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Whew! The weather firefox add-on at the bottom of my browser is reporting “Now: Sunny, 76 F”, but I just don’t believe it. When the back of your knees are sweating, you know its hotter than hades.
Lil’ E is at nanny Anna’s today, having a ball, no doubt! The chicks are the backyard about to pass out. I am safely tucked away in the house at the moment, where the cool night temps linger. It seems like just last week I was worried about freezing out my newly planted tomato starters- and now the record high temps threaten to burn them up! Tomorrow it is supposed to reach nearly 100 degrees!

All of this is so full-circle, it really is. This time last year, I was selling the last of my belongings that weren’t already packed up. I was preparing to send Hubby off with our car on a 3,000 mile road trip while I finished up the house cleaning before Lil’ E and I flew not far behind him to our new home, Portland, on May 21st. Everything about Portland this time of year was captured by my senses because it was so new and exciting. I familiarized myself with all of the smells, like the lavender, rosemary and sage growing along the sidewalks, as if they were the encapsulated in and only in Portland. The summer heat was familiar, since in many ways the last 23 years of my life was one big summer in Florida. And the evenings were pure bliss, when the skin on my shoulders would tingle as the temperatures dropped off, giving me an excuse to grab a cute shaw and relishing the strange feeling of having stolen extra time by enjoying sunlight until at least 9 pm.

Then I made it through Portland’s grey, drizzly winter. I even made it through the up and down days of early Spring that can play mean tricks on you. I thought that the shift towards Summer would be mighty welcoming, but instead — I must admit — it is bittersweet. This time last year I was saying goodbye and hello so much that my soul was just buzzing from it all. Now the cycle of one year brings all the sights and smells and sounds back again, and all I can think about is that its been 12 months since I have been able to hug my dad, to share a good cry with Steph, or laugh a loud, tipsy laugh with my sister Rachel. And perhaps more depressing- I have no idea if it will be another year, or two, or five, before I will be able to do those things again. This economy and life have left us all pretty darn broke and busy, making the seven hour plane ride seem more like a trek on the “Oregon Trail”, where one will inevitably die of dysentery, or in the very least, lose twelve oxen along the way.

There is nothing to look forward to this time around. While I’ll enjoy the different aspects of Fall, Winter and Spring again, it just won’t be the first time. It won’t be the honeymoon- it will be the marriage. And we all know what marriage is like

Of course, there’s more to it than all of this. There’s a new presidency, (maybe a boost to the economy will create a new job for Hubby), or perhaps we will decide to do something wild and crazy together, (like have another human being with our DNA combination enter the world). Even the low-key, hum drum days of life will no doubt gift me with a nugget of satisfaction or drama, if I keep my eyes open.

Anyway, I’m waiting for June to settle in. Something tells me the grass will look greener in June.

This week held some surprises for me, some struggles and uprooting too. I enjoy having family and friends into our home, but as we all know, it invariably can bring with it the added history, dynamics, habits, and so on. Having company or living in close proximity with family or friends is one of the hardest ways I have had to “learn” community. It can unveil covered up resentment, bitterness and grudges in ways that only a close community can. You can find yourself, as I did a lot in the last few weeks, spouting off things you never thought about first, surprising yourself at your own subconsious (?) level of downright ugliness.

If I had a dollar for all of the unforgiveness that goes on in me and in my home,  let me tell you, that tax refund would pale in comparison!

The discussion at Evergreen today was on this idea of peace, both with God and with others. Forgiveness and reconciliation were facets to peace that resonated with me in a “holy crap, you’ve tapped my prayers” kinda way. I had been learning some major junk lately about having more grace and mercy with others, and seeing how many things I thought I had forgiven that I truly had not (and all the countless things I need forgiveness for, 99% of which I am grossly oblivious too, which I also suppose needs forgiving.) It was just last night that I sat on the floor in my dark room asking for peace, and experienced a few moments, maybe whole minutes, where the room inside my mind went quiet and what I heard was this:

There is an eternity.

I didn’t expect that. It certainly wasn’t what I was praying about, on first glance. But the more that sentence sunk in (and it had to, because there were literally no other words or thoughts in my head but this, despite my best effort!), the more I realized that the pain or chaos I feel is universal, recycled, shared- and that the fact that there is an eternity some how makes this one moment where I am pleading for God to calm the storm of anger or hurt in me a little bit, well, okay. I mean, think about it. There is an eternity. An eternity to feel, to heal, to grow, to love. And- there is a God of that eternity, a God of me, who can fill all of my deepest emptiness with everything that is full.

