Here

I’m cooking dinner and

only because the days are getting longer

does the light still filter in

through the clouded window that

needs replacing

The pane is nearly opaque

but not muddled enough

to keep my eye from catching

the fluttering of a bird at the feeder

repositioning himself

to find more seed

While I cut broccoli

the baby sits on the counter

flapping his arms

like the bird outside

screeching with glee

drool dripping like honey

from his mouth

the bud of a tooth peeking

out from swollen gums

I set down the knife  

and sip my wine in the pause

while through the tilted glass I can see

the edges of the room stained

crimson and swirling

catching light

glowing

The rest of this poem can be found over at Elizabeth Marshall's beautiful blog

Poetry & Prose Through A Lens of Grace

where Elizabeth weaves wonder and whimsy on a regular basis.

Elizabeth and I collaborated on Adagio: A Poetry Project,

an experiment in writing across the miles, twining words and heart thoughts together.

You can read those pieces here, here, here and here. 

I am so very thankful for the opportunity to share, once again, with Elizabeth.

I Am From

I am from bacon grease on the back of the stove
and dog bowls at the back door
and champagne bottles that toasted births
all lined up in a row

I am from the yellow house with pink shingles
and creaky wood floors
and one full bath
for seven people

I am from a family that didn't expect me because it was already full up with teenagers
and long haired boys on motor bikes and girls almost grown up and leaving
but it was also full up on love
and
so I am from babysitters and ice cream buyers and we love you so much

I am from the kitchen
with the worn wooden table and ash trays full to the brim
and coffee cups strewn about half full and kissed with lipstick

I am from Tree City USA full of stately elms
that grew so tall and wide they pushed sidewalks aside
and shaded generation after generation
until a disease infected them all and they slowly disappeared forever

I am from playing under water locusts and china berries and blue spruce
and climbing that one ginko all the way to the top
knowing that heaven was that much closer
because I dared
I remember that tree's
long gone limbs
as if they were my own

I am from Ghost in the Graveyard and Kick the Can
I am from Truth or Dare and lightning bugs

I am from church on Sunday and everything in order
I am from Mama and Daddy and "Aint" Alice and Uncle Roger

I am from damaged bread and honey buns and bear claws left for trash
but rescued by a hard working man who knew treasure when he saw it

I am from "Give me some sugar!" and "stand up straight"
and "You are my sunshine" sung in two part harmony

I am from The Gateway to the West and baseball and frozen custard and thin crust pizza
I am from Atlanta and Emory and Chick-Fil-A and Jimmy Carter and pot liquor
But I am also from Germany and England and Scotland and Prussia

I am from black-eyed peas and turnip greens and fried corn bread and peach cobbler
I am from apple pies and sauerkraut and fresh honey dew
and a cup of hot water first thing in the morning

I am from Meme and a house that always smelled of creamed corn
and bacon and Dove soap and Brach's candy

I am from Grandma whose short legs and generous jowls
now look at back at me in the mirror

I am from the Jim Crow South
and Whites and Coloreds

I am from rural Ohio
and soybeans and corn
as
far
as
the
eye
can
see

And now I am from three boys and a man
and a dog whom we call Stinkerpants all crammed into an ancient house built of stone
I am from writing down the stories with my eyes wide open trying to drink in all of the glory
before I fall asleep

++++++++++++++

One of the many reasons that I love being a part of SheLoves Magazine? Synchroblogs like this, in honor of Heritage Day in South Africa. This is my offering for the "I Am From" prompt, an opportunity for folks around the world to share more about who they are and what has shaped them. We would love for you to join us. You can link up your own poem here. And while you're linking up, be sure to read from the amazing collection of stories already gathered there.

In which I begin the great unwinding

I suppose it has been a bit obvious, has it not?

The fewer blog posts.
Not as many comments at the end of others' pieces, if they manage to get read at all.
A diminishing Klout score.

Less of a presence.

On line, that is.

