Thanksgiving is tomorrow. The turkey is happily brining away, the table is set, the menu is planned, folks are bringing things to contribute to the feast. It's going to be a good day.
I have so much to be thankful for, and not just on Thanksgiving Day. My family is loving and close. My husband and I have successfully navigated the sometimes tumultuous waters of marriage for a really long time. It isn't always easy, but it's worth it.
As I sit here writing to you, I am imagining a tomorrow that's full of love and laughter. That's relaxed and fun. A house packed with happy people who are, let's face it, eating way, way too much. Conversations that include the lighthearted and the serious. And hearts that are thankful for God's many blessings.
Because that's what Thanksgiving is all about. It's a day about introspection as well as turkey. My heart is overflowing with thoughts of the goodness of God, His mercies, His tenderness, His protection, and His provision. He is good. He is good all the time. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Remember to give thanks, because it isn't thanks if you don't give it [Kudos to Pastor Jerry for that one!].
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The 27 Club
Today, I cried. I was in the kitchen, preparing a pretty nice brunch, when my daughter came in and asked if I'd heard the news. What news? The news about Amy Winehouse joining the “27 Club.” The what? The club of musicians who have died at 27 years of age. It took me a while to wrap my head around what she was telling me, and then my eyes filled with tears. Sad tears, disappointed tears, frustrated tears.
There will be all the usual postmortems and editorials about the evils of alcohol and drugs, and there will be those who will blame Ms. Winehouse and say that she somehow deserved it, that she did it to herself. In fact, those vilifications have already begun. And we don't even know what the cause of death was yet. People sometimes rush to judgment.
But let's not. Let's be decent and loving and honoring. Ms. Winehouse's talent was, it's true, overshadowed by the challenges and obstacles she faced. But we were all rooting for her, weren't we? We were hoping that hers would be a story of survival and overcoming. A story of talent redeemed and music to fill the soul with joy and wonder. Because Ms. Winehouse had a fabulous blues voice. I liked her style. The bouffant hair and the thick eyeliner and the whole retro look. She touched my heart. She reminded me of the singers of my youth. And now, sadly, she reminds me of Janis and Jimmy and Jim and Kurt and...well, too many, really. Members of the “27 Club,” all.
I don't pretend to know what was going on in Ms. Winehouse's life, but I do know this: It is not our destiny to be tortured souls, though some of us are. It is our destiny to be loved by God. And all of us are, though we might not realize it. Rest in peace, Amy.
There will be all the usual postmortems and editorials about the evils of alcohol and drugs, and there will be those who will blame Ms. Winehouse and say that she somehow deserved it, that she did it to herself. In fact, those vilifications have already begun. And we don't even know what the cause of death was yet. People sometimes rush to judgment.
But let's not. Let's be decent and loving and honoring. Ms. Winehouse's talent was, it's true, overshadowed by the challenges and obstacles she faced. But we were all rooting for her, weren't we? We were hoping that hers would be a story of survival and overcoming. A story of talent redeemed and music to fill the soul with joy and wonder. Because Ms. Winehouse had a fabulous blues voice. I liked her style. The bouffant hair and the thick eyeliner and the whole retro look. She touched my heart. She reminded me of the singers of my youth. And now, sadly, she reminds me of Janis and Jimmy and Jim and Kurt and...well, too many, really. Members of the “27 Club,” all.
I don't pretend to know what was going on in Ms. Winehouse's life, but I do know this: It is not our destiny to be tortured souls, though some of us are. It is our destiny to be loved by God. And all of us are, though we might not realize it. Rest in peace, Amy.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Guns and Stuff
Our boys don't hunt (yet). My husband grew up in a hunting family and is always in search of hunting buddies. He had hoped his sons would come around. But they were raised in the city, and I guess it's just different when you can't simply throw your gear in the truck, jump in, and head for the woods for the day. Hunting for them would have involved being out of school for a week or two, and then coming home to severe heckling, negative peer pressure, and harassment.
I know this because that's exactly what happened to our younger son when he came back from his very first hunt at the tender young age of twelve, having bagged his first buck. Just about anywhere else, this milestone would have been heralded as a young man's coming of age. My son's experience was quite the opposite, except at home, where we were so proud of him. But we do not live in a place that has a hunting culture. Some kids at school were appalled and treated him badly, shaming him. And that's too bad.
