It is a comforting thought that beautiful moments never die. One can collect them, store them away, and they are always at hand to bring forth again and appreciate. There are many of them, and all one needs is an awareness to have them.
Gladys Taber
Stillmeadow Daybook
pg 230
~
What’s for dinner?
We are having Robin Hood, Raphael’s La Donna Velata, crunchy Math numbers, with a side of Favorite Poems Old and New. We are drinking deeply from Antonin Drorak’s music and dessert is Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Numerous other delectable dishes are being served up at this feast. I lean back and sigh with satisfaction at the wide array of dishes, something for everyone here. At this table, we all are filled with our favorites, the things that hit our taste buds just right at the right moment.
I was pondering last night how much I cherish home educating my children. I particularly am thankful for the wisdom of Charlotte Mason. My favorite thing about her learning philosophy and methods is that is personal. It’s about relationships. It’s about each person being unique, connecting to the Lord and His world in an intimate, personal way.
She liken this type of living as a feast, a description that really touches me. She told us that it isn’t about facts but how much we care. At this feast, we are all learners, partakers. My 7yo pulled out The Secret Garden the other day, and we read this together:
“The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.”
pg 40
The Secret Garden
Frances Hodges Burnett
I actually had a little lump in my throat, thinking of orphan Mary. The quickening of the beauty of that bird in a love-starved heart. That is so alike this way of living, a bright spark. I then began considering the foster care system as I had been reading something earlier. Later that evening, all of us got talking about the differences between foster care and orphanages. We started talking about adoptions and friends that have opened their hearts to it.
The next day, some of the children started a fund to purchase necessities for underprivileged children. See? It’s all connected. Life is a huge beautiful interweaving of personal relationships and connections. Miss Mason’s heart was for all people to partake of a deep connection with their God, enter in the cares and concerns of others compassionately, and understand they are each a uniquely created person in God.
The candles are flickering low, the table cloth is a bit rumpled, crumbs litter the floor, the delicious feast feeding and nourishing us. It isn’t always easy creating this feast, it takes a bit of work, elbow grease, yet it is so very worth it. I murmur a last word of thanksgiving and blow out the candles.
Tomorrow, we will taste and see that the Lord is good all over again.
~
I snuggled him to my chest, sniffing that sweet baby smell in his hair. Oh my. I really do love these days of home keeping, mothering, and learning with my children. Don’t get me wrong, I have my moments, which usually involve me shutting myself into my bedroom, with coffee and books or crying on my hubby’s shoulder. 🙂 I haven’t always loved this life and still struggle with discontent. However, for some reason, 14ish years into this gig, I’m beginning to really settle into this grove. I truly can say I LOVE it now. Yes, it’s hard, physically and mentally, but it’s also so beautiful. I’ve been trying to figure out what is the difference. I think the difference is that I’m not fighting it anymore. The idea that there is “something” out there later or after I’m finished mothering. Hah. Mothering doesn’t end. The idea I’m not doing anything worthwhile or meaningful is hogwash. I can be all that God has for me right here and now. The false idea that there is one way to mother and you must meet that standard or you get a big fat F. Nope. I have my strengths, I do my best, focusing on the things that are most important for me, my family, and my faith. I prioritize and then just relax down into them. Like a comfortable sweater on a cool spring day. Contrary to pretty much everyone else, I don’t want to be a woman who does it all. I want to do a few things WELL. I put my hand to the plow, sow, and lay a feast of love, beauty, and a smooth-ish rhythm to our days. I trust by faith that the Lord will complete that which He has started in my children and I. So, I’m challenging myself to march forth, boldly and bravely. Enjoy each step fully, no reservations, and no fear. Motherhood is a beautiful gift.
~
Seasons of love flow and change, following the pattern of nature. I gaze now at the barren, white expanse of our Wisconsin fields. The black, craggy branches completely bare of leaves, creaking coldly in the wind. The icy stream cutting through the gray, dirty landscape. My marriage began one hot, sultry summer day, but I now think on the moments of bleakness. The misunderstandings, the cold shoulders, and staring at my husband as if he was from an alien planet. Keys locked in cars, bills forgotten, winter moments of life. Piles of snow reminiscent of the issues to be shoveled through in marriage.
