Thursday, October 29, 2015

We all need some manure in our lives

Stomping manure is not my favorite exercise, but it had to be done, and I was the girl for the job.

Last Friday I spent a great deal of time dancing on top of manure as if at a grape-crushing party. Of course, I didn't do it in my bare feet. That would be some kind of pedicure! I did it in an old pair of sneakers that are very likely to end up in the garbage can by the curb in the near future.

Why did I develop this intimate relationship with animal waste? I was putting in a winter lawn. And considering that I gave up on my summer lawn last winter - because I believe with all my heart that bermuda grass is what grows in hell - putting in fresh grass was quite the exciting if exhausting venture.

I scalped the demon grass by hand where it persisted in several patches across the yard despite the fact that I have neglected it for months. I used a hard rake to scrape up the disaffected soil. I spread seed and fertilizer as my Yorkie attacked my manual spreader, making the seed dump out in piles that I later hand-tossed. The flexible rake was then used to spread my seed and fertilizer more evenly.

Then came the manure, five bags of it. I knew pretty quick that a. I was dang tired already as I hugged the smelly bags and tried to distribute them evenly, and b. that I didn't have nearly enough excrement to go around my big yard. I tried my best with what I had, shaking out clumps of manure and the occasional wood chip and large rock. In the end my paltry if incredibly stinky supply of manure was not enough to keep the birds away from my seed.

So that afternoon after a shower that couldn't possibly make me feel clean, I purchased more manure, 15 bags of it exactly, to dump on my yard, keeping the birds, our neighbors and our neighborhood's roaming cats away.

My darling husband and son lugged the heavy bags into the yard, spacing them out nicely. And that evening I cut open the bags with my demoted kitchen scissors and dragged them in a snake pattern across small areas. Again I grabbed my soft rake and spread that manure out beautifully. As I spotted large miscreant clumps, I stomped on them mightily and repeatedly, figuring that if my arms could be so weary with this labor of yard love, then my legs might as well be, too.

It was my first time attempting a winter lawn. Would all my work be for naught?

This whole week I have watched my yard between deep waterings, waiting for some sign of new life. And this whole week I have been struggling with a loss of hope in other, more vital areas of my life. I needed to see the little blades of rye grass in an almost spiritual way. I needed some symbol of hope, some payoff for all my imperfect but valiant efforts.

And yesterday I saw them, appearing overnight it seemed, sage green, delicate sprouts. Gorgeous and very welcome they were! My hope was renewed with them. My heart swelled with pride for my work. I showed them to my kids and man excitedly, gratefully. I paroled the perimeter of my yard with my Yorkie, bending down to peer sideways into new, tiny life.

For days I had stared at a yard full of manure anxiously, seeing only that seed had not, and possibly would not, sprout. And now? Fulfillment of promise.

My yard is a lesson in life, I think. At least I got something deeper from it. As I reflected on my relief and joy in a new lawn yesterday, I realized that we human beings need seeds of a good life planted, too, by God, our parents, our teachers and other role models, and we definitely need the fertilizer of compassion, education, experience, and good relationships. But we also need manure, those often stinky and sticky situations, those many challenging and often unexpected times, that occasional or frequent interior turmoil. We need those things even if they obscure the seed and the fertilizer for a while, because in the end we spring up fuller and taller and stronger than we were before. We become resilient.

And we appreciate the little things in life, like a winter lawn, even more.




Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Turkey and Swing, Baby!

Train whistles and church bells make me grateful, because they take me away from myself and promise something fresh, bright, something more, grander. This post was originally published in November, 2011. And, yes, I know it's not Thanksgiving yet.

Thank God for Thanksgiving. No gifts to buy for the occasion, and if you're lucky, you have plenty of relatives and friends coming to help prepare the feast. But the biggest thing is this: the holiday is truly about remembering what you have to be thankful for even if you don't have the formal This year I'm thankful for.... series of monologues. Besides, your husband, dad, uncle, etc. will just be grateful when the fancy-schmancy sit down dinner can get to the pie, so he can get back to football. And, yes, you know you'll have eaten the equivalent of two sticks of butter fried in lard, but you convince yourself that all those cranberries, sweet potatoes (with marshmallows!), pumpkin ingredients, and green beans will protect your heart from the sucker punch it just received. Anyhow, they don't call it a feast for nothing, do they? And did I mention there are no gifts to buy?

