Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Halloween

Now, you all already know our pumpkin has Ruff Ruffman on it. But this was an awesome article, so I'm posting its link here. Go read it.

Catharsis

Which isn't the word exact, but is close enough for now. Revelation? No, not that either. Liberation. Maybe that.

Been reading and discussing Captivating with my W.O.W group. Have loved the book. Wonderful perspective. Refreshing, revealing, well written. Has made an impact on me.

Got to the first chapter that didn't speak to me. I was just reading it, cause I was supposed to. Skimming it. Not absorbing it, rereading, highlighting, journaling--like I have for every other chapter. This one, I treated like a mandatory reading exercise.

It, I told myself, didn't pertain to me. No relevance. Nothing new.

And then I asked my self a question, and i filled two pages in my journal. And my thoughts became to private to write in my journal, so I wrote them on four little pieces of scrap pad paper. Wrote them. Scribbled them. Scrawled them. Let things out through the angry movements of the pen that I hadn't dared before. No tears. No sounds. Just the scratches of the pen. Capitals. Illegible. Let it out. Get it out. Throw it out. Throw it up.

And then again. More sheets of paper. Not prose this time. Line by line. Not poetry either. Too sad. Too ugly. Not poetry. Line by line. Repetition. And its there. Black and white. Words on paper. The truth. ALL of the truth.

Why do I write this here?

Because I can't get done with it.
Because I need to share it.
Not what I wrote. I might burn that. I might seal it in an envelope and throw it away. I might shred it.
But I had to share that I wrote it.
I don't want to forget it.
I don't want to throw it away either.
But I don't want anyone to read it.
Not yet.

Maybe later.
Maybe never.

I haven't decided yet.

For now, its enough that I wrote it. And I saw it. And I faced it.

And that is what is needed.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Memes and Jack-o-Laterns

First off, we all know I'm a nerd. I might be a girly nerd, but I'm still a nerd. Therefore, I cannot help but point out that memes as I have encountered them in my limited blog existence have deviated significantly from the original theory put forward when the term was coined. Not that this is a bad thing. Language is fluid and evolves. But I am a nerd, therefore the distinction must be pointed out.

While I'm briefly on the subject of evolution, let me rant about cleaning out pumpkin guts to create a jack-o-latern. Now, lets assume that the *purpose* of the pumpkin is simply to hold and nurture the seeds. Have any of you (the wide audience of two or three that might actually read this) ever planted a pumpkin seed? Those bad boys must be planted many feet apart because the resulting pumpkin vine needs so much space. If the seeds are planted right on top of each other, the vines choke each other out. A few might actually live past the tiny stage, but they will not have sufficient rain or nutrients to produce flowers and fruits, because they will be in too close a competition with the neighboring vine. So, the whole, pumpkin rots and fertilizes the thirty seeds inside of it doesn't work for the propigation of the species. And no, being a nerd doesn't mean I can spell. Now, it could be that the pumpkin tries to spread its seed by being ingested and then 'planted' in an animal's excrement. That does occasionally happen with some seeds. Pumpkin seeds seem rather flimsy to survive the digestional track...but this is just an opinion, not based on scientific fact. Certainly the stubborn tenacity of the nasty goopey string to form permament, nearly inseverable bond would point to the latter approach to propigation. It was, of course, this devilishly impossible bond which started me contemplating the nature and function of the pumpkin.

Personally, I'm thinking pumpkins are proof of creation. Oh yes, yes. What plant puts forth the energy to make a pumpkin for really no good plant reason? hmmm? no, they are signs of a benevolent God who said, let there be pie. And the strings? Part of the curse when humankind fell from the Garden of Eden. Thorns, briars, and strings in the pumpkin that refuse to yield to knife, spoons, hands, threats, tears. Gourds fall into this same category. Are those things even edible? I think they exist to be dried and made into dippers and containers (and in late days, birdhouses and decorative items). Again, no evolutionary function.

By the way, stringy pumpkin guts do yeild to the Jedi.

Said pumpkin is now sitting on the table with a little candle shining out of the carved face of Ruff Ruffman. (drawn by Sweetling, carved by Mommy).

Sweetling sent 14 and 1/2 inches of hair to Locks of Love. I'd post a picture, but I'm a nerd, not a geek, and there's a big difference.

But memes.

I got a song today, so now I have to offer a "meme" to the first five people who respond (who then in turn have to put a "meme" on their blog...or do something nice for five people if they don't have a blog. Since, like I said, my readership is oh so small, I'm not anticipating anyone getting closed out. Except maybe the Smurf, who painted over Mammaw and Pappaw's painting and yet who refuses to send me a lousy five minute sketch when she was running a Meme on her blog. She's such a smurfing smurf that way.

So, I think I'm going to offer an acrostic poem made out of the name of the first five respondents. Let the mad dash begin.