But, really, it has just been the beginning of a great unwinding. And as these days melt, one into another, and as I approach the day when life turns upside down, once again, I find my heart and mind being drawn elsewhere.

I am very much at home these days.

++++++++++


Ann Voskamp wrote once about how mother ducks "pick feathers from their chests to line their nests" and now I understand.

“How else did you think nests were lined?”

With leftovers.

That’s what I thought.

With feathers discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers.

I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.

But no. No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom.

She lines the nest with bits of herself — the best of herself.  

A mother cups her brood not with leftovers — but with her own sacrifice.

++++++++++++++

As I have begun preparing for a new baby to enter into my, and my family's, life I am having to let go of some things that I have been holding close.

I need to begin the sacrifice of my online presence.

Saying that out loud is like sounding the death knell to a modern writer. Stop blogging? No more tweets? No more platform building?

But at the end of that line of questioning and after a small but monumental silence, I stand resolute.

When I wash clothes and then hang them on the line to dry, it is a process that takes time. Each piece must be snapped free of wrinkles, clipped on with clothespins and arranged just so. When the task is completed it makes for an impressive sight, colors flapping in the wind, displayed for all to see. Work has been done and now the sun works her magic.
But if I don't hang my clothes on the line and, instead, choose to place them in the dryer, inside of my house, the work is still being done.
It just isn't seen by the whole neighborhood.

That is how things are needing to shift around these parts.

I am slowly bringing the work inside.

My sweet baby has been leading the way already. With each passing day he has been growing and stretching into the space within which he finds himself. And he has been doing it most beautifully.

But soon, his space will spill over into our space and we want to be ready.

So we are moving things from here to there. We are relieving ourselves of things no longer needed. We are welcoming, with open arms, the generosity of family and friends.

We are making room.

++++++++

This slow unwinding has made me aware in ways that I haven't been, for quite some time...

Aware of the way the sun light moves across the floor and walls of my living room, highlighting corners and gilding rough edges and generally making all things beautiful.

Aware of the ticking that comes from the small desk clock upon the shelf, reminding me of every.single.moment.

Aware of how conversations, connected throughout a day, can build bridges of thought and understanding and revelation to everyone involved.

Aware of the power of touch and eye contact and how melting into both provides a balm for heart space that you didn't even realize was rough and hardened.

And, most importantly, aware that every day is full of gifts to unwrap and in order to fully receive that multitude, one must not be looking askance.

So, friends, I am beginning the great unwinding.  I am letting the yarn unravel as it will. It will probably look quite untidy for a bit. Perhaps there will be tangles. But, together, my family and I are letting the colored strands fall into our open hands and, together, we will knit together new garments.

I believe I already like the fit of them.

+++++++

Photo credit: Ben Hosking via Flickr

Turning Pages

I haven't made much time for writing lately.

It's a new reality that I am simultaneously hating and embracing. Hating, because I am always thinking, musing, lining up words and ideas, wanting desperately to pen them down, keep them fast and that is just not happening. But I am also embracing this new way because I am really here, in this moment and that last one and that other one last week where I gazed upon orange colored skies wrapped in a wide open rainbow. Yeah, that one.

But I had to stop today and remember a few things. Because some things you just don't ever want to forget.

I am growing a life inside of me for the third time but the hugeness of that still catches me by surprise some days. Such as the tiredness that encroaches upon every square inch of skin and bone and muscle and demands that I stop.right.now and rest. And so I do. I stop and stretch out upon my bed and I let myself sink into cushion and blanket and holy rest. And that baby hidden deep? He tickles me from the inside, thanking me for that little bit of extra room that lying on my side provides him. It is then that I realize that I am so very human and what is happening inside of me is so very God and I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Then there are the moments when I realize that conversations with my two boys have started to include subjects and topics that stretch beyond Legos and Iron Man and Hank the Cowdog. They are asking bigger questions now, questions about relationships and current events and sex. And every time we close out those talks, its as if I'm turning pages of their childhood at a faster pace and I can see how the paper is curling and yellowing, as if we are coming dangerously close to the end of a chapter.