Even though our boys didn't take to hunting (yet), they have now decided that target shooting is fun, and they've become quite proficient. This is a source of much encouragement for my husband. And even better, they invited him to go shooting with them today!
And so, off they went, the three of them, out to the range for the day. I imagine my husband will share some good hunting stories with them, tales from his grandfather and father, passing down family lore from father to sons. And, truth be told, that's what he'd hoped to be able to do with them all along, albeit on hunting expeditions. So, the result will be there, even if the means aren't quite what he'd hoped for (yet). I wonder if the targets they pick up at the store will be the bull's eye kind, or if they will be the kind with a picture of a deer. Who knows? This could turn out to be a hunt, after all. The same thing, only different.
I know this because that's exactly what happened to our younger son when he came back from his very first hunt at the tender young age of twelve, having bagged his first buck. Just about anywhere else, this milestone would have been heralded as a young man's coming of age. My son's experience was quite the opposite, except at home, where we were so proud of him. But we do not live in a place that has a hunting culture. Some kids at school were appalled and treated him badly, shaming him. And that's too bad.
Even though our boys didn't take to hunting (yet), they have now decided that target shooting is fun, and they've become quite proficient. This is a source of much encouragement for my husband. And even better, they invited him to go shooting with them today!
And so, off they went, the three of them, out to the range for the day. I imagine my husband will share some good hunting stories with them, tales from his grandfather and father, passing down family lore from father to sons. And, truth be told, that's what he'd hoped to be able to do with them all along, albeit on hunting expeditions. So, the result will be there, even if the means aren't quite what he'd hoped for (yet). I wonder if the targets they pick up at the store will be the bull's eye kind, or if they will be the kind with a picture of a deer. Who knows? This could turn out to be a hunt, after all. The same thing, only different.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Dead Babies
Casey Anthony was found not guilty of murder today in the death of her 2-year-old little girl, Caylee. "Not guilty" and "innocent" are two different things in our legal system. The prosecution just didn't prove its circumstantial case to the jury, it appears. Whether Casey is actually innocent or is guilty of a different crime than the one for which she was prosecuted is perhaps another matter, and it is not the subject of this blog.
What I'm noticing in the comments I've read is interesting in that people seem to believe the jury has perpetrated a travesty of justice, that the mother should fry, that she should rot, that she should never be allowed to have gainful employment or leave her house, that our legal system is hopelessly broken, and so on and so on. The visceral reaction of people to the death of this innocent child is understandable on the one hand, and it's puzzling on the other.
Understandable in that sweet little children should never be subjected to violence or neglect. They should be loved outrageously and liberally. They should be nurtured and cared for and protected. They should be treated well, their innocence cherished, their potential valued and realized. I entirely agree, just so there's no confusion. Life is precious and valuable. Little Caylee deserved better.
Here's why it's also puzzling. Sweet little innocent children are killed...butchered...every single day in the name of choice. They are torn to bits and vacuumed out of their mommies and thrown in the trash. And nobody seems to care about that. Where's the justice for those babies? Why aren't folks all up in arms about their deaths?
I'm sure there's a distinction in there somewhere, but I don't get it.
There have been about 50,000,000 abortions in the United States since 1973. I guess that's just too big a number to seem real. Too big a number to wrap your head around. I guess it's easier if you don't think of them as dead babies.
What I'm noticing in the comments I've read is interesting in that people seem to believe the jury has perpetrated a travesty of justice, that the mother should fry, that she should rot, that she should never be allowed to have gainful employment or leave her house, that our legal system is hopelessly broken, and so on and so on. The visceral reaction of people to the death of this innocent child is understandable on the one hand, and it's puzzling on the other.
Understandable in that sweet little children should never be subjected to violence or neglect. They should be loved outrageously and liberally. They should be nurtured and cared for and protected. They should be treated well, their innocence cherished, their potential valued and realized. I entirely agree, just so there's no confusion. Life is precious and valuable. Little Caylee deserved better.
Here's why it's also puzzling. Sweet little innocent children are killed...butchered...every single day in the name of choice. They are torn to bits and vacuumed out of their mommies and thrown in the trash. And nobody seems to care about that. Where's the justice for those babies? Why aren't folks all up in arms about their deaths?
I'm sure there's a distinction in there somewhere, but I don't get it.
