's luxuries and pleasures, and I wonder if it is all worth it. Some days I get frustrated when my Pollyanna life just falls apart into chaos. Some days I do laundry and dishes and garden and cook, and some days I do none of those things. Some days I enjoy the simple pleasure of watching my two youngest serve each other cookie dough while we bake together in the kitchen.

But the key for me, and maybe for you, is that no matter how I spend my day, I do even the mundane because it's what I love--even if I do not do it well--even if there is no one to congratulate me at the end of my road. In each day, I can ask myself, am I making the common things disclose the wonder that is in them? And if yes is the answer, then I have lived well.

It looks like a chocolate-chip weekend

2010-05-22T10:02:00.005-05:00

It's Saturday, which generally means a chance for me to visit my other passion--cooking. I would like to whip up a culinary masterpiece this weekend, but it looks like my finicky family has their sights on cookies.

Sharing a meal, or a glass of wine, or beautiful words among family or good friends just opens my soul--it is truly my favorite thing in the world. After meeting many of you in your blogs this week, I wish we could sit down for a long visit and some great food--and we could talk about your writing and what inspires and captivates you. Maybe, though, sharing recipes serves as a viable alternative. This is the recipe for my chocolate-chip cookies. They have been gifts for new neighbors, block party finales, and a bit of a staple at family gatherings over the years. They are also one of the offerings from my kitchen that makes my family gleeful--and really, who doesn't love gleeful?

2 C All-purpose flour

1 C Old fashioned oats (must be old-fashioned--not quick-cooking)

1 C Butter (softened--not melted)

1 C Granulated sugar

1 C Brown sugar (firmly packed)

2 Eggs

1tsp Salt

1tsp Baking soda

1tsp Vanilla
1 C Semi-sweet chocolate chips (you can use bitter-sweet if you like a bolder flavor)

Combine flour and oats in a bowl--set aside. Cream butter and sugars in a large mixing bowl. Add eggs, salt, soda, and vanilla--stirring after each addition. Stir in flour mixture about 3/4 C at a time. Gently stir in chocolate chips. Drop by heaping teaspoonfuls on ungreased baking sheets--about 2 1/2 inches apart. Bake in batches at 350 for about 12-13 minutes, or until just turning golden (longer if you like crispier cookies).

What are your favorite things to share with friends?

Magpie #15

2010-05-20T22:46:00.014-05:00

cast not your net for me

for I will not be gathered

under your steeple

or to your polling place

or your bed

and I will not cast

my bread

or my vote

or my garments

to be strung along

to be weighed

and counted

and forgotten

I may offer myself

a satisfying meal for a poor child

but I will never feed

your greed

or ambition

or ego

I belong to the sea

and to the caress of each wave

but I do not belong to you

I swim

in the warmth of

clear emerald

while you drown

in the cold blackness

of insatiable lust

cast not your net for me

for I will not be gathered

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Morning surprise

2010-05-20T08:04:00.015-05:00

A couple of months ago, my neighbor gave me some bulbs and plants for my sad, sad flower beds. I planted most of what she gave me, but I had run out of room before I was done. So, on my back patio sat a Styrofoam minnow bucket full of bulbs. I would look at the bucket each morning as I enjoyed a little quiet time with my husband, and I would think I really need to plant those. But I would pan the yard, trying to find just the right place for them and come up with nothing. So they waited--my bucket of neglected bulbs--unwater, unplanted, unrooted.

This is what I saw when I got up yesterday morning:

Yep, right there, in the most unlikely of places, were these captivating flowers. And I cannot tell you the joy they brought me, because, like these bulbs, I have felt very unearthed and honestly a little forgotten by God. Like He put me aside for a while because there was no perfect place for me to be planted. So I have been waiting. Waiting to be watered. Waiting to feel my roots thriving in the soil. Waiting to feel like I belong to something again. But as we all know, life is rarely measured out to us in comfort and security--many times our conditions are rough, and our resources are sparse.

Today, though, I have a new perspective because of these little metaphors ablaze on my porch. Maybe everything I need in order to thrive has been in me before I was ever uprooted. Maybe I am not forgotten after all. Would it be so crazy to think that even in my seeming displacement, I could (and should) stop waiting and start bringing a little joy and beauty into someone else's life? So today, instead of wishing for a garden of rich soil and soft, sweet rain, I think I will just . . . bloom.