Oh, and turkeys? Created for Thanksgiving of course.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Favorites

I updated my user profile today. Updated meaning, I created my user profile today.

Xuans don't like boxes. Xuans don't do boxes well. Xuans dont like confining directions either. Computers are all about boxes and very limited directions. Xuans and computers don't get along well sometimes.

Blogspot won't let me write what *I* want to write in the boxes designed for favorite movies, music, and books. Blogspot wants a list. I don't want to make a list of names. Its not about the *names* of the movies, music, and books. Its about the meaning, the emotions, the relationships. Its about what they evoke in me.

Blogspot isn't interested in what they evoke.

But I have defeated Blogspot by placing them here instead.

Favorite Movies:
I love movies that make me laugh. I love movies that I can watch with my husband. I love movies that I can watch with my daughter. I like movies that I can watch with my friends.

Favorite Music:
Yes! Music! Music that sings and that I can sing with. Music that soars and I can float with. Music that flows and I can dance with.

Favorite Books:
Always books. Books that record the stories of others. Books that record the triumph of others. Books that record the love found by others.

Hot Chocotate

This has been my day today. Its 12:17. Its one of those, what happened to my morning sort of days. Right now, I glanced at the craft closet, where Sweetling is standing unwrapping red modeling clay. Where is the modeling clay going? What is the modeling clay doing? I don't know. All I know is that it involves aardvarks at a spaghetti restaurant.

Behind me, on the floor of the school room, is said spaghetti restaurant. Four paper aardvarks have been drawn with crayon then cut out and taped onto popsicle sticks to make puppets. An elaborate platter made of paper, decorated, taped to a small plastic container, rests in the middle of the aardvarks. White yarn spaghetti is piled high on the plate, red construction paper forms the sauce, and popsicle stick breadsticks are artfully arranged in the plastic container. Each aardvark has a bathroom dixie cup placed next to them, the contents of which are red magnetix building toys, red modeling clay (so that's where that went), red construction paper scraps, with the last cup left empty but with its interior colored red with a marker. The aardvarks order was carefully recorded by Sweetling on her PDA.

The order is thus, and is graciously typed into my blog by Sweetling herself:

1. Spaghetti
2.Breadsticks
3. Tomatoe juice

Speckle the Leopard has just entered the restaurant and has ordered spaghetti with extra meatballs. Sweetling has run off in search of said meatballs. A dessert course is to follow.

Also today, I've had two cups of hot chocolate. Its been a hot chocolate kind of morning.

Our intentions this morning were to sit down and complete our regular school lessons. We finished our Bible lesson and Sweetling was working on math when Fluffy broke in half. Fluffy is, of course, a packaging peanut. Sweetling has many Fisher Price people that were saved from the Jedi's toys back in the 70's. Three of the FisherPrice people, named Kelly, Brian, and Uncle John, join us during our math time whenever our lessons are primarily word problems. Kelly and Brian somehow aquired Fluffy as a pet this past week.

However, tragedy struck this morning, and all regular lessons were suspended. Emergency operations immediately swung into place, as a rescue mission for Fluffy was commenced. Tacky glue was retrieved from the closet and a pin used to declog its opening. The peanut halves were glued back together and Fluffy was set on the microwave to dry. Skeptical of the success of this proceedure, Mommy suggested that perhaps a new Fluffy could be made. A hunt was on for the materials. A fat fat fuzzy white craft wire was found, twisted, and clipped into the appropriate shape. A miniture pink pom pom and two tiny googly eyes were glued on for a nose. This Fluffy too was placed on top of the microwave to dry. In the meantime Sweetling made Fluffy a chew toy out of a magenta craft wire.

How we went from bionic Fluffy to the spaghetti restaurant I'm not sure....I believe that the word problems for the lesson were all set in a restaurant. But here we are. 12:38 now.

I tell myself the sign of a great teacher is to be able to recognize the value of many different activities in the overall development of a child.

And really, I think nothing that could come out of a book could be equal to the creativity and imagination of the morning.

Therefore, I'm going to go make myself a third cup of hot chocolate. Speckle is enjoying a tissue paper spaghetti plate, topped with a uninflated red ballooon and a half a plastic easter egg meatball.

When do we, as adults, loose this wonderful creativity and ability to make our dreams come true out of *anything*?

I think I might just go paint some ivy and leaves along the walls of my kitchen.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Random means random, right? That's one of those lovely wisdom statements like "No means no" that women say to small children. The first time a statement such as this leaves your lips, a small piece of your soul curls up and dies in shame. But the thing about death is, that little piece of your soul is no longer around to protest the NEXT time the motherly words of wisdom precedeth from you.

This is your blog. This is your blog on cold meds. Stop typing. Just walk away from the keyboard, and everything will be okay.