I know what I'm thankful for, even if I complain more than I humbly acknowledge. I do recall what I am most grateful for often in prayer - Jesus Christ, my husband, our children, and all that we are provided for as a family, even this 1240 sq ft home that I could swear is shrinking as my children grow. But there's usually something quite specific each year for which to be grateful, because it gave me added joy. For me this year it was a dance with my husband.

We got one dance. Fast and short. For all the hours I spent last week begging him to practice with me, dragging him up from his favorite recliner after long weary days at work - making him swing me and twirl me and kick it up all over our laminate flooring - all we got was one swing song, one dance on our night out at his company's holiday party.

But the practice was worth it. When all the kids were in bed, we started bouncing, rock-stepping, and jiving to our swing CDs, grinning at each other even when I tripped in my heels, kicked him in the shin on accident, or got a playful smack on the bottom because I failed to follow. It was our dating years all over again, only there was no heavy self-consciousness, not with ten years and four kids behind us. There was plenty of perspiration, however, and more rhythm to be found together when the dancing wound down.

All week I was locked in anticipation of our Saturday night out when we would actually be performing our steps before an audience of his coworkers. It had been four years since I'd gone to the holiday party, and that year I had really bungled our dance, wrecking one of our more complicated moves called the bicycle; Matthew kept throwing me out and pulling me back in for another attempt until I jerked like a nervous tin man one time too many and urgently shook my head.

This year, after my long absence, I was not going to mess it up. As soon as Jump, Jive and Wail! erupted from the speakers, we trotted out. In my little black Calvin Klein dress and my schnazzy, zip-up high heels, I kept step even when my muscles began to ache and vibrate as Matthew picked up pace, spinning me and throwing me out with dizzying frequency. When I heard a spontaneous cheer burst from the crowd, I relished the attention. I only tripped up once, and Matthew quickly masked my mistake like a gentleman. We came off the dance floor laughing and trying to catch our breath, and I longed for another song to swing too. Sadly, swing dancing is no longer en vogue, and despite our desire to step out again, we were subjected to hip-hop until it was time to pick up the kids.

However brief our time in the lights was, I'm so thankful for a husband who loves to dance. When I told my friends before the party how excited I was by this once in a long while chance to go out dancing with Matthew, one of them said, "My husband doesn't dance" and the next pal sighed, "Mine doesn't either" and then the third finished, "Neither does mine". They all laughed, because the tone of voice had been the same, and I inwardly thanked heaven that my man was a smooth dancer and wasn't afraid to show it (he's better than I am - it's the little bit of Latin in him, I think).

So our dance is the thing of added joy this year. When you go out on a date as seldom as Matthew and I do, you really appreciate the opportunity when it comes around once a year or so, and dancing is a huge bonus to the usual dinner and a movie or lunch at the local brewery. Of course it wouldn't have been possible this year if it weren't for a very dear and trusted friend with whom we left our precious children while enjoying ourselves. She put them to bed and everything, so I am also grateful for her kindness.

And tomorrow as I slave over the turkey, stuffing, sweet potato souffle, rolls, gravy and pies I can remember our dance, be grateful for all the calories I burned practicing for it, and reflect on all those moments amid the chaos of our busy lives that I have to celebrate this year.

I hope all my readers, whether family, friends or strangers, have much to be thankful for. I am thankful for your support in my writing, and I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Our serendipitous October morning

Serendipity, I'm all about it.

This morning I took my kids to a gas station after my oldest daughter's orthodontist's appointment. We went to a brand spanking new gas station. I know it doesn't sound all that exciting, but it was something else, believe me.

I felt like going for a Starbucks coffee. It often happens with me in the fall; I have to be careful not to let money pour out of my ears. There's a Starbucks by the gas station I normally partonize, but the kids wanted to go to the new gas station by the orthodontist's. I pulled in, and everything was so lovely and new, bright and sleek. No gang signs carved into the touchscreens. No faded signs advertising donuts and cheap coffee and huge sodas. Even the pavement seemed to shine in all its freshly-poured splendor, untested yet by the Phoenix heat still oppressing us in the afternoons. And as I filled up the tank, I thought, I can get a coffee here much cheaper, and they have donuts for the kids, too. We can go in.

I don't take my kids into gas stations unless we're on a trip and have to use the potty or their Papa is agreeing to a quick snack or fast food lunch. Going into a gas station instead of doing a drive-by is therefore exotic, associated as it is with road trip adventures and alluring towns like El Paso, Texas and Gallup, New Mexico. There was that one time in Wakiki, too, when we stopped at the gas station for breakfast, because it was the only place with available parking.