Magpie #14

2010-05-17T12:54:00.010-05:00

Is it possible to hold irony in my hands? To trace my fingers over the delicate pattern of life circling back upon itself? The retribution of greed now balanced upon my palm.

Somehow, I think I knew it would all come to this. That it would fall to me to pack the last traces of you. The mink, stolen with your mother's scent still fresh in the luxurious warmth. The long list of trinkets and valuables--all fodder for your bloated belly full entitlement.

And now the dishes. The dishes. The dishes your mother swore you were taking piece-by-piece right out from under her. The dishes that lay hidden in your closet until her death. The dishes that should have been carefully packed and laid aside for your selfish son and his grasping wife. The dishes which I left, instead, a shattered heap on the floor.

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Homesick

2010-02-09T15:45:00.033-06:00

Hello my little blog and my bloggy friends. I have missed you so much. From the start of this year, I intended to devote time to writing about all the magical things I see in my hometown right now. But the truth is I have been weighed down with copy writing and feeling decidedly UNmagical here. So--that's the story.

I used to miss the magnolias and azaleas and tall pines and the green . . . well, the green of Shreveport. I missed the familiar more than the magical. But the longer I am here, the more detached I become.

Today, I am homesick for Austin. For a place not where I grew up, but where I found myself.

Here are the things I miss most.

I miss breakfast with Eddie at the Monument. The wait staff knows us when we come in, and the orange juice is fresh squeezed. I always have the crispy waffle with three strips of peppered bacon. The butter is creamy, and the warm maple syrup comes to the table in a tiny stainless serving cup.

I miss driving across the 360 bridge. Something about the structure of this bridge appeals to me. After sunset, we pull over to a lookout point just across the bridge and see the lights from the Austin skyline reflecting off the Colorado River. The beauty of it makes me cry.

I miss the bats in the twilight sky. At first they scared me, but after a while they mesmerized me. Now, this black heartbeat, this undulating wave of creepy wonder belongs to me.

I miss standing under the Texas star at the dome in the capitol. Passing life sized portraits of Davy Crocket and Sam Houston, I look up into the structure and marvel. I stand on my tiptoes and imagine floating up like Charlie and Grandpa in Willy Wonka's bubble room. Sometimes I say silly things up into the dome and hear my voice echoing back . . .

I miss the bluebonnets. In the spring they are painted across fields and roadside hills and medians. They even spring up in a few parking lots. A periwinkle blanket serves as the backdrop for countless baby pictures and bridal portraits. After a barren winter and ahead of a brutal summer, this March gift reminds us that Austin is indeed alive.

I miss summer nights at the Dell Diamond. For five bucks, we sprawl out on blankets in the grassy area behind center field and wash down soft, salty pretzels with cold cokes. On Friday nights everyone stays late to ooh and aah at the fireworks, then we all go home feeling a little nostalgic.

I miss the Oasis.

I cannot find the words.

In the hot summer afternoons, we sit under colorful umbrellas and drink in the breeze and the view.

Ooooh, the view.

As if this were not enough, when the sun sets, the laughter boiling over from the decks quiets to a simmer. We wait for the last ray to fall behind the lake. Then everyone applauds.

And I think God, I love this place.

Blog of Fame

2009-12-15T23:47:00.015-06:00

Well, the Golden Globe nominations came out today, and that always gets my celebrity radar a roamin'. I have a weird fascination with the concept of celebrity--sort of like an ambulance chaser, I suppose. I am taken with the whole idea that time after time people chase fame, catch it, and then hold tight while it turns them inside out and eats them alive. It's like watching the plague in Valentino--and I cannot look away. My daughter, who wants to be a rock star and marry Taylor Lautner, smiles indulgently when I launch into Lecture #459, entitled "Fame--the Ultimate Life Thief." Behind her eyes, though, races the thought Oh . . . wow. My mom really is crazy! In my defense, let me just say two words . . .
Brett Michaels
--yeah, you know just what I'm talking about.