From experience, I knew what to do. Write. Write anything. Bad sentences, meaningless sentences, anything to get the mind fixed again to that sheet of paper and oblivious of the 'real' world. Write until the words begin to make sense, the cogs mesh, the wheels start to turn, the creaking movement quickens and becomes a smooth, oiled run, and then, with luck, exhaustion will be forgotten, and the real writing will begin. but look up once from that paper, get up from the table to make coffe ors tir the fire, even just raise your head to look at the view outside the window, and you may as well give up until tomorrow. Or for ever.


(Mary Stewart, The Stormy Kestrel. Which I read despite the fact that it had no selkies in it. I want a story with selkies now. I was about half the way through the book, when I realized, nothing really interesting is going to happen in this story. But I finished reading the book anyway. The language of the book was very fine. Selkies would have made it a wonderful story.)

And so I'm writing. Not a story about selkies. Though that is where at least some of my thoughts are now. What gift would a young woman ask for from her selkie lover? Would a small bag of gold change her life? Where would a young woman go from there, do from there? What happens to the young woman after the selkie has returned, left his bag of gold, taken his child, and returned to the sea? Does she take her gold and head away from her small sea village to another town? What does she do there? Does she stay in her village? Grow an herb garden? Become a midwife, always aiding in others births but never having her own family? Or does the village turn its face away from the nine months of her unexplained pregnancy, the year of the small babe at her breasts, the sudden absence of the child? Do they accept her story of a selkie, and accept her back into their fellowship as if nothing had happened? Where does the woman go? What becomse of her? Does she wander down to the sea sometimes, watching the seals afar in the waves, wondering?

He saw at the water's edge two boats, left there by the fishermen, who were washing their nets. (Luke 5:2)

Washing their nets. This is the image that stuck with me from Sunday. Washing their nets. Mentioned in the sermon, a minor point in the opening. The nets could represent their talents, their skills. They need cleaned, nurtured, strengthened, repaired. Too often we all think, or at least I think, I should just be able to *do*. I don't want to take the time to maintain, to practice, to work hard at the routine aspects of life. I want to be able to just do. Our hearts too are woven into our nets. Each time we cast them out, it is our heart strings that hold them together. The cinch string that circles them and makes them effective our own self, our emotions, our hopes, our dreams, our desires. If the nets had none of us in them, they would only be a tangle of line set a drift in the sea. Useless and formless and purposeless. It is what they hold of our inner selves that makes them functional. Allows them to be filled with purpose. Is that not what we throw our nets out to catch? Purpose? Fulfillment? Meaning in our lives.

But with this meaning, we snag other things as well. Things we did not intend to catch. At the end of the day, we empty our nets of the desired, and find that trapped amongst the strings is...well, we turn our faces away from that part, crinckle our noses, ignore its reek. For some of what gets caught in our nets, I think, is less than pleasant. The grime, the goop, the rotted seaweed, and half decayed bits of worse things as well. And no one wants to touch it to clean the nets. Easier to let our nets sit in their smelly piles, and ignore them, cease to use them. No one wants to kneel on the pebbled shore on a sunny day washing their nets in the surf. Less still do we want to do so on a cold, wet, windy day.

So their the nets sit. And we go hungry. And when we become desperate enough, we pull the nets back out, and are appalled at the condition they are in. We remember the time we stood at the prow of the boat, casting a crisp, new net into a sparkling sea. We remember the graceful arc the net made as it spun out over the water. We remember the sweet spash it made slipping into the waves. We remember how we felt when we cast the net, the day was good, the fishing was abundant, and we were successful.

But we are hungry now. We take the net back out. Smelly and tattered though it is. We toss it, though it does not spin and it plops rather than splashes. And what it catches, if it catches anything, is meager and not enought to fill us. And we think we have lost our touch as fishers. We think the problem is in us. Perhaps we even think that we have misremembered the earlier days. Was it all in our imaginations? Or have we just lost our gifts? Which is the less painful explaination to believe?

And we crumple our nets up and leave them. And we learn to go hungry.

Or maybe we take the ugly path of washing the nets. Repairing them. Mending them. Smelly, finger aching process though it is. Because we do remember what it was like to fish. And the fishing was good. And all the nets need are a little attention.







Monday, October 09, 2006

Who decided?

Just a couple of lines (again FlyLady) that got me thinking:

what I want to know is who the heck determined the "RIGHT" way for everyone? Who decided for all of us that here is a RIGHT way and a WRONG way? Why do we feel compelled
to follow the RIGHT way and feel like we have failed when we don't? Lastly, who decided for me that I do things WRONG?


I don't really have anything that I want to add to this, so I think I'll just let it be at this for now.