Whether this is true to you or not, this is going on in my life.

What followed church this morning was a lovely day, a chilly but “bright, bright, bright, sunshiny day”. Even included my first Voodoo doughnut (YUM-OH!) (… and NO, if you happen to look at the menu… I did not order a cock-n-balls. That’s just nahs-tey.)

P.S. Have I mentioned lately just how much I love my family? Cause I really, really do.

For as long as I can remember, my dad was in the home building industry. The Bureau of Labor Statics explains:

“Construction workers often work with potentially dangerous tools and equipment amidst a clutter of building materials; some work on temporary scaffolding or at great heights and in bad weather. Consequently, they are more prone to injuries than are workers in other jobs.”

My dad’s fall off 16′ of scaffolding just before Christmas 2001, when I was a senior in high school, was pretty bad. (Though the time he pulled a 3′ nail out of the meat of his thigh in front of me was kinda gross, and the numerous nerves he’s lost in some finger tips from the table saw, and the time he pulled his finger out of socket and it got all blue and nasty…ok, nuf of that I suppose.) From what I know, the ankle fractured and after one bad surgery and then another to correct it, he was left out of work for over a year. His foot would ache even 6 years later, but he was back on the ladders 6, sometimes 7 days a week (Did I mention he celebrated his 55th birthday this year? -though, no, you don’t look at day over 30, dad!… and ya’ll, I’m almost not exaggerating, I got good genes, lol!)

Friday morning my ol’ man took another fall, though not as high up, that did worse damage to his “good” leg. I won’t go into gory details, but suffice it to say it will be a long process, probably more than one surgery to reconstruct everything that is broken/fractured (he’s already gone through one surgery to “set” the leg).

Why am I writing about this? As you know, I almost never mention family members in my blog out of respect for their privacy. But I’m going to go out on a limb here (hope you don’t mind, fam!) because I would like to ask that any one who prays please make mention of this man if you think of it. He’s still got a family to support and if I know him, having to wait and rest and heal can be hard on him. He’s so tough and works so hard, almost too hard, and I just want nothing but comfort going his way. My dad raised me by himself, and when its all said and done, he’s really pretty much my hero. I and the rest of his family, my step-mother and siblings, are likewise concerned for him and could use any prayers/thoughts/vibes for healing and support and trust in God’s plan and all that good stuff, cool?

Thanks, pals.

I realize “blessed” is like a churchy buzzword, but I can’t help using it. I have had several good conversation’s with women in my life lately who took some time to listen to my complaints and problem solving, and a combination of it all has left me much clearer at the start of this week. I feel almost like I’m on stage thanking those who helped me get here, tears running down my face, “God …. bless…. (ugly sob) you all…”

But not quite that bad.

Heart of Autumn, by Robert Penn Warren

Wind finds the northwest gap, fall comes.
Today, under gray cloud-scud over gray
Wind-flicker of forest, in perfect formation, wild geese
Head for a land of warm water, the boom, the lead pellet.

Some crumple in air, fall. Some stagger, recover control,
Then take the last glide for a far glint of water. None
Knows what has happened. Now, today, watching
How tirelessly V upon V arrows the season’s logic,

Do I know my own story? At least, they know
When the hour comes for the great wing-beat. Sky-strider,
Star-strider- they rise, and the imperial utterance,
Which cries out for distance, quivers in the wheeling sky.

That much they know, and their nature know
The path of pathlessness, with all the joy
Of destiny fulfilling its own name.
I have known time and distance, but not why I am here.

Path of logic, path of folly, all
The same–and I stand, my face lifted now skyward,
Hearing the high beat, my arms outstretched in the tingling
Process of transformation, and soon tough legs,

With folded feet, trail in the sounding vacuum of passage,
And my heart is impacted with a fierce impulse
To unwordable utterance –
Toward sunset, at a great height.

e.e.cummings
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iness

I’ve had some pervasive thoughts lately, regarding time and waste, primarily.

And you are forewarned: this is a rant.

As I shared previously, I’ve been reading into some Waldorf-ish child development stuff lately, and I’m beginning to wonder if some how or another I am reclaiming my own childhood, values, virtues, principles, creativity, thought-life, and so on. Whether its regarding “seasons” I rarely experienced growing up in south Florida, songs and rhymes with motions I had long forgotten,  or childhood experiences I was enriched and blessed by my father’s insistence on playing outdoors with the good ol’ earth and sun and tree house- how EASY it is to become a regular American girl who puts a gazillion Baby Einstien DVD’s on her baby registry and sets out to pace her own family in the ideals of this consumer country with little thought to the down right twisted circle of it all.