Still, for all of my old age and common sense, I guess I'm like most people in that I wish I were famous sometimes. I pretend that I am the one bringing the crowd to tears when Whitney Houston belts out each note; I am Meryl Streep as she pours herself convincingly into every performance; I am Sandra Bullock, ecstatic as I collect golden statues and applause. I am every beautiful, award-winning, stiletto-wearing diva who walks the red carpet. And, most fun of all, I am the guest who sits across from James Lipton while all of my life's work is celebrated on the screen above my head, and giddy theater students hang on my every word. So indulge me, if you will. In the spirit of the last awards of the year, play a game with me--I will answer the ten questions at the end of every "Inside the Actor's Studio" episode and I promise to listen, er read, with great interest while you do the same, if you wish. Copy the questions, answer them in your blog, and send me a comment so that I know where to look.

1. What is your favorite word?

Onomatopoeia (wouldn't wanna be ya)

2. What is your least favorite word?

fart

3. What turns you on?

My husband's smile

4. What turns you off?

The smell of feet

5. What sound do you love?

My children laughing

6. What sound do you hate?

Noise--just chaotic noise

7. What is your favorite curse word?

I don't really curse, but my favorite curse word is damn. A word that is multi-functional, and you could accidentally let it slip in front of your grandma without raising eyebrows.

8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?

Chef

9. What profession would you not like to do?

I wouldn't want to be one of the people who works on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

Come in, I am proud of you.

Honors and Benefits--Already at the Age of . . . Oh, Nevermind

2009-12-12T09:01:00.007-06:00

Thanks for the award, Melinda!

I wish I had something clever to say, but sadly, no. I have been sitting on this for a little while because I am relatively new to Bloggyland, and I don't know five bloggers on which to bestow this award. Be that as it may, I will pass it along where I can :)

I need to pass this on to five people, post on their blog to let them know I left this award, and then I need to answer a list of questions in ONE word. And they they will answer these same questions and pass the award on to five others.

1. Where is your cell phone?…pocket

2. Your hair?… growing

3. Your mother?…serious

4. Your father?…trying

5. Your favorite food?… savory

6. Your dream last night?… familiar

7. Your favorite drink?…cocoa

8. Your dream/goal?… author

9. What room are you in?… breakfast

10. Your hobby?… blogging

11. Your fear?… emptiness

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years?…rooted

13. Where were you last night?… table

14. Something that you aren’t?… unburdened

15. Muffins?… cranberry

16. Wish list item?… rescue

17. Where did you grow up?… everywhere

18. Last thing you did?… read

19. What are you wearing?… warmth

20. Your TV?… boring

21. Your Pets?… fish

22. Friends?… life

23. Your life?… evolving

24. Your mood?… contemplative

25. Missing Someone?… girlfriends

26. Vehicle?… shared

27. Something you're not wearing?… glasses

28. Your favorite store?… Wholefoods

29. Your favorite colour?… depends

30. When was the last time you laughed?… today

31. Last time you cried?… yesterday

32. Your best friend?… Eddie

33. One place that I go to over and over?… driving

34. Facebook?… sometimes

35. Favorite place to eat?…quiet

Peace Out

2009-12-08T23:09:00.010-06:00

Tonight I shared the classic with my children "A Charlie Brown Christmas." Nothing makes my heart merrier than the sound of the Vince Guaraldi Trio. And truly, who doesn't giggle when the Peanuts dance? So, I am watching, and of course I get the whole theme of how commercialism steals the magic of Christmas each year. I even give myself a congratulatory pat on the back for "keeping Christmas in my heart," as the reformed Scrooge would say. Especially this year, because I have less to spend than ever. And that reality gives me a beautiful excuse to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas.

But as I am listening to Linus practice his lines in the auditorium, the words peace to all men settle into my heart. Now, don't get me wrong--it's not like I am the woman who fights over parking spots or, God forbid, some ridiculous sale item. But I have to confess, I do not really offer peace in my heart to all men. There are people who have hurt me wrongly--deeply. And, although I don't harbor hostility toward them, I do hold them in contempt. Which, of course, begs the question If God says he came to offer peace between him and me--no strings attached--who am I not to offer peace to others?