Surprisingly, I realize that I am okay with that. I'm excited for new chapters and story lines and plot twists.

But then the aforementioned tiredness will, again, wash over me and I am reminded of the return to babyhood that is imminent. And I sigh. Will I remember how to do all of this? When I slow to the pace that mothering an infant requires, will I end up sputtering to a tragic end, like my old Nissan? How will I manage to stay connected to the boys that are growing taller by the day and reaching further into the future than I can see when I am totally consumed with free flowing breastmilk and piles of laundry? What does bridging that huge gap even look like?

And then there will be a moment. The ones I have by the handful now.

Yesterday, as I sat in my chair, the baby deep within was alive and kicking and I called Aidan over to place his hand on my belly. I've tried this before but we always managed to miss the opportunity. But we tried again.

And there was a kick. I quickly looked at Aidan and he jumped in place and hollered that "HE HAD FELT IT!" and his smile--his smile that would soften the hardest heart--it shone glory and his eyes danced with pure joy. And in that moment, we were all connected and alive and in love.

It was then that I realized that there is no gap too wide that love can't bridge and that, sometimes, what brings the world to its softest place, the place where heart fires are kindled and hope is born, most often, is a baby.

Linking today with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

A Moveable Feast

Six sets of hands circled round me

the day that I entered that very fine house

and I was petted and loved on

my head was ringed with kisses and toasts were made to bless me

and I suppose that it was there that my story began

Mine was a childhood gilded

I know

for days stretched long and full and calm

and I sailed my boat upon placid waters

but, somehow, there was always a knowing

and I longed to string those days

on ribbons of silk

one upon the other

and tie them around the necks of the lonely ones

who hid in corners

so that they might know what home smelled like ...

I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today and I would love for you to follow me there to keep reading my poem on this month's theme of Home.

Join me? Yes? Then follow me here.

There are cracks

Outside the wind is howling . . . H O W L I N G . . . wrapping around corners and rattling old windows and I wake from the moans of this old house. I try to shut it out, that shriek of swirling air, but it pursues me and finds me hidden under covers and there is nowhere that I can escape its grip.

I get up and walk through the darkened house, lit softly by the glow of star shaped lights, to get to the front door. It's an ill- fitting door, old and wooden, and I can stick whole fingers in the gap at the bottom. The cold air is rushing in, streaming like a hemorrhaging vein that can't be stopped, and I feel like that little Dutch boy looking at that leaking dike. I look down at my hands and know that ten fingers mean nothing.

I find the yards of foam caulking in the closet and I rush to shove it into the one huge gap that circles round the entire perimeter of the door. It is a swaddling of sorts, with all of the tucking and patting and wrapping... yet ... still
my house whines.

I cannot keep the wicked wind of the northwest from sneaking inside.

And I think about all of the people who have lived in this house, all these last hundred and seventy years.
How, every winter, there has been the same battle against wind and weather.
How, every winter, there is moaning and howling.
And how, no matter the attempts by good, well meaning folks to keep the storms outside,
still
     they
          come.

There are cracks, to be sure, and you can find them all over this house. And the wind, it roars straight to those thin places.

And as I stand in front of the old door I feel it.

I feel my cracks.

And when the wind blows, there is a rattling deep down that is hard to muffle.
When the gusts cut round my sharpest corners, sometimes, there is a howling.
And when those storms sit atop my house, holding me fast in their grip, there is a rending.

But The Song, it says that those cracks are also how the light gets in.

All these storms--they will never cease. These winds--they will continue to blow and shriek and howl. I can't stop them any more than I can stop the light from rushing in with them.

There is wind, yes. But there is also light.

And as another gale crashes into the walls outside, I hear it. The wind chimes.

They are ringing.