There have been about 50,000,000 abortions in the United States since 1973. I guess that's just too big a number to seem real. Too big a number to wrap your head around. I guess it's easier if you don't think of them as dead babies.
Monday, June 27, 2011
"Green Lantern" Movie Review
Sozo (That's an inner healing/deliverance ministry I'm involved in at church) was canceled tonight, so my husband and I went to see “Green Lantern” on the spur of the moment, at the last minute. It felt really good to do something unplanned, unexpected, and unscheduled. It was what I imagine playing hookie must be like. You know...exciting, exhilarating, adventurous... But I never played hookie, so I can't know for sure.
First, let me say that I've not been a particular fan of adventure comics of the superhero variety (“Superman,” “Green Lantern,” etc.), but the movies are generally entertaining. Good versus evil. Good wins! But, of course, not without nail-bitingly tense situations requiring incredible superpowers for positive resolution.
“Green Lantern” did not disappoint me, but probably not for the reasons you might think. It wasn't the hunky star, although that certainly didn't hurt anything. It wasn't the special effects, although special effects are becoming so good that it's hard to tell fact from fiction. But I also thought that many years ago, when special effects were stupendously bad (We didn't know any better). It wasn't the plot, which was, let's face it, pretty standard superhero stuff. Nope. It was the message.
Yes, really. The message was amazing. And amazingly accurate. Fear is one of the most powerful tools of the enemy. And free will can be the weakest part of being human, especially when that free will is resident in an unfocused, undisciplined person. So easily swayed, we are. So easily distracted. So easily caught unaware. So easily choosing evil rather than doing good.
Partner with fear, and this weapon of the enemy's will destroy you. Exercise your free will to resist it, to overcome it, and you will grow stronger and less fearful. Focused and disciplined. Doesn't that sound simple? Well, it is simple. But it isn't easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy. But if you resist and keep on resisting, ah! You will be victorious.
If you see the film, be sure to stay for the credits. Hint.
Monday, June 20, 2011
A Poem Comes (Back) to Mind
I was walking down the hallway just now, thinking about how things very seldom end up the way we expect. Sometimes, that's a very good thing; other times, not so good. I guess I've just reached an introspective part of life as I sort through "opportunities for growth" (most often perceived as "challenges") ahead.
Suddenly, the opening lines of a poem I started, but never finished, in high school popped into my mind. High school. The teenage years. You know, that time in life where you think you've lived so much. Makes you kind of want to smile wryly, eh? But let's laugh out loud together. SCOFF! SCOFF! There. Now I feel better.
I must have started it for some English class or another, having just read a terribly scandalous novel. I know this because high school is pretty much the last time I was required to write poetry, if you don't count French class in college. And this poem was obviously in English. It went like this:
"Bittersweet are memories
Of you and me
And of the trees
Beneath which we once made love."
I'm thinking this might be a good time to revive the old poetry writing skills. Or not. Just to clarify, I'm certain that the poem doesn't reference an actual person or event. Call it artistic license.
Anyway, "bittersweet." Now, that's an interesting word for a teenager to use about anything, what with the wealth of experience your average teenager has. It holds a tantalizing sense of loss and longing. It hints at a broken heart, teary eyes, a feeling of "almost, but not quite." Reaching but not attaining.
So much of my life has been about that. Reaching but not attaining, I mean. There's no bitterness or rancor involved. There's just angst. The realization that much of life is made up of fleeting moments that, once gone, will never be recaptured.
Memories. Make yours memorable. Laugh, love, give of yourself with abandon. Who knows? You might end up with some pretty good memories that you can take out and dust off occasionally, just to revive the sensations of youth. They might even be bittersweet and bring tears to your eyes. But I guarantee they'll warm your heart.
Suddenly, the opening lines of a poem I started, but never finished, in high school popped into my mind. High school. The teenage years. You know, that time in life where you think you've lived so much. Makes you kind of want to smile wryly, eh? But let's laugh out loud together. SCOFF! SCOFF! There. Now I feel better.
I must have started it for some English class or another, having just read a terribly scandalous novel. I know this because high school is pretty much the last time I was required to write poetry, if you don't count French class in college. And this poem was obviously in English. It went like this:
"Bittersweet are memories
Of you and me
And of the trees
Beneath which we once made love."
I'm thinking this might be a good time to revive the old poetry writing skills. Or not. Just to clarify, I'm certain that the poem doesn't reference an actual person or event. Call it artistic license.