A bit of green pushing up through the earth, surprises, birth of babies, new beginnings have sprung as spring in my marriage. We gazed amazed at our first home bought together, ignoring the ramshackle state, DIY piles, and hours of work that lay ahead. It didn’t matter because hope springs eternal. The beauty of a bouquet of flowers, a kind text, an encouraging word, and a hug have kept newness alive in our hearts. A common goal, faith, and sense of purpose, living our country life and raising a family have strengthened us in moments of weakness.
The plowing, sowing and the hours of weeding, pruning, and cultivating seem worth it for the harvest in a garden. Joy does indeed come in the morning. Summer sunlight breaking through. Back to that hot September day, when we pledged through all of life’s seasons we would stick together, we couldn’t have known truly what a sacrifice it would be to make that daily choice. A choice of wiping the sweat off of illness, financial pressures, and humid blasts of family issues. The delight yet exhaustion from new life, new jobs, the lack of sleep or rest.
Relationships are extremely hard work. They need constant attention. It’s easy to let the leaves of life to fall, shifting and slowly drifting down, not noticing the pile of offenses creeping ever taller. The autumn winds rattle and shake the windows of our family home, and one must notice these things before they become cracks in the foundation, warmth lost, a wisp in the cooling air.
I confess that I am unashamedly old-fashioned in my view of my marriage. I’m committed to it. No matter the winds that buffet it, no matter the hard rains we face, I choose to stick it out today, tomorrow, until death do us part. I believe anything beautiful and true takes hard work and sacrifice. Just look at the cathedrals, beautiful gardens, and greatest inventions. They all have one thing in common. A stark, shear, almost mad perseverance.
I often say harsh words to my husband, I lack compassion, or am neglectful, yet he still chooses to love me. He forgets, gets busy, and misunderstands. Yet, without us choosing to forgive, what good would we see built? I realize that there are extremely hard circumstances which many find themselves in and we can’t begin to understand the reasons so many relationships end. All I know is my own, and barely at that. I take it one moment, one sown seed at a time, believing that we will reap a continued harvest of a life of togetherness.
Yes, togetherness. That’s the word. Notice I didn’t say bliss or life of romance. The truth truly is that those are small bits that flash out now and again, but the real love comes in the ugly yet beautiful mundane. This is the stuff unwritten and outside the film frame. The cleaning up after sickness, the hot angry tears, the dropping everything to run that annoying errand, and the letting go. It’s the countless bags of garbage taken out, the meals and dishes, it’s the faithful punching the clock to pay bills.
These are the cyclical seasons of true romance. When you change those sheets, fix that door knob, or stretch out an arm to steady someone. It’s the darkness, smells, and frustrations that spell and create a true togetherness. The anticipation of the changing seasons is one my very favorite parts about where I live, and just maybe I can approach each and every one in marriage with gratitude. Gratitude that I’m being shaped and honed through this relationship in a way that none other can. So cheers to soon-to-be 15 years, and Lord-willing, many more.
~
‘Tis the season to be ruminating on love. Human love to me is chiefly tangible.It takes action, showing, doing, serving, and being much more than some little metaphoric chubby guy shooting people with arrows. One of my favorite expressions of love is in the form of old-fashioned letters sent through the post. There is something about a bit of beauty and friendship being shared in this slow, thoughtful way.
In the days of instant updates, tweets, and texts, receiving a handwritten note is priceless. For me, the whole process is a labor of love. Choosing the unique, beautiful cards or paper. “Geeking” out over all the pen choices, which ink flows the smoothest. I’m not even going to get started on decorating the envelopes, the vintage wax seals, and washi tape fever. Choosing the right postage stamps is pure agony. God forbid ones postage stamps not be pretty or unique. 🙂
I can’t tell you how much joy this art form, an almost lost one, can be. It’s a two-fold joy. One in the creating and sending and the other in anticipation and receiving back. Currently, I have two sweet gals who share a bit of Pennsylvania country life with me. Karen and Rebecca graciously are my friends from afar, real friends, through the pages of a letter. Bonnie from North Carolina and Fleur from New Zealand, letters and hands and lives reaching across the miles. These four women and I sharing bits of art and the beauty of life through a tangible medium.