_______________
Photo credit: krystian_o on flickr

Where there is life there is love

image credit: Flickr "Christmas Lights"

In my last two posts, here and here, I shared about being open to the hope and the wonder of this Advent season. I mused on long darkness and piercing light and holy spirit smoke. I swelled with anticipation.

It's amazing how everything can change in a day or two.

My first week of Advent has been ripe with hard conversations, thwarted goals, and deep soul walking. There has been no lighting of the Advent wreath, no dwelling in Words of life, no mighty nesting instinct spurring me on to small acts of preparation.

Instead, there has been life.

And it has been drippy and sticky and complicated.

I lost every ounce of patience with my children, closed the door to the world and lamented my fate to the skies. And never fear, there was much cursing and clenching of fists.

I surveyed my house on several occasions and wondered how I could possibly want for more when I was already drowning in piles of paper and trinkets and dust.

And as people near and dear to my heart spun like dervishes in the wake of their own deep churning, I felt the strain of impotence.

But that is not all.

For "where there is life there is love" and this week delivered that, as well.


I learned the spiritual discipline of letting go... of control. of unrealistic expectations. of perfection.

Every year since we have been married, I have put up the Christmas lights. Not to take a stand on equality or anything else noble like that. No, I have always put up the Christmas lights because I am a control freak.
But this year found me committed to another task on the 65 degree December weekend that simply insisted be dedicated to donning holiday lights. And my husband and two boys needed something to do together. The answer was simple=put up the lights.
The lights did not go up in the order or manner they were supposed to. There were colored lights hanging all willy nilly from columns and door frames and I didn't understand the arrangement and it was.all.wrong.
I was just about to intercede on the behalf of Christmas lights everywhere and offer some constructive criticism when I felt my tongue freeze heavy in my mouth. Something stopped me. It was not because of anything generous in my own spirit. No, my mind was busy talking my body off the ledge of Christmas madness and encouraging deep breaths and closed eyes. No, something bigger and greater and wiser than me was taking over. And it was winning.

That is what love does. It wins.

And the other miraculous thing? I didn't put up a fight.
I let love win this one.

Something hard and brittle broke in me that day. A rigid cast of contention that I had made my uniform for all these years, it simply fell away.

And in its absence I could move. And breathe.

And now my sweet, little house shimmers with color and beauty and glory and I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

That has been my Advent lesson this week.

quote: Mahatma Ghandi

The shedding

I've noticed

on the weekends

that you shed

because I keep finding

pieces of you

around our little house

Funny 

because some days

I spend a lot of my time

attempting to wipe away

all the things that are shed

around here

It is constantly settling

The remains of the day

work their way

into fabric

and tile

and faces

and respectable folk

wash

and

scrub

and 

whisk

away

such things

But 

after a week

of attempting to order chaos

it is nice

to rest

Plus the way that you shed

is different

anyway

Yours is more a

molting 

The week has grown uncomfortably tight

and you 

just

need

to

breathe

So you flit around the house

absorbing yourself

in the daily

which looks so different

on you

than on me

And as you cook

or iron 

or fold 

or polish

there is an exchange

As you pull me close

and smear me

with kisses

or encircle my frame

with the whole of you

there is an exchange

One skin

for

another

And by eventide

you are born

once again

I will wake in the morning

to find you

everywhere

hair in the sink

soup drips on the stove

grass clippings on the porch

But I'll try not to be so quick to

wipe it all away

Because this shedding of yours

it whispers to me 

that life is always 

being

made 

new

 

The Golden Thread

It's in the middle of washing that hundredth dish,
fingers pulled tight and wrinkly,
water rushing warm and full
It is then that I catch the joy

It hangs in the air
moist and heavy

You're busy at the stove
swirling riotous color and pattern
upon your chosen canvas
while beads of sweat hug your brow

I watch you at a slant
wanting to catch you unfettered
to see you wholly absorbed
making a life rather than a living

These moments, ripe with rhythm
they hem us in, behind and before
silently threading a golden margin
along our frayed edges