So, I guess I have some things to think about this season.

Life by the Fire

2009-12-07T22:31:00.004-06:00

Today I wrote for a while on the couch-- draped in a Christmas blanket-- beside a warm fire. My astute daughter asked me if this is the reason I went to college--so I can work from home by the fire and not have to be in a building somewhere wearing a skirt (my daughter equates wearing a skirt with having bamboo shoved under her fingernails). She doesn't really get that I am home to be with her and my other three children, and I don't wear a skirt because it rides up when I bend over to clean the toilet. Nonetheless, one day she will know the joy that comes from spending each day doing what you love most. And I am hopeful that she will drape herself in the assurance of my love for her and know that, for me, each day with her and with her brothers and sister is a day by the fire.

Frustration

2009-11-30T18:47:00.012-06:00

I never write poetry. But I am feeling a little sorrowful tonight, and rather than carry on, I wrote this:

Belonging to you is like drowning.
Tumbling
over
and
over again
in the waves--
Gasping for the air of your approval
the sunshine of your love
and tasting mostly brine.
In your own way, you try to save me
Though all of your affections are weighted
by conditions and excuses.
Struggling toward the shore,
I imagine a life without you
But I am sucked down by pity
and the hope that someday
we will have nothing between us
except tenderness.
For now, I scrape my chin
against the coarse sand
and wince from the burn in my eyes
while you watch from your perch
in your ignorance
and smile.

Runaway Bride

2009-11-18T22:46:00.002-06:00

Have you ever felt like you wanted to run away from a relationship just to see if you were still worth the chase?

Sometimes I feel that way about God. I realize this thought process probably takes me somewhere between insanity and blasphemy, but I can't help myself. Jesus died for me. I know that should be enough--and really it is. But being the girl I am, I want God to chase me, to catch me, and to remind me that I am worth the fight.

In my marriage it's easy. I ask my husband--"Do you love me?" "Yes," he whispers as he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me. But with God, not so much. In so many times of my life, I have seen God poured out for me. I look around me and see His hand--His mercy, and I am ashamed of my immaturity and selfishness. Other times, though, I feel like David when he says that he has cried so much, he swims in his bed--He pleads with God not to turn His face from him.

I know better than to run away from God. I love Him. He is everything to me, and He promises never to abandon me.

And yet. I ease toward the door and look over my shoulder.

Silly girl.

Quittin' Time

2009-11-10T23:02:00.002-06:00

It is 11:00. The dishes are done. The clothes are folded. The children are bathed and have been sleeping soundly for a couple of hours. As I sit and write, all the stress of the day drips down my back and puddles on the floor.

It's odd, really, how I put on stress like a garment every morning. Mine is a bulky sweater with LOTS of pockets to make room for more. But at the end of each day, I drink hot chocolate or read or write. I watch my children sleep, and I am light again.

Lord, I have not finished the puzzle of what life looks like when I am loved by you. I am sure, though, that this moment is part of that picture, and I am grateful.

(re)BIRTH

2009-10-21T00:01:00.014-05:00

At age 40, I had a baby in my bed. I died that same night.

The day itself seemed unremarkable--steady contractions still lingering from Monday and Tuesday. Nothing a nap and a bath wouldn't cure, I thought. But during my nap, I awoke several times with contractions that made me grip the bed. Not so much from pain, but more as though someone were squeezing me from the inside out.

I wasn't quite sure how to imagine the day and the delivery because this would be my first time. Not to have children--no, no. I have lots of those. My first time to have a child at home. Decidedly away from the hospital. And doctors. And pain medicine.

When I embarked on this journey, I was a sojourner in Austin. A transplant from Stepford, where there is a proper way to do everything--including having a baby.

After just a few months in Austin, I met women who moved freely and confidently through their days--every step an independent expression of the beautiful dance of their lives.

I was jealous.

Panicked, I questioned the thoughts churning under my perfectly-coiffed hair. I ran head-on into my planned, conservative life, and I hated what I saw: a bound woman. I remembered the girl I once was--a fiery, independent force who discreetly took a back seat to make way for a pat on the head. Somehow I had lost that girl, and I was going to find her.

