Last night, Luke, Bridget and Henry went to the annual All-Nighter at the YMCA with a church group they belong to. They swam, played dodgeball, participated in team challenges, and had an all-around great time. Dennis picked them up at 5 am. The house was quieter than usual until about 12:30 pm.
In a house with seven children, it’s hard for even a dog to find a quiet corner to nap in.
Some days the ideas come and other days it’s a drought. Today I am thirsting for some spark or idea to work with but the well is coming up dry. Okay — that should be enough cliches for one post.
Dennis gave up alcohol for Lent. So, instead of his afternoon martini or Manhattan, he’s been slaking his thirst with a mug of hot water. Sometimes I even join him. I haven’t given up my afternoon tea, but I have given up the snacks that go with it.
Years ago, I bought this silk cord to restring some pearls. I have yet to open the package.
Pixie’s ears are as soft as silk. And she was too busy playing with the other dog, India, to sit and let me get a close-up of her silky ears. I was quite surprised that this one turned out as sharp as it did.
The Valentine flowers were wilting fast — only a few remained in decent condition. Since I cherish the gift of flowers and the thought behind the gift, I trimmed the good flowers and put them in the small crystal bud vase. Of all the vases I received as wedding gifts, this is my favorite.
Growing up, we always somehow managed to collect the special edition glasses given away by restaurants (even though we seldom went to any of them). Most of these got put away, in one of the high cabinets. Once I grew up, with a house and kids of my own, I thought it strange that my mother seemed to cherish something so — I don’t know, pedestrian. In fact, she seemed to cherish just about everything she owned, even if she didn’t use it. No, especially if she didn’t use it. No, because it was so special, she didn’t use it. For the most part, I rebelled against holding material objects in high esteem. After all, it’s just stuff. And at my house it’s stuff that will get broken, so why worry about it?
Recently, though, I read something that has helped me see the situation from an entirely new perspective. In Being Benedictine: a Reflection on the Meaning and Significance of Benedictine Values at St. Anselm College (my alma mater) Gary Bouchard (one of my two favorite professors), writes: “In his Rule Saint Benedict would have ‘the community regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar.’ This instruction calls the monk, or all who would share in Benedictine values, to be good stewards of the resources in their care.”
I finally convinced Jack to let me cut his hair. He looks so much more polished now, even when he’s pretending to be a monster.
The final college essay — edited, polished and submitted. Now, it’s just a matter of waiting. And fighting off senioritis.
Spring is coming! This little patch of daffodils is hidden behind a large bush on the side of the house that we rarely see. I knew that the tips would be bursting through the ground by now but I was surprised at how far along they really were. And the crocuses were gone — already dried up and drooping over.
All this means that spring is coming. Now if I can only make it through March. Growing up in Texas, March was the beginning of spring — sunny days, warm breezes, flowers everywhere. Even though we’ve lived in Virginia for almost 18 years now I still feel like March ought to be warmer and prettier than it ever is. March is still grey and dull and cold. At least it no longer gets dark by 5pm. I’ll give it that. But for warmth and color, I have to hold on until April.
Our remodeled foyer features white v-groove wainscoting about two-thirds of the way up the walls. A ledge tops this wainscoting. One ledge holds framed photos of most of us. A few days ago, I placed a goofy, giggling toy atop the ledge after picking it up off the floor (again). Today, Jack noticed said toy and wanted it, so he reached for it. A moment later, we were all shocked by a very loud, explosive CRASH when a photo on the ledge hit the floor, sending glass flying. This was the tipping point for me. I didn’t want to get upset about the incident, and I didn’t, but the chain of events it caused left we little time to accomplish what I had hoped to accomplish (like eating lunch) and that’s what upset me.
All is well now. Nobody sustained injuries, Jack has learned a lesson (I hope) about asking for help, the foyer is much cleaner than it was seven hours ago, and I eventually found enough time for nourishment.
Design by Robert Frost
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth—
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small.
Innocence dwells with wisdom, but never with ignorance
— William Blake
I was checking on the call for the day as I was driving to pick up my 2nd oldest son who had spent the night at a friend’s house. As soon as I saw the call, I heard the lyrics to the song on the radio. “Shot through the heart and your to blame…you give love a bad NAME.”
Well, there you go, I thought. The call is done! Too bad that was such an awful song because I’ve been singing it in my head ALL DAY LONG! Heeellpp meeee!!!!
From a paper I wrote for a graduate course on Contemporary Native American Literature:
Naming is very important for American Indians, as it brings objects and beings into existence. Naming tells one’s story; it locates, in all of creation, one’s being. New aspects of one’s self are discovered through talk of one’s past.
In House Made of Dawn, Abel’s biggest problem is his inability to speak. Because he cannot tell his story, give himself a name, he cannot locate himself in the universe. Abel’s inability to speak to Francisco upon his return from the war is the first indication of what Abel must do in order to come to terms with himself and the world around him. He cannot articulate his emotions, his thoughts, his fears. “He had always been afraid. Forever at the margin of his mind there was something to be afraid of, something to fear. He did not know what it was, but it was always there, real, imminent, unimaginable” (Momaday, 116). Until Abel can put his fears into words, he will be incapable of dealing with them, and until he is capable of dealing with them, he will find no peace and no harmony with the universe; he will be unable to go home.