Anyway, "bittersweet." Now, that's an interesting word for a teenager to use about anything, what with the wealth of experience your average teenager has. It holds a tantalizing sense of loss and longing. It hints at a broken heart, teary eyes, a feeling of "almost, but not quite." Reaching but not attaining.
So much of my life has been about that. Reaching but not attaining, I mean. There's no bitterness or rancor involved. There's just angst. The realization that much of life is made up of fleeting moments that, once gone, will never be recaptured.
Memories. Make yours memorable. Laugh, love, give of yourself with abandon. Who knows? You might end up with some pretty good memories that you can take out and dust off occasionally, just to revive the sensations of youth. They might even be bittersweet and bring tears to your eyes. But I guarantee they'll warm your heart.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Reflections on Weddings
I love weddings. Two people, standing at the altar in front of their family and friends (or friends who ARE family, which is even better), gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, promising to love and honor and cherish. No matter what. Sickness or health, riches or poverty, better or worse. Ah, the endless hope of it all. It totally recharges the batteries of my romance-o-meter and makes me nostalgic for that time long ago when everything was new and fresh, and the bloom was still on the rose.
From this side of life, looking back, I realize that I had no idea what I was getting into. And that's a good thing, really. Imagine starting out with the knowledge of all the good things and not-so-good things coming your way. Nope. Much better to start out with stars in your eyes and hope in your heart and nothing to mar the beautiful, flower-lined, hearts-and-roses road ahead. The bumps will come soon enough, and then the commitment you made will be the glue that holds the relationship together until more good times arrive.
A lifetime of happiness is what we all sincerely wish the newlyweds will experience. A lifetime of growing closer and closer, more and more of one mind. Earnestly desiring the very best for each other, encouraging each other, loving each other. Hope springs eternal.
I must admit that as I watched your happiness and joy today, I looked at my man with fresh eyes. Starry eyes, and a bit teary, too. Yep. He's one handsome dude with devastatingly gorgeous baby blues. And I notice that my heart beats just a tiny bit faster as I remember that day long ago when we were the ones standing at the altar.
From this side of life, looking back, I realize that I had no idea what I was getting into. And that's a good thing, really. Imagine starting out with the knowledge of all the good things and not-so-good things coming your way. Nope. Much better to start out with stars in your eyes and hope in your heart and nothing to mar the beautiful, flower-lined, hearts-and-roses road ahead. The bumps will come soon enough, and then the commitment you made will be the glue that holds the relationship together until more good times arrive.
A lifetime of happiness is what we all sincerely wish the newlyweds will experience. A lifetime of growing closer and closer, more and more of one mind. Earnestly desiring the very best for each other, encouraging each other, loving each other. Hope springs eternal.
I must admit that as I watched your happiness and joy today, I looked at my man with fresh eyes. Starry eyes, and a bit teary, too. Yep. He's one handsome dude with devastatingly gorgeous baby blues. And I notice that my heart beats just a tiny bit faster as I remember that day long ago when we were the ones standing at the altar.
Congratulations and best wishes, you two! At the end of the road ahead, may you still gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, and may your hearts beat as one.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
For Mom
I just called my mother on the phone to wish her a happy Mother's Day, and we had the best time chatting about this and that. She said she can't wait to see me, and I'm really looking forward to seeing her, too. She commented that we always have such a good time together, sharing stories and laughter. And that's true. I reminded her that we can also do that on the phone between visits. And we do, but the face-to-face times are the best. To see the mischievous look in her eye as she divulges a previously hidden mystery of her past, to see her throw her head back in mirthful belly laughter, and to catch the upraised eyebrow and sideways glance that means I'm about to hear a particularly juicy tidbit. Well, those times are priceless.
On this Mother's Day, as my children celebrate and honor their mother in winsome and wonderful ways, I celebrate and honor my mom. I am so glad that I can still see her and touch her and be with her. So many don't have that joy and privilege. The older I get, the more my beautiful, charming Mommy means to me. Thank you, Mom. I love and appreciate you, and I think you are wonderful!
On this Mother's Day, as my children celebrate and honor their mother in winsome and wonderful ways, I celebrate and honor my mom. I am so glad that I can still see her and touch her and be with her. So many don't have that joy and privilege. The older I get, the more my beautiful, charming Mommy means to me. Thank you, Mom. I love and appreciate you, and I think you are wonderful!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy!