At one point, between tasks
you slide up behind me
and suddenly arms and spoons and curry
they circle me

Your lips find my neck
and you whisper love down my back
You tell me how you are full to bursting
and my face rises in laughter

We are cooking more than dinner
you and I

It will be the stringing of days like this
one upon the other
that will make us round and full
and replete

For this meal
with its swirl of time and place
it warms ones belly
deep and wide

Capturing the sky

There's a rhythm to these days when it is so bright and the sun burns with so much ardor.   After breakfast and the dishes and the making of beds, one load of laundry is begun.  One load only, because that is the exact capacity of my clothes line.  One load.  It's been a shift from how I used to do this task. Before, I would attempt to complete the entire mess of it in one day, with a steely resolve that, inevitably melted into a feeling of chagrin.  For no one wants to do load upon load of laundry.  Ever.


But now, because I am dependent on something outside of my own energy reserves to complete this task, I must adjust my expectations.  For you can't rush the sun anymore than you can hurry a turtle.


Today it was a set of sheets.  Crisp, white sheets that were a wedding present.  They are showing their age now (could it really have been fifteen years already?!).  The sweet eyelet band at the top of the sheet, which is as close to frilly as I'll ever get, has frayed and torn.  But that's okay.


I walk out to the line with the sheets thrown over my shoulder, for their damp coolness feels incredible in the close warm air.  As I hang the sheets, I'm instantly thrown into a battle with the gusty breezes that will highlight this day.  As I stand firm against the burgeoning cotton sail, the sweet smell of lavender and eucalyptus dance around my head and I am instantly enchanted.  Such a simple, clean smell.  And I am quieted somewhere deep.


I finish the task and as I turn to go back inside, I'm checked by another southerly gale.  This one calls all of the laundry to attention and there is a quick snap of a sheet.  I turn hastily turn around to see the source of the report.

And it is then that I see it.

The sheet has already melted from attention and is floating with an ease that inspires a jealous prick in my soul.  It billows and falls, rises and sinks...all with a grace not often found in me.  The trees cast shadows that look blue upon the white fabric and through the fingers of their leaves drip dapples of sunlight.  The sheet has become as an artist's canvas and it is capturing the sky.

I want to gather it in, all for myself, because who doesn't want to hug the sky?  But I know that the gift is really in the seeing, not in the owning.

So I stop. And I see.

"Even after all of this time

the Sun never says to the Earth,

'You owe me.'

Look what happens with a love like that,

It lights the whole sky."

-Hafez

Weekends are for being together

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.  

~William Faulkner

{ A Month of Thanks } Our little house

Peace - that was the other name for home.  

~Kathleen Norris

I am so thankful for this little house of ours.

When we made the heart wrenching decision to leave our Atlanta home and the dear people with whom we had shared life for eight years in community, not to mention the dozens of other beloved folks that were instrumental in shaping us as individuals and as a family, it was done with some trepidation.  What would life on the outside of our Atlanta bubble look like?  What would we look like?  Where would we land?

It turned out that we landed much further away from the family that we had migrated towards.  But that was where the job was and there are times when you have to take the hand your dealt and pray that you make the best of it.

It all happened so quickly. The job offer, the scurrying to find housing, trying to figure out where one should settle when they know absolutely nothing about the city to which they are moving, calculating what we could actually afford compared to what the bank said we could afford....

And then, on one of those days when there is already too much to do than can be accomplished, John happened to look on Craig's List.  And there it was.

Our house.

I can remember the day he called me on his cell phone.  I was in St. Louis and he was stealthily creeping around the land and house, trying to get a better sense of what buying this antique might mean and trying to describe it to me, all the while, hoping that no one spotted him and called the authorities.

But, kind of like I did on that first date, I knew somewhere deep down, that this was going to be our house.

And so it was.

And yes, owning a 175 year old house often provides us with constant entertainment, as well as aggravation, but it is such a blessing to be the caretakers of this piece of dirt and this piling of stones.  To own a bit of history and to be adding to its story.  Again, I will say it...