When I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child, I relived every other birth in my head. Me, sitting across from my doctor. Assenting to the "need" to be induced, to be pumped with pitocin, to have a needle in my spine to be relieved from what I believed would be unbearable pain. In that moment I could not stomach the thought of another anesthetized birth. It was just too indicative of my numbed life.

I began searching for alternatives, and as soon as I heard Michele's voice on the phone, I knew I found my answer. The thought of a birth experience that would be authentic and all mine made me cry. With each visit to Michele's home, I felt grounded--right, somehow. But Stepford Girl was right there. Going through a list of worries and reminding me that I was crazy.

On Jonathan's birthday, I got up from my nap and looked at my birth kit that had been tied in neat bundles and tucked away like Christmas gifts. I was giddy and nervous at the same time. I called Michele around 7:30 that evening--still not sure that I was in labor. At 8:00, Scottie bounced in with her sunshine smile. She took one look at me and knew it was my time. Michele examined me as soon as she arrived, and I was already dilated to 8cm. I was already in transition, and although my contractions were enough to take my breath away, I could smile between them. I relaxed in a warm bath waiting for complete dilation--but that was short-lived. Michele heard me sounding "pushy" through my contractions and came in to help me to the bed. Suddenly everything that seemed so peaceful and slow began to speed up. I bore down on Michele's shoulders through my next contraction, afraid I would crush her tiny frame as my water broke. After having another contraction in the bathroom doorway, I made my way to the bed. As the next contraction came, the pain seized me, and I turned and screamed into my pillow. I heard Michele's calm voice telling me I was safe. I inwardly chuckled that I knew I was safe, I was just in immense PAIN. Nevertheless, Michele's gentle words and soft touch on my back helped me focus. With the next contraction, Michele spoke relief to me: "Roll over. It's time to push." The pain burned white hot, time rushed through me, and my heart throbbed in my ears. Suddenly suspended outside of time, I felt my Jonathan come into this world. A wet, warm miracle crying on my belly! With each pulse of the umbilical cord, the pain subsided. Peace enveloped me, and, still suspended above this surreal scene, I looked back to see someone I vaguely recognized. Lying there on the bed was Stepford Girl. Anemic and breathless, she cried out to me. Wanting me to give her my hand--to confine myself again in the ordinary life she created for me. The comfortable life she desperately wanted for me. But it was too late. I had tasted real pain, real life, real freedom. So I left her there, gasping and pleading. Stepford Girl died that night, but I . . . I held my beautiful son and lived.

One of Those Days

2009-08-13T11:50:00.002-05:00

Some days lie down before me like lions around a tree. Others are like brats running through the mall yelling "fart" and "turd" at everyone.

Today is not a lion day.

Heart in Transit

2009-07-23T21:13:00.003-05:00

My thirteen year-old daughter broke down today. For some this may be a common occurrence, but not for her. She does get teary-eyed frequently because she is, after all, almost completely hormonal. But today my gut ached for her because she sobbed--the kind of crying when your breath comes in quick gasps. She is a heart in transit. We uprooted her from her beloved family and church and dog and friends when she was eight, and we promised her that there would be a better life in Austin for her. And just when she was really beginning to believe God smiled upon her in her Texas home, we did it again. She left everything she knew to move back to a memory--only the memory has moved on. I promised her today that she would build a new and amazing life here, and I honestly believe she will. She is funny and warm and doesn't take herself too seriously--something I didn't approach until almost forty. I know that her life will connect with others and be woven again into something beautiful.

But in the meantime

we wait . . . and cry.

Sista

2009-07-14T22:33:00.002-05:00

If my sister-in-law were an element, she would be Earth. When I am with her, my roots dig deep and flex and curl, and then my soul soars. She is alive and ever-changing but has an undefinable stability about her.

She is my sista--she gets me, and I adore her. We talk about God and sex and books and parents and bitter disappointment and nieces who want cookies and pudding. We belly laugh and weep together. She is coffee with cream for me and the sweet smell of rain. She drinks red wine and talks REALLY LOUD and leaves me intoxicated with giddy laughter.

And I love her for that.