These letters become a bit like a treasure trove to me, stored, tied up with a bit of twine, or used as a book mark, or hung up, decorating my home. The connection with the past and present is very real in our letters, recalling the women of old, who this was their only way of communicating once or twice a year. Pen pals are in a way, an act of preserving a bit of the past. A bit of my history for future generations to mull over. What would we do without all the writings and letters of the past?
The wait for these written treasures makes them all the more worth while. The small, limited space and the amount of time spent writing and winging across the sky, make us more to the point, more about savoring and sharing little important parts of life. We share a bit deeper and notice the small things longer, dragging out a life time, appreciating singular instances of life over two letter writings. That slow living is very uncommon now and I am so glad to keep cultivating this habit of love and friendship.
~
Br
{Good reading choice, boys. 🙂 }
We are slowly making it through the dreary, foggy winter days. We’ve had some glorious sunshine spilling through the bleak grays. The sun is a blessing, shooting out and then deep down into our souls. Here are a few of my favorite wintery things, currently.
What are you doing to celebrate the last months of winter? (or survive them? 🙂 )
~
It was such a relief to talk with four friends last night. Over cafe au lait, salads, and various delicious sourdough sandwiches, we dug into our lives. Books, family, schedules, and home educating. Why do I wait so long to share life with friends? Why do I live life so often alone? Of course, we all have full lives. But taking the time to really visit, I see that many of the very things I’ve struggled with or find myself fretting about, echo the topics my friends were sharing. Maybe social media deludes me into thinking I am connecting. As the chai was sipped, ice tea savored, I thought about what one of the woman was saying. We all agreed that we compare too frequently and we live with way too much guilt. Our culture is merciless with standards of what it means to be “XYZ”. Unfortunately, the home educating, stay-at-home mom culture is no exception. For the most part, I think we would all agree that it’s our dream job. I know I’m living my dream life. Yet, we aren’t immune to all those voices floating around that whisper, “You aren’t enough.” As I sit here, ready to turn the page on my calendar, on the cusp of a new, fresh month, I want to take a stand. By the grace of God, I am enough. I will faithfully and patiently take one step forward at a time, taking care of the life I’ve been abundantly given. I will extend grace to those around me, because of the love and grace God lavishes on me. That includes grace to myself. I’m going to make mistakes, I’m going to fail, react in anger, and be impatient. That doesn’t me worthless. I’m going to dust myself off, stand up, and just do the next small thing in front of me. Sow that seed. I’m going to make an effort again to not isolate myself, reach out and say, “Hey, you too?” and believe by faith that I am loved beyond measure.
Happy February Eve.
~
Three little containers of my favorite body scrub from a local spa. My husband’s aunt told him, “I know Amy loves this stuff, can you pass it on to her?” No reason, no special day, just kindness.
In a stack of overlooked mail, a beautiful pen pal letter, with hand made note cards for me. All tied up in red & white twine, fairies and flowers dancing across them joyfully. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
After Christmas, as if what I received for the holiday wasn’t enough, a family member noticed I needed a new quill pen and nibs. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
“Did you make dinner yet?” he asked. “No, I haven’t.” I answered. Pizzas, soda, and flowers on my table. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
Movie night with my little daughter, older son surprising us with hot chocolate in big mugs, grin on his handsome face. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
“Mom, I made this for you.” daughter passes me a beautiful drawing. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
A freshly made bed, pillows plump, throw blankets folded at the end. A little boy surprising me with beauty and order. No reason, no special day, just kindness.
Kindness. So simple, yet SO life-changing.
~
Match struck. Wick touched. The smiles, clink of dishes, delicious smells lingering, dinner is served. The twinkling reflection of candlelight in my loved ones eyes beckons me. The why behind what I do, my because.
A little boy’s hand leading me to our old rocking chair. The Little Train by Lois Lenski clasped in his chubby hand. He smiles through each whistle and toot of the story, even through we’ve ridden this track many times before. This is my because.