I don’t remember a lot of cartoons from my early childhood. I half way remember enjoying Pee Wee’s Playhouse on Saturday mornings through a fuzzy screen of a small, rabbit eared TV in our one bedroom apartment on the Peace River. But I do remember the activities, the games my brother and I created and played with neighboring children in backyard’s and at the marina’s edge. I remember all kinds of “natural” things that thrilled me, down to singing the “Our Father” with my dad when I went to sleep. I read books and colored a hundred times more than I watched tv or movies, that’s for sure. My brother and I made a game out of spelling long words (”perpendicular” was my favorite!) or counting to one hundred when I was just starting grade school. By the time I was in kindergarten, I distinctly recall my frustration that the majority of the other children could not read a simple book or color in the lines or cut out a pattern.

And I don’t know why this was; I don’t know how much tv they watched or what type of parents they had or if we were just plan ol different and that’s that.  I’m merely reflecting on my own experiences as I now filter THROUGH them and try to imagine what memories my son will have in his twenties. I can only say that I can’t imagine who I would be today if I had grown up as so many kids are right now - with oodles of television and computer games and dvd’s in the back of the minivan (what ever happened to car games? I Spy and so on?! I was entertained during 5-15 hour drives with these games!) How sad that they memorize names like Dora and Diego and Elmo and Blues Clues before they even get down the names of their grandparent’s!

I also think of all the senseless hours I’ve wasted in the last decade on tv shows. I’m not talking about an awesome film or favorite show here and there- I mean the AM news, the daytime talks, down to the 11 pm news and Late Night shows, I mean I’ve seen them all- and when I looked around, every one I knew my age was doing the same thing, so I don’t think I’m alone in this! And we wonder all the time where all the hours go in the day and why our nation’s children are overweight on the whole. Maybe because so many of them are NOT out riding bikes and climbing trees and getting sweaty and grimy until dinner time every day? Most at best finish their homework and then play video games. Some have competitive sports or teams they are on, but few teens have an active, healthy LIFESTYLE. My own darling Hubby (very big TV fan, btw) has to “zone out” for most of his hours before or after a work shift with the boob tube- the mere thought of taking a walk four hours before he must clock in is too much (not cracking on him here, just pointing out a difference, okay?) I remember where we lived in Florida, our house was less than a mile from several chain restaurants, a grocery store, even a “Family Fun” place with put put golfing and so on. Yet if we needed a few things from the store or anything, we drove. We got into our automobiles and drove literally around the corner in perfect weather. This seems so silly to me now, and not a wonder I struggled with a flabby butt for the last 5 years! Now I’ve got to re-learn what it means to be active- not a 30 minutes a day exercise regime or gym membership, not a weekend outing here and there- but riding my bike and walking as a MODE OF TRANSPORTATION, weeding and pruning the garden, staying busy with things like this for several hours of every day, allowing the isty bitsy spider to make a web from the tree to the hood of my car because I so rarely use it! (It’s on Craigslist, if any one is interested!)

I was really inspired by a No Impact Man post recently, in which he muses over the fact that we live in a culture that WATCHES everything happening but rarely DOES anything. Why learn an instrument or allow yourself to sing in front of others, let alone connect with others in an intimate way on a regular basis, if you can simply watch such connections in a movie and listen to much better music on the stereo?

And don’t even get me started on 50, 60- 80 hour work weeks that deteriorate our health, families, and quality of life. “More-more-more!”: I’m guilty of it, very guilty of it, trust me. But I am getting MORE MORE MORE bothered by the time this way of living robs from me and the things I could be DOING and learning and how rich my life would be if I got a few priorities straightened out (i.e. putting money/things at the bottom!)

Well, there is a perfectly good afternoon out there right now, so I’m gonna scat now. Scat… isn’t that the word for animal droppings. Ew.

Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses:

Tonight sister Ra, Nanny Girl and I gathered for silly girl gab (and I must say I never knew how very dirty my friends and sister are! That is ALL I’m going to say!) Of course there was a little “Snowslides”, Chocolate Martinis and wines in the mix, but after all the food I wasn’t into the drinks so much– Despite the terrible lies retorting that I, little ol ME, wanted to do shots, which was a total lapse in hearing on their part. Am I moving on to the point? Yes, sorry, I get stuck on details often.