No Where to Run To

2009-07-14T22:17:00.003-05:00

My former student Caleb Koke was killed early this morning in a car accident. He is the 17 year-old son of our pastors in Austin, and I taught him when he was in the seventh and eighth grade. He was my bulldog, I used to say. He saw the world in black and white and clung to his perception of truth--even to his own detriment. He was a hard worker and a great athlete and this was going to be his senior year.

I cried for him today because of the loss, but mostly because of his parents' unbearable grief. I feel so inadequate--you know--to speak some word or offer some gesture that could possibly penetrate the agony.

There is no sanctuary on earth where we can be assured of complete safety--a guarantee that our children will live up to all of the potential that God has hidden within them, but I know the place under the Father's wing where the world doesn't have to make sense in order for us to find comfort. I pray the Kokes rest there tonight.

A Tale of Two Edwards

2009-06-12T00:18:00.005-05:00

Oh, Edward Cullen, you really have the easy life--always safely between the covers of all those books. Where you are never blindsided, never have to feel your heart break and somehow hold it together, never have to find a solution when the world is crashing down around you and your family is looking to you for answers. No, Edward, all your days--all your lines--have been carefully chosen for you. You never make a mistake. Immortal. Beautiful. Lithe. Intelligent. Wealthy. Virtuous. Perfect.

Not so for you, my Edward. You have to be quick on your feet. Ready for disappointment, and frustration, and inescapable heartache; all the while you have to be Leader, Encourager, and Strength personified--even when you feel you have the least to give and your family needs you the most. There is a consequence for every misstep, and life's answers are not all found on the next page.

Somehow, though, you do it all. Without any rehearsed lines, without knowing your scripted happy ending. You, my precious Edward, are the true hero of my life's story. Your strong embrace and the warmth of your body shields me from the cold reality of a sometimes hard life. Your words are tender caresses to me. You challenge my sons to be champions, and with the same breath, you kiss them goodnight. You give my daughters the freedom to be comfortable in their own skin, and you remind them of how beautiful they are. Your own perfect beauty is in the smile behind your eyes--a vision that will burn in my heart as we grow old together. No, my sweet Edward, you are not the flawless Edward Cullen. You are so much more. And my life with you is deeper, more passionate, more satisfying than any love story ever told.

Whole Foodie

2009-05-27T22:50:00.000-05:00

Of all the things I will miss about living in Austin, visiting Whole Foods is close to the top of my list. The company is headquartered here, and their store is a multi-storied haven for food lovers. It is so unbelievably expensive--people here call it "Whole Paycheck," but shopping in this grocery store is euphoric.

Their produce section looks like living art--no really, it does. The red and yellow sweet peppers are stocked in rows of perfect semi-circles--stems pointing out; the asparagus stands crisp and tall in clean, white ice-flakes, and people linger over beautiful displays of veggies I do not even know how to pronounce. Mini restaurants are peppered throughout the store. Around the back endless displays of gourmet cheeses, breads, and the most decadent candies I have ever lusted over remind me of the little Parisian specialty stores I see on television. Whole Foods has everything from rare truffles and exotic meats to all-organic produce and homeopathic medicines and supplements. On the weekends there is live music on the roof. It is the ultimate tribute to all-things-Austin. I even took an amazing international cooking class there, where I had goat cheese for the first time and discovered that I not only enjoy eating canapes, but also I like saying canape.

My affinity for Whole Foods is such that when people come to visit, I long to bring them to this foodie playground. Of course, no one in my family is as impressed (er, enamoured) with Whole Foods as I, so I try to curb my enthusiasm at home. Eddie calls it "The Freak Show," and admittedly I do not know where I have seen more white people with dreadlocks. But it seems to be, like much of Austin, a place where everybody blends. Vegan moms wear hemp sandals and fill their cloth shopping bags while they nurse their newborns in homemade slings; college students ride their bikes in to have a cigarette on the patio and pick up dinner for the night; soccer moms load the back of their Hummers with carefully-selected organic fruits and clean meats to pack in their children's lunches; and people like me--just regular me--walk wide-eyed through it all, just taking it in.

Although I rarely get to visit Whole Foods these days (I do not drive downtown with a nursing six-month-old), I am so grateful that I had a chance to make it my own for a while. A little while.