So gas station = adventure in our books.

And I'm telling you, this station was sleek inside as well. Even I was ridiculously attracted to the donut and muffin display cases, the coffee bar, and the wide, non-sticky aisles. My kids ran around in a fit of excitement as I valiantly tried to corral them, and an older gentleman laughingly said to me, "You would think it's a theme park!"

I got a big cup of pumpkin spice coffee and snagged an accompanying pumpkin spice creamer. The kids joyfully scanned the pastries and picked out large, filled ones. We topped off a huge cup with coma levels of a sugary drink combo for Berto, my teenager, who had decided to stay home and play video games, missing all the fun.

When I paid, the attendant commented, too, on how much fun my kids had had, and I laughed and said, "I never bring them into the gas station. It's like Disneyland!"

It wasn't yet nine in the morning when we left clutching our pastry bags and syrupy drinks, happily walking out into the still cool October air, and I thought, It's going to be a great day!

Serendipity.

You gotta love it.




Thursday, October 8, 2015

Freewrite of sorts: Letter to Papa, because I can

Dear Papa,

It's been really, unexpectedly busy lately.

I know you're probably wondering why I'm not writing more, Papa....well, unless you're so busy writing your book that you haven't noticed my pitiful output of words. That's probably the case, so I'm good.

You told me to treat this writing business like a job and not to piece meal my time away. What you told me not to do, I did. I gave away a ton of my time. The kids' school needed someone to do copier pool this week, and the better part of three days I've spent there. Eventually while waiting for that mightier-than-thou copier to spit out 3,020,500,019 copies, I realized I should be using the wait time to write, so I scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. What I wrote wasn't very good, though. And the copier kept jamming and moaning, asking for more toner and begging for coffee, lunch, and nap breaks and just in general being an attention hog. We now have a toxic relationship, that copier and me. I hope I don't see it again for a while, but I'm not betting on it.

Oh, funny aside: that copier can copy several pages at once into a packet and staple each one, but I didn't know that, so I copied a bazillion two-sided pages for a teacher, and then had to sort them into individual packets by page number and staple each one by hand. 75 packets of several pages each, it took me a couple hours. Not very efficient of me.

Also, your grandkids have been terrible stinkers on and off. Berto is stressed out in middle school, and snapped at me all the way home yesterday afternoon about television and homework, mad because his siblings got a half day, and he didn't. Daniel throws fits, demands stuff, and tells me I'm mean for getting after him for treating me like carp. Gabriella smarts off. Ana is fine besides putting too much pressure on herself. I do alot for those little rapscallions; they should appreciate me more instead of complaining about what I pack for their lunches.

I still want to write that mystery novel, but I'm going to check out a book at the local library on how to write a mystery novel first. I never had your gift with plots, and it would probably be best if things happened in this book instead of everybody milling around and talking to each other or getting lost in their own heads.

Right now I have three humor posts I'm working on, but I may have to ask your help with editing. I can't seem to wrap any of them up or get the tone or punch of certain lines just right. I would really hate to lose my momentum there, and that's what I fear: that I can't perform again, that I'll backslide.

Annie's visit this past weekend was wonderful. She was awesome with the kids, even letting them each paint a part of her face and buying them craft supplies for Halloween costumes. They'll never forget that! I hope she got all that paint out of her hair. We went out to eat twice in two days which amazed the kids, because they're so used to their parents being cheap.

Annie gave me a wonderful gift. I'm sure she told you about it, but I was shocked when I saw what it was: an original Beatles Abbey Road record. I couldn't wait to listen to it, and I'm also thinking about getting a really cool frame for it, so I can stare at it regularly on the wall. "Oh Darling!" is on there and "Octopus's Garden" and "Here Comes the Sun" - do you remember when Freddy died, and I listened to that one all the time? Annie gave me some of our childhood back; we used to listen to that record constantly together. It was my favorite. I even called that beautiful maple in the field on the north side of the house my Abbey Road tree, remember?

(Why is it, Papa, that my siblings always give me such amazing gifts, and I just really stink at giving them something incredible back? I never seem to find the personal and memorable treasures they do. They spoil me, and I don't deserve it at all. Maybe I'm amazed.)