So, why the celebration, you ask? Sister Ra and Nanny Girl just finished off another semester of school! One which seemed to drag on particularly longer than previous semesters. Why was I there? I don’t know, I went from reason A. Work is slowing down a bit while new projects open up; to B. I’ll be getting my degree this month that I pretty much earned a year and a half ago; to C. I’m a MOM and I deserve a toast whenever the heck one is inclined to do so!

Since none of us really liked the pic that came out of this event, I have cleverly made our identities allusive by the totally non-apparent use of Photoshop.

We went south a bit to Naples for Thanksgiving with Hubby’s fam. The mini-vaca was truly a retreat for me, as I got so many much needed tasks accomplished, including the basic act of “me” time and gaining some clarity on our goals and immediate future. It was nice to see Ethan so loved by his Abuela y Abuelo, and his great grandma, who met him for the first time as she lives in Puerto Rico.We “celebrated” Christmas while we were there because his parents will be in Germany during the holidays visited his step-brother who is stationed there. It is always fun to give and receive; this year we made out with pj’s, toys, books, dvd’s, shoes, cool toothbrushes, diapers (unlike the former items, the diapers part applies only to Ethan.) I’m particularly enamored with my new shoes, just the cutest things!

Thanksgiving- one more yearly tally for this event, much gained for me from the family time, better perspectives and more to be thankful for than I went in assuming. I returned today to my messy house but feel lighter and more hopeful than when I left it. Also, very excited to officially begin celebrating my FAVORITE time of year- CHRISTMAS! We will be getting a REAL tree this year, despite my husband’s delightful interjections. We aren’t planning anything big, but will be having dinner with R&R next door. Also, celebrating four year anniversy on the 28th!

Well, I have got to get some rest, so more on alllll this at a later date! Hope you all had an awesome, feastful Thanksgiving!

Here is my nutty family on the drive down:

And here are some random Thanksgiving pics, Lil’ E with his new Chronicles of Narnia pj’s, Abuela and I walking with him to the park, and Abuela and Abuelo in a mad game of ping pong after Thanksgiving dinner:

I did not enter motherhood with any sort of grace or nobility. Motherhood, with its strange delightful horrors, permeated every part of my life from the time I was just a little girl.

Wikipedia offers two basic definitions of a mother. One is “biological” or “social female parent of a child”. The next is what even Wiki calls the “stereotypical traits of a mother such as nurturing and other-centredness.” At this stage in life, nearly 23 years old, I have yet to find the mother of the latter definition. That is to say, some one who hugs and loves without asking why you need it, some one who automatically assumes they are to give and sacrifice for you, some one never stops you when you want to vent, even gossip, to get things off your chest. This person, with whatever faults they come with, is still personal. Maybe they aren’t all warm and apple pie, maybe so. But because of the length of time they have been your mother; the situations they’ve gone through with you; the books they read to you when you were little and the fights you had as a teenager, they are yours.

My mother-in-law, who was more ready to embrace me once we were connected through blood by her first grandson, would admit, or rather state, that it takes her awhile to warm up to people. She wasn’t the southern gal who wanted everybody to call her “Mama” while she poured you a cup of extra sweet tea and invited you to be part of her family. However, she is what you see is what you get. She stands by, with advice and help; with friendship. Though at times I think our entire world views are from opposite sides of the planet, she has shown me what a disciplined, careful, accomplished and fairly consistent woman and mother looks like. She is inspiring to me, and not many “mothers” in my life can say that. I also get the unique seating position of watching her around her son, my husband, so learning all the while a few more pieces to the motherhood fiasco. 

My step-mother was just the opposite. I was working in a coffee shop, 18 years old, when my dad’s long-distance girlfriend came for a visit and popped into meet me. She came straight up to me, laid her hand on top of my own, and with an enormous twinkle in her eye told me how nice it was to meet me. She’s the kind of person who makes a cliché statement like that seem like you won the Noble Peace Prize. I liked her immediately, and knew she was a good match for my father. She hadn’t been married to my dad but a year when I asked her if I could call her “mom”. Still, when she moved in I was heading out to college. It wasn’t until my first pregnancy a few years later that we began to connect more closely, as we had similar birthing philosophies and in the end, she was one of my labor coaches. She held my leg while I pushed, which is such a perfect image of relationships: messy, strenuous, cathartic. Hers and mine are no exception. In ways puzzling to me, we manage to find ourselves in pickles. I’m always the one back-peddling. I spend restless nights feeling like a little girl, worrying that I was too vulnerable with this woman, wondering whether or not I have it in me to work on the relationship at all. My tendency, my preference, with relationships that turn sticky is to cut and run. Only my husband has the kind of devotion and love that comes any where near unconditional- and he thinks it’s annoying. Friends and family do not enjoy his privilege, or curse, however you want to look at it. I say that because at times I have to ask myself if people, particularly mothers, are trying to shake me off, brush me away, and I’m that kid, that needy poor kid who doesn’t get the hint. So they pick fights with me in order to sever the relationship, because they must know that every instinct in me during a brawl is to say, “Sorry, too hard. I’m out.”