I hate that saying. It smacks of manipulation and passive-aggression and brings to mind the not-too-flattering image of a self-centered, nasty sort of person with multiple unresolved issues. But I like it as a title, so, there you go.
My mom lives in a different city, and I visit her, on average, once a month. During this visit, I make it my business to make Mama happy. This wasn't always my mission on my periodic visits to town. Rather the opposite, in fact. When I was younger, I considered it an unpleasant necessity to sort of stop by for a few minutes, just to say hello. Hanging out with Mom was not exactly on my Top 10 list. I imagine that's not necessarily unusual. Well, at least I hope it isn't unusual. Otherwise, I'm a truly horrible person, and nobody wants to be a truly horrible person. But I digress. Nothing unusual there, either.
Over the years, though, I have become better acquainted with my Mom, the woman, as opposed to my Mom, the mother. Not that my Mom was a bad mother, by any means. It's just that, you know, she was my MOM, for crying out loud. So, naturally, she didn't know anything, she understood even less, she messed with my business, she gave me advice I hadn't ask for, she disapproved of things I approved of, she gave me "the look," and so on. Oh. Wait. I'm describing me, the way my children would. Oops. You know how you swear up and down that you will NEVER be like this or that or the other? Ya. There you go.
My Mom, the woman, is kind, caring, compassionate, patient, and wise. And she's also funny, which, who knew? In fact, she has a wicked sense of humor, which she uses to maximum effect with a simple look, accompanied by a well-timed grunt or chuckle. I love her. I'm so glad I still have her, and I'm so grateful that I can hang out with her, chat with her, do small things to delight her and help her, and chauffeur her to places she needs to be. It can never be enough, but I hope it has made up a tiny bit for the earlier times.
Yesterday, it was not raining. Months and months ago, Mom and I had purchased beautiful new silk flowers for Daddy's grave. We had a fabulously wet winter, much to everyone's relief after three years of drought, and every visit to Mom was punctuated by rain showers. You don't walk out to the middle of a cemetery in the rain and squish through the uneven sod around sunken grave markers with an 88-year-old, silver-haired lady. Unless it would please you to pace nervously around the emergency room for the rest of the day and then rearrange your schedule so you can nurse her hip back to health.
But yesterday morning, it was gloriously unraining and even, perhaps, intermittently sunny and warm. So we drove off in my Little Blue Bomb to Lawncrest Memorial Park to visit Daddy. It's been almost five years since Daddy's death, but the sight of his name on that plaque always nonplusses me a bit. It's so surreal. Confusing. He's there, but he isn't there. He's with Jesus, dancing, but his body is in the ground. Dust to dust. Not sure how all of that works with the cement, in-ground, crypt-thingies that are required now, but there you have it. It's so final, but not.
I verbalized my thoughts and feelings to my mom and asked her if she thinks and feels the same things, and Mom seems very philosophical about it all. She doesn't seem to have any trouble wrapping her head around the reality of his departure. The caregiving years have melted away, and the memories that are deeply implanted surface in dreams. She dreams about him often, she says, and things are like they always were, then. She dreams of ordinary, younger married life, with her husband beside her doing ordinary, younger married life things. And she wakes up, but he isn't there. It seems as though he ought to be, but he just isn't. And then she remembers, and, somehow, it's okay.
My mom lives in a different city, and I visit her, on average, once a month. During this visit, I make it my business to make Mama happy. This wasn't always my mission on my periodic visits to town. Rather the opposite, in fact. When I was younger, I considered it an unpleasant necessity to sort of stop by for a few minutes, just to say hello. Hanging out with Mom was not exactly on my Top 10 list. I imagine that's not necessarily unusual. Well, at least I hope it isn't unusual. Otherwise, I'm a truly horrible person, and nobody wants to be a truly horrible person. But I digress. Nothing unusual there, either.
Over the years, though, I have become better acquainted with my Mom, the woman, as opposed to my Mom, the mother. Not that my Mom was a bad mother, by any means. It's just that, you know, she was my MOM, for crying out loud. So, naturally, she didn't know anything, she understood even less, she messed with my business, she gave me advice I hadn't ask for, she disapproved of things I approved of, she gave me "the look," and so on. Oh. Wait. I'm describing me, the way my children would. Oops. You know how you swear up and down that you will NEVER be like this or that or the other? Ya. There you go.