One last thing about Annie's visit: I bet you'll never guess what we did? We argued and debated and almost ran for our boxing gloves. And guess what we did after that? We made up, and we laughed our heads off about how we are as a family (it all comes from your side, you know). We were drinking some Muscadine wine, the kind that Vinca introduced me to and that tastes like those muscadine grapes we used to pick in the lane, and Annie kept cracking me up by imitating how our family is when we're together like some big, crazy Mediterranean family as in Big, Fat Greek Wedding. She was witty in describing how we take someone else's business and rub it into our faces (It's not uh my business? It's not uh my business?! There! *rubs hands all over face* Now it's my business!), and how we leave our business on the other's doorstep, waiting for them to step in it. I'm starting to laugh just thinking about it. Matthew couldn't survive the debating/fisticuffs phase, so he missed out on the awesome after party. I think he goes into a temporary coma induced by exposure to overly emotional people.

Well, now you know what I've been up to. Oh, that reminds me; I want to write a humor post about our crazy family antics during reunions, too. I might have to steal some of Annie's material; I hope she doesn't mind.

I promise to work harder on my writing. When Danny first went to school, I was beside myself, craving company in the silence, and now I just wish I had the time and the quiet back once more. We always want what we don't have in the moment, huh?

Give Mama a big hug and kiss for me and tell her I miss her and often wish I could talk to her about "woman issues". She's such a calming influence, just like Matthew, Dave and Keith - haha! We really need them, all of us passionate folk.

Love,

Hoodoo



Community

A couple weeks ago at my optometrist's office, I made a confession when they asked how I was doing.

"My littlest one started kindergarten, and that was so hard. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm still adjusting."

Making that confession felt good. It feels good - mostly - every time I make it. Yes, I am a mama whose life has been almost entirely wrapped up in her kids' health, behavior, nutrition, entertainment, sleep, and happiness for several years now, so indeed, it did hit me like a ton of bricks when my last one left me to get a formal education.

The ladies behind the desk didn't have much to say to that, though one agreed that her youngest starting school this year impacted her in much the same way. They listened and nodded, and for me it was once more a release of feelings that have been burdening me.

Now granted, I confess my feelings too often. I don't just wear them on my sleeve; I have them emblazoned across my forehead, tattooed on my lids, threaded around my hair and dangling from my ears. I cannot keep my emotions couped up; I must free them - preferably in the company of others. This isn't always the best way, but nobody could say I'm not honest. In fact, that's what one friend told me when I made a different "confession" of feelings and insecurities to a group of ladies I respect. I asked them if they thought I was being crazy, and she replied, "No, I think you're being honest."

All this talk about feelings, my dear readers, was simply to say that we need each other, community. I need community, heaven help me. In the past few weeks, I have called my dad and my two sisters on the phone and sought out my friends for guidance and comfort in this new and uncertain phase of my life. And sure, it would not be the best idea for me to blab my real heavy concerns to near strangers at my eye doctor's, but it would not a bad idea, either, if I feel supported and respected even if, at the same exact time, I am vulnerable.

It's like that great soul song, "Lean On Me", says: "we all need somebody to lean on" at one time or another. God gave us each other, for He is Himself a community of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

How often have we heard repeatedly the dreadful news that arose from the actions of individuals who felt profoundly alone, society's "loners"? 

Our families are ideally the mirror of God's love for us, the epicenter of a hopefully ever widening opportunity for and experience of it.

I have often heard church compared to just a social club, but for me there could be no better community than one with God at its center, one where the members learn from each other. Yes, we, imperfect as we are, know we'll still fail each other along the way with our rash judgments or selfish indifference, but we also know that we will succeed often, too, by welcoming and encouraging one other, bolstering each other in the storms, rejoicing with each other in the victories, and continually being Christ for each other.

The other day at a church volunteer gathering a young mother spoke to me of her struggles with her very temperamental toddler and his habit of getting up six to ten times a night. The best and most hopeful thing I could give to her was to assure her that I have been through that as well; my own children didn't sleep through the night until they were toddlers or preschoolers. I often felt lonely and floundering, too, in my vocation as a mother. I shared how my moms' group, started through our parish, saved me from that isolation.

Isn't that the gift we have to offer in community - the assurance that "You are not alone" and "I am with you"?

With the solid foundation of compassion, mercy, hope, selflessness, courage, and at the very base, love, we build authentic communities. We don't just build them with our family, our colleagues, fellow parents, fellow believers, or those with whom we share a common interest. We build them by including those who are lonely, afraid, marginalized, smiling regularly at someone who looks as if they feel alone, giving our time to one another.

We are not islands. Beginning with family we are the essential building blocks of life and love for each other.