Soft stacks slipping. Fold, stack, fold, stack. Squeals of delight, or rather rolled eyes, a favorite shirt or finally-my-jeans-mom that are freshly clean, ready for new adventures. Feet pounding up stairs, drawers slammed. Tangible everyday deeds keeping the darkness at bay. My because.
Grocery lists, faded recipe cards, old Bible-camp baked oatmeal ingredients, long lines, let me rub my sore feet. Fresh fruit in hand, gulps of cold milk, buttery popcorn piled high. Feasts for family. Kindness and loved stirred, baked, and served. Because of Love given, I am here to love,…my because.
Listening, answering, helping. Relationship ruminating. Tears, angry words. I’m sorrys, and I love yous. The sag and relief to their shoulders, the sparkle flaring up in downcast eyes. The because behind all the time and agony spent. It is so very worth it.
I read somewhere “you can only come to the morning through shadows”…these moments, these little things we do, this January road I’m walking is beautiful. Why? Because. Because of the beautiful people served and the life lived together.
Crack, sss, pop. Egg to oil. Toast in, toast out. Gliding smooth, buttery-knife, toasted bread warmth wafts up. Rough, brown-striped towel, wipe the oil of fingers, hearts and worries off. It’s breakfast for dinner. Black smoke billowing from oven-crisped bacon, doors and windows thrown open to drizzle-y cold rain with icy fingers licking the edges. Ring in and breathe in the new year air.
Eyes on frying pan and toaster, I slip open, slide out the bookmark, and drink in these words,
My mother said, “I don’t want to watch this.” So I followed her into the kitchen and we sat there listening to the pandemonium and the wind and the rain. Then my mother said, “The wash!” which we had forgotten. She said, “Those sheets must be so heavy that they’re dragging in the mud, if they haven’t pulled the lines down altogether.” That was a days work lost for her, not to mention the setting hens and the fryers. She closed one eye and looked at me and said, “I know there is a blessing in this somewhere.” We did have a habit of sometimes imitating the old man’s way of speaking when he wasn’t in the room. Still, I was surprised that she would make an outright joke about my grandfather, though he’d been gone a long time by then. She always did like to make me laugh.”
–Gilead, Marilynne Robinson, pg 35
Pfff. Up pops the toast. I put it down again. 1 1/2 times seems to work the best. I can’t read the worn numbers on the settings and don’t want too. 1 1/2 times down is perfect. Eggs up and over, eggs done. I stick them into the still-warm oven, next to the bacon, my crock-ware plate hot to the touch. Raspy, paper towel soaks up the excess oil. Crack, sss, pop. Three eggs in the pot.
The sounds of the house are, besides my cooking, low murmurs of voices, the wood pellet stove humming, a cackle or two from a movie. Smoke still lingers in the air, few evergreen bits on floor, Christmas tree was put to rest today. The twinkle lights still live on though, light being a source of sanity in the northern parts of this wintry world.
Flipping, buttering, oven door opening, my mind flits through this day. Late night makes for late mornings, holiday break lingering just a bit longer here, blocks, books, and a few random stray balloons, bits of joy for my children’s moments.
Laundry, hot and dry, piles for me. “I know there is a blessing in this somewhere.” rings true through the tears, conversations, and greasy moments of today, each day. Even though, I’m not sure the narrator of Gilead, John Ames, particularly cared for his grandfather’s militantly positive outlook, there is indeed a blessing to be found in ones laundry piles, ones head cold, ones icy roads, and cancelled dinner dates. Just what that is, we don’t always know, or maybe *gasp* never find out, or if we are really truly looking or stilling ourselves, we just might see the edge of some sort of blessing.
The frost-fringed, foggy, wonderland winterscape as we crawl along iciness back home, the warmth of a loved ones raiment, a bit of fresh and sunshine next to skin. The moments with nothing in them. Have you ever felt yourself bored or anxious when there is nothing next? I wonder why. Nothing next can be good. The moments of illness that have us closing our eyes, sipping and breathing the steaming tea, resting in the stillness of the Savior. Be still, and Know.
Blessings in the slightly greasy, yet beautiful moments of life. January days are here.
~
2016 has so many things to be thankful for…
Wanna share your list? Please feel free to in the comments! I’d love to hear.
~
A.M. Pine - Hearth Ridge Reflections 