My Mom, the woman, is kind, caring, compassionate, patient, and wise. And she's also funny, which, who knew? In fact, she has a wicked sense of humor, which she uses to maximum effect with a simple look, accompanied by a well-timed grunt or chuckle. I love her. I'm so glad I still have her, and I'm so grateful that I can hang out with her, chat with her, do small things to delight her and help her, and chauffeur her to places she needs to be. It can never be enough, but I hope it has made up a tiny bit for the earlier times.
Yesterday, it was not raining. Months and months ago, Mom and I had purchased beautiful new silk flowers for Daddy's grave. We had a fabulously wet winter, much to everyone's relief after three years of drought, and every visit to Mom was punctuated by rain showers. You don't walk out to the middle of a cemetery in the rain and squish through the uneven sod around sunken grave markers with an 88-year-old, silver-haired lady. Unless it would please you to pace nervously around the emergency room for the rest of the day and then rearrange your schedule so you can nurse her hip back to health.
But yesterday morning, it was gloriously unraining and even, perhaps, intermittently sunny and warm. So we drove off in my Little Blue Bomb to Lawncrest Memorial Park to visit Daddy. It's been almost five years since Daddy's death, but the sight of his name on that plaque always nonplusses me a bit. It's so surreal. Confusing. He's there, but he isn't there. He's with Jesus, dancing, but his body is in the ground. Dust to dust. Not sure how all of that works with the cement, in-ground, crypt-thingies that are required now, but there you have it. It's so final, but not.
I verbalized my thoughts and feelings to my mom and asked her if she thinks and feels the same things, and Mom seems very philosophical about it all. She doesn't seem to have any trouble wrapping her head around the reality of his departure. The caregiving years have melted away, and the memories that are deeply implanted surface in dreams. She dreams about him often, she says, and things are like they always were, then. She dreams of ordinary, younger married life, with her husband beside her doing ordinary, younger married life things. And she wakes up, but he isn't there. It seems as though he ought to be, but he just isn't. And then she remembers, and, somehow, it's okay.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Get That Log Out of Your Eye, Lady
People often have...issues...establishing appropriate boundaries within which to live their lives, and I spend quite a bit of time and energy helping others to set healthy ones for themselves. It's interesting that folks come to me for help in this area, since I have the very same problem.
I've never met a request for my time that I could refuse, unless it came from my husband. He'll understand, right? Someone is right in front of me with tear-filled eyes, or an urgent project, or a problem to get advice about, or a terribly important meeting to rope me into, or whatever. How can I say no? And so, I cave, even if I'm already on my way out the door. With my coat on. And my keys in my hand.
Wimp. There I am, with my boundaries caved in all around me, trying to figure out what just happened and how I got myself cornered and lassoed again. There is simply no joy whatsoever in feeling trapped, you know that?
So, what is the lesson in the situation I find myself in this time? I guess I could start by listening to my own advice. Before I say "Sure, I can do that," I need to ask myself a few questions. Questions like: Is this request reasonable? Do I really have time to do this, or will it just add unnecessary stress to my life? And, of course, the coup de grace...Do I want to do this thing, or do I just feel backed into a corner and unable to extricate myself?
Grow a backbone, lady. You feel ambushed, and you know it. Now, what are you gonna do about it?
I've never met a request for my time that I could refuse, unless it came from my husband. He'll understand, right? Someone is right in front of me with tear-filled eyes, or an urgent project, or a problem to get advice about, or a terribly important meeting to rope me into, or whatever. How can I say no? And so, I cave, even if I'm already on my way out the door. With my coat on. And my keys in my hand.
Wimp. There I am, with my boundaries caved in all around me, trying to figure out what just happened and how I got myself cornered and lassoed again. There is simply no joy whatsoever in feeling trapped, you know that?
So, what is the lesson in the situation I find myself in this time? I guess I could start by listening to my own advice. Before I say "Sure, I can do that," I need to ask myself a few questions. Questions like: Is this request reasonable? Do I really have time to do this, or will it just add unnecessary stress to my life? And, of course, the coup de grace...Do I want to do this thing, or do I just feel backed into a corner and unable to extricate myself?