Case in point: my biological mother. I spent years not returning her phone calls. Years.  I probably wouldn’t return her phone call were she to call today. With such a complicated relationship, I don’t have enough space to go into it too deeply. What I’ll say is that wherever she fell short, wherever she made a mistake – and there were plenty, the Technicolor kind – I felt it my duty to counter her mistake with my own good choices. Like I was taking it upon myself to balance the universe, tit for tat. It was easy to do, I had a fairly clean slate; I choose to avoid the Technicolor sins of drinking, smoking and sex. I stuck with self-righteousness, gossip, self-loathing – you get the picture. To this day my birth mother’s attempts at a relationship with me are flucked up, (yes, with an “L” cause I need the emphasis without the potty mouth), by my inability to handle her mess. As if it were some how bigger than any one else’s, especially my own. It is one of those situations where I throw my hands up to God and call in a grace card. And hope that some day I will know what to do with it.

In addition to these, there have been women who have added their side dishes of motherhood onto the table for me to feast. They’ll be in my book some day: Jo, who always had a cup of red wine with her dinner, who always let the rest of the house sleep in on Saturday mornings while she cleaned and listened to opera; Loretta, with her fiery Italian tongue, new diets each year, and Christian values; Henderson, the least handicapped handicap person I know. Did they catch me, their kid’s friend, studying them; learning from every encounter just what it is mother’s do; making mental lists of recipes, traditions and routines?

These women, together with various TV moms, combined to form my Modge Podge mother figure. She’s a little lopsided, a little over the top, slightly quirky and unreal, but she’s what I’ve got. It’s not a wonder, then, that as I have become a mother, I see more and more of ol’ Mrs. Modge Podge in the mirror every day.   

Motherhood and perfectionism make a pretty ugly couple.

Here’s why:

1. Perfectionism breeds discontent
2. Perfectionism sets yourself and those around you up for failure
3. Perfectionism robs you of the joy of the present
4. Perfectionism keeps you perpetually selfish
5. Perfectionism never delivers what is promises; Perfection.

This topic has kept me mulling over it for days, the majority of my thoughts being written for other ventures. Perhaps the biggest “aha” for me has been to read about it in the book Amazing Grace, by Kathleen Norris. Who knew that the meaning behind the word “perfect” in the gospels actually referred to something like “maturity” rather than an unrealistic state of achievement?

On a similar note, I am stumbling upon the reoccuring theme that God loves and accepts me, regardless of anything I could say or do to earn it, which is alltogether relieving, and equally uncomfortable. Perhaps that has something to do with my entire image of a father, taken from my earthly one. I grew up with a sense that I was never going to be wise enough, never have enough depth, enough vision, enough something. I still hear it in small comments when we are together, I still feel in me the childish itch to display my feeble wisdom before him in hopes of a little quiet revolution that makes it official: talkative, jump the gun Vivian has got something besides hot air in her head. And maybe that’s partly the reason why I approach my heavenly Father with such humility, refusing to put down my shame and my labels and let Him accept me just as I am. My actions always say something like, “Yeah yeah, you love me cause you have to and all, but if I could just [fill in the blank] then you’d REALLY love me!” Not to mention that the only way to appear perfect to some one is to not let them get too close! What a great excuse to avoid prayer: “God, I need to be perfect for you, so if I just don’t share anything with you, maybe you’ll not realize I’m so naive, prideful, and desperate.”

 

This is a form of perfectionism, because behind perfectionism, beyond the selfishness, lies fear of failure and rejection. And a fear of failure and rejection should be driven totally out by the justification of the gospel, by the taking on of Jesus’ righteousness and the utter need to feel enthusiastic love inclusive of our nuances and immaturities.

 

But sometimes its just not an easy lesson to learn.