These are just a few of the journals I have started over the years. As of late, I’ve been reading through them and making some interesting discoveries. One of the journals (red, spiral-bound, perhaps — which, by the by, is comprised of wonderfully thick paper that fountain pens seem to love) contains an entry or two in which I try to remind myself of a recently-adopted mantra: “humility and service.” I wrote it more than once: “humility and service.” Apparently, though, it didn’t guide my thoughts and actions for too terribly long.
Today, I was the parent volunteer at the Lego Robotics club after school. I haven’t done much volunteering at the school lately…and especially for my fourth child’s class. I should do it more often since its nice to be of service to someone. Although I had a sick baby in the front carrier the whole time…
I was moving these pears around my kitchen this, wiping down the counter after breakfast. I loved their bright, spring green color and their curvy shape. As soon as the light got better in my study, I fired up the camera and put together a little still life.
I was disappointed, though, when I looked at the results in Lightroom. The pears were far more blemished than I had noticed in my dark kitchen and it created a very distracting image. The solution was to fire up Photoshop and zap all those ugly dark spots and creases out of the pears.
To R. B.
The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long
Within her wears, bears, cares and combs the same:
The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim
Now known and hand at work now never wrong.Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;
I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you missThe roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,
My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss
Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.—Gerard Manley Hopkins
Long ago, in a seemingly different world, my mother went to beauty school and eventually opened her own shop on the second floor of her parents’ house. But one day (the eve of her wedding, perhaps), she closed the door on her shop and walked away. Her bachelor brother lived in the house until his death about ten years ago. At various points during our childhood (not many), my brother, sister and I got to visit mom’s closed beauty shop when visiting my uncle. In high school, my sister and I even got our photography-minded friend to take pictures of the shop, and she captured romantic images of these strange machines, scissors, curlers, magazines, even cigarette butts in an ashtray. Following my mother’s death a year or two after her brother’s, my sister and I — with those vintage images and romantic notions in mind — requested the contents of Mom’s shop. Unfortunately, reality set in shortly after Dennis and I moved them to our house. Now, these beauty instruments (torture devices?) reside (along with lots of other “stuff”) in our second living room, which we affectionately refer to as the mold room, as it’s so full of mold that we can use it for little more than storage. Once we have the money to gut that room (and the poorly ventilated crawlspace beneath it), these beasts will have to go, but I still don’t know where to …
“But if you refuse to entertain a notion – which is just a fancy way of saying that you refuse to think about a certain idea – you have to be much braver than someone who is merely facing some blood-thirsty animals, or some parents who are upset to find their little darling at the bottom of a well, because nobody knows what an idea will do when it goes off to entertain itself.”
― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid
Then again, if you entertain a notion, you may end up with a gecko in your home.
My husband and I have a very different understanding of tone. And yet we both, on occasion, will obsess over finding the perfect one.
Dennis tells me that tone is in the fingers. I think a lot of it resides in my E-5.
Old sweaters are comfortable. They are seldom flattering, but it’s not always about looking good. When a rather large hole appeared in the front of this one*, I decided to patch it. I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that it’s no longer perfect or pretend that I’m a great seamstress. My motivation was simply to get a few more months (years?) of service from this favorite. So I had fun with the project, cutting hearts from a felted wool scarf Dennis no longer wears, backing it all with a piece cut from one of Jack’s old shirts, and sewing it together by hand.
*A few months ago, after finding holes in the front of a nice shirt I had bought not less than a few weeks before, I finally investigated this phenomenon that has plagued me (and my shirts) for years. A relatively quick search on Google led me to a Squidoo lens written by a woman with the same problem. She had, indeed, solved the mystery. Our shirts were getting worn out by rubbing between the tops of our jeans and our granite countertops. She and I now wear aprons when working in the kitchen (most of the time, anyway).
The setting sun (and this night a very colorful and vivid one) means that it’s time to wind down and get ready for the evening. For me that means the comfort of jammies, a robe and a nice cup of tea.
Do you see all those swelling buds on the tree branch at the top of the frame? I take a lot of comfort in that too — it means that soon there will be color back in the landscape. Oh green! I miss you so!
I took a Lensbaby class today, taught by Corey Hilz, at the local botanical garden. The best part was that I finally got my hands on an Edge 80. It was lovely!
This particular photograph is not really a very good representation of the lens (this one is better!)…I’m not quite sure where the slice of focus is. It almost seems like an angle of focus with the vertex being the gap in the planter and one ray going up to the right and the tree and the the second ray going down to the right and the bench. It took a bit to get use to and I’d love to be able to play with one more. Some of the portraits that I’ve seen are truly magical. Since I’m very slow to really find the focus manually, I’m not sure how effective it would be as a portrait lens for my little kids; but, maybe I could convince the older ones to sit still long enough for me. Maybe?
When I saw today’s Call, I thought, “Well, that gives me plenty of shots to choose from.” With six kids, something around here is always getting broken. Luke set up this photo of the shed years ago. He used a rock on the window. A few years after that, the doors got broken. Sam and his screamingly fast runs down the driveway on the plastic tricycle was largely responsible for that.