Grow a backbone, lady. You feel ambushed, and you know it. Now, what are you gonna do about it?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
You want me to make WHAT for your birthday?!
Today is a very special day. My twins were born on this date...quite a few years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday, of course, like all moms. It was a wild ride at first, taking care of two little babies, an older child who saved my bacon on a number of occasions (may many blessings flow to him), and a husband who worked really hard to provide for our little family.
But that isn't what this about. This is about a meal. No, I'm not going to go into all the terribly interesting details of slicing, dicing, chopping, sauteeing, and whatnot. This is not a cooking blog, but I do (on occasion...okay, on rarer and rarer occasion) prepare what I hope will be a tasty feast in celebration of something momentous. A birthday, for instance. And so, when I innocently asked, "So, any special requests for your birthday dinner?" the last thing I expected to hear was "Gnocchi!" And I thought to myself, 'No problem...They sell that at Raley's.' But, no! Alas, then came the qualifier: "Homemade gnocchi!"
Yikes. Now, I remember my mom making gnocchi. Interestingly, I remember her making gnocchi for me as a special request for my birthday meal. Here, I feel I must once again apologize to my mother for all that I put her through during my childhood, early adolescence, teen years, young adulthood...okay, all the way up to the present. Sorry, Mommy! May your sainthood be recognized by all who have known me.
I would ask Mom about the recipe, and she would say something like, "Recipe? What recipe? You take some potatoes, and you add...etc., etc." "Well, how much do you add?" "Oh, until the dough feels right." Seriously, Mom? Until the dough "feels right"? And how do you know when that is?
So, today, I boiled some potatoes, and I added this and that, and I measured nothing. Mom will be so proud! I added things until the dough "felt right." I kneaded and floured, I rolled out the long ropes of dough with my hands, just like I'd seen her do. I cut the dough into "little pillows," just like I remembered. And now, the gnocchi are waiting for a large pot of boiling water in which to take a quick plunge before being smothered in the sauce and served immediately to a small group of folks who are very precious to me.
I hope they will find the meal delightfully delicious, just what they'd hoped for. Just as I always did (Thanks again, Mommy!). I only hope they don't ask me for the recipe...
But that isn't what this about. This is about a meal. No, I'm not going to go into all the terribly interesting details of slicing, dicing, chopping, sauteeing, and whatnot. This is not a cooking blog, but I do (on occasion...okay, on rarer and rarer occasion) prepare what I hope will be a tasty feast in celebration of something momentous. A birthday, for instance. And so, when I innocently asked, "So, any special requests for your birthday dinner?" the last thing I expected to hear was "Gnocchi!" And I thought to myself, 'No problem...They sell that at Raley's.' But, no! Alas, then came the qualifier: "Homemade gnocchi!"
Yikes. Now, I remember my mom making gnocchi. Interestingly, I remember her making gnocchi for me as a special request for my birthday meal. Here, I feel I must once again apologize to my mother for all that I put her through during my childhood, early adolescence, teen years, young adulthood...okay, all the way up to the present. Sorry, Mommy! May your sainthood be recognized by all who have known me.
I would ask Mom about the recipe, and she would say something like, "Recipe? What recipe? You take some potatoes, and you add...etc., etc." "Well, how much do you add?" "Oh, until the dough feels right." Seriously, Mom? Until the dough "feels right"? And how do you know when that is?
So, today, I boiled some potatoes, and I added this and that, and I measured nothing. Mom will be so proud! I added things until the dough "felt right." I kneaded and floured, I rolled out the long ropes of dough with my hands, just like I'd seen her do. I cut the dough into "little pillows," just like I remembered. And now, the gnocchi are waiting for a large pot of boiling water in which to take a quick plunge before being smothered in the sauce and served immediately to a small group of folks who are very precious to me.
I hope they will find the meal delightfully delicious, just what they'd hoped for. Just as I always did (Thanks again, Mommy!). I only hope they don't ask me for the recipe...
Saturday, April 9, 2011
It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood!
Spring has finally sprung, and I was out in the yard today, tending to some long overdue clipping, trimming, and pruning. My trees and shrubs will thank me in the end. They'll be fuller and thicker and healthier and prettier. And that led me to thinking about the clipping, trimming, and pruning that's been going on in my life and how that's going to lead to growth and maturity. Someone else will have to judge about the beauty.
Welcome to my blog.
Welcome to my blog.
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