Friday, October 06, 2006

Sunshine on My Shoulders

I'm so happy the school room is back upstairs. The desk is now right beside the window. The sunlight streams in and I get to bask in it all day. Yum. I think sunlight just might be better than chocolate.

(I was worried that the sunlight would stream in during the morning, and totally wash out the monitor, since "right beside the window" really means the desk is along the wall perpendicular to the window, leaving my chair directly in front of the window. But, the Jedi got me the coolest ever large flat screen monitor, and the sun can shine directly on it...and its still clearly visisble.)

There's no room for the white board in the new school room, so we have crayola window markers and we do our 'chalkboard' schoolwork right on the happy window.

I want to hang school art on the walls, but I don't want the walls to start looking cluttered and crammed with misc stuff. (Speaking of which, the basement walls just look yucky right now.) I need to work out a system. Or come up with a creative idea. I don't really want to make bullentin boards. What do I want to do with the walls? One wall of fame. The best of the best. With each piece matted. One seasonal wall? Or wall by subject? Hmmm.....

I'm a sucker for nice layouts.

I'm also a sucker for wanting to save every last living piece of paper art ever. The worksheets don't hold any sentimental value for me. But draw even so much as a smiley face for Mommy, and i can't throw it out.

Speaking of throwing it out, the downstairs is still strewn with assorted STUFF. Stuff that has no home. Stuff that likely can depart. Stuff. More stuff. Lots of stuff. Looks like no-man's land in some Great Stuff War. Oh the stuff.

I need a better home, better organization for my scrapbook stuff. I need to get off my perfectionist horse so I can actually complete scrapbook pages without thinking each of them needs to be an original work of art worthy of Smithosian inclusion.

I need to get back to ENJOYING scrapbooking. What a concept THAT is.

The downstairs table isn't becoming a scrapping table after all. Its going to become a gaming table. I'm not even dissappointed about this. I've missed gaming with the Jedi.

Words of encouragement for the stuff war:

Dear Friends,

My Born Organized Granny always said, Everything has a place and
everything in it's place. Do you have a place for everything?

Do your piles begin to grow because you can not make a decision on
where to put STUFF. I want you to evaluate your piles and decide where
to put everything. Even if you have to put post-it notes on the inside
of the drawers and doors.

Find a place for everything. If you don't have room, then it is time
to EVICT the junk to make room for the good stuff.

I know it is hard for SHEs to make decision on where to place an item.
Look at the item and think about where you use it most often. Then go
put it there. If there is no room in the Inn, then throw away something
that you no longer need or want.

I am not telling you to do this all at once. Just one pile at a time.
One item at a time. As you run across something that does not have a
home; find it one. Your stuff will be much happier when it has a home.
It has been homeless for a long time. You will know where things
belong. Then you can PUT THEM AWAY WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED WITH THEM!

These are two of our biggest problems. Finding a home for things and
putting them away when we have finished using them.

You will find that when you just begin to do these things, your home
will start looking good all the time.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Pond Research and the True Purpose of Phone Books

It was 2:30. Sweetling and I were doing school. More accurately, Sweetling was reading the "explore" section of her science lesson...which presented facts and information and whatnot. Sort of like reading a section in a text book. (I transferred a load of laundry.) Sweetling got to the activity section of the lesson. Now the lesson was "Freshwater Ecosystems". And the activity section was called "Pond Research". I thought....COOL, pond research. And in my mind I was envisioning a scavenger hunt of collecting and wading and trying to glimpse the frogs before they jumped into the water and you hear their telltale splash.

But no, apparantly pond research was fill out this boring paper about the reading section. I said aloud, "That's boring. It would be cooler to actually go to a pond."

Sweetling said, "Then why don't we?"

"Get your shoes on," was my immediate reply. Nevermind that the temperature outside is in the low sixties, that its drizzling, that I'm wearing clothes for a court appearance that was supposed to happen earlier that day. (A friend is going through a divorce and a child custody battle and asked me if I could be a character witness for her. They were actually able to settle on an agreement and it didn't have to come to a battle in front of a judge. So, I made a nice round trip to downtown today...which was absolutely better than the alternative and I am NOT complaining. My friend wound up getting everything she was asking for, so it was a good day.)

Sweetling and I head out to the van, me in my little dressy flats, and head to the Nature Preserve. We saw tadpoles, discussed what might live in the various nesting boxes set up around the ponds perimeter, visited the gift shop, and, the highlight of any fall outing, collected lots of leaves.

Leaves which are now pressed between paper towels in the residential section of my white pages. I mean, really, who uses the residential section of the white pages? Even with an unusual last name, there are way, way to many listings to be useful. Whose number do we ever look up there? Schools, churches, sports teams, and other organizations usually put out their own directory for parents, 'cause everyone knows that the residential section of the white pages are useless for actually finding a phone number.

Which is why my white pages are now full of fall leaves.