It is a blessing.

We have no idea how long we will be here in this particular house.  Life happens and new opportunities present themselves and you just never no what is coming down the pike.  

But it is my sincere prayer that as long as we are here, living out our days and nights, we continue to make this house a home.  

That we would infuse this space with grace and forgiveness and joy and light.

And above all, that we would make this a house of love, made real.

Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other.  It is the place of confidence.  It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts.  It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule.  ~Frederick W. Robertson

Light

Live in rooms full of light. ~Cornelius Celsus

After I finished putting away the breakfast dishes this morning, this is where I found August.  He had climbed up into the gloriously deep window sills that our stone house provides, surrounded himself with blankets and cushions, and settled in for the day. 

You know, the day that we first saw this house, before we had even made an offer on it, one of the first conclusions that I came to was that someone should do this very thing.  Moreover, we should be the people to do it.

I'm glad that August heeded the call. 

With the morning sun pouring in--buckets full--he settled in.

What is it about the sun that calls to something so deep inside of us? 

Is it the gentle way that it seeps into our skin...reaching even deeper still...warming places that we didn't even realize were cold?

Or is it the way that it, literally, changes the skin we're in...leaving tattoos of its face across our bodies?

All I know is that on these mornings when it is still dark when I rise, when I don't know whether to curse or bless my dog for getting me out of bed and moving soooo early...it is on these days, especially, that I look to the East with such expectancy and anticipation.  Practically willing the sun into the sky is one of my first productive acts of the day.

I need that Sun

to

come

up.

And it always does.

This morning, after tinging the edges of night's cheeks with pink, it jumped up, full of fire and energy.  It flooded into our living room, through those very windows that August settled into, and filled the room with its power.

Slowly, the chill wore off.

The cushions of the sofa absorbed its radiance.

The patterns of the carpet played in their own shadows.

And then

you could see it.

Dust.  Dirt.  Dinge.

Everywhere.

It hit and stung like a slap on the face that came out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard and utterly defenseless.  And suddenly I felt so very vulnerable, exposed, revealed.  The reality of my home--the one that I had so successfully hidden in the dark nooks and crannies--was immediately brought into the fullness of light.

You see, I am not the greatest housekeeper.  Some days I'm better at it than others.  Some days I get my act together and I manage to clear surfaces, tidy up floors, maybe even scrub a toilet or two.  On days that my parents are coming, or a playdate or... well, those days I am almost always competent at it.  I lean into the task headlong and early, and I twirl throught the house like a whirling dervish.  Like a woman bewitched, I transform my house into something it normally is not. 

I dress to impress.

But those kinds of days are the exception and I'm not proud of how I arrive at the outcome anyway.  It's all very pretentious really. 

But on the regular, ordinary, quotidian day...

there is dust.

That's what that persnickety sunlight will do.  It reveals too much.

"He shines a spotlight into caves of darkness,

hauls deepest darkness into the noonday sun."

Job 12:22 (The Message)

I think about this.  I look about me, at all that is revealed about me,
who I am, really,
and I am tempted to despair.

But then I read it again.  He chooses to fetch his brightest spotlight, the one that could blind the eyes if he wanted it to, and he begins the hunt.
To reach into my deepest, darkest places and

haul
it
out.

It's no accident.  It's not a trick or conniving behavior or tomfoolery.

It's what he does.  His nature.

He brings darkness into light.

"I will lead the blind on roads

they have never known;

I will guide them on paths

they have never traveled.

Their road is dark and rough,

but I will give light

to keep them from stumbling.

This is my solemn promise."

Isaiah 42:16 (CEV)



He has promised to.

But I would really rather he keep the dust hidden, for it doesn't reflect well on me.  I like that he reveals the way for me but, as far as I am concerned, that pesky dust can just remain behind me, in my shadow.  Light and shadow, as it should be.

But I can't have it both ways.

With my darkness comes light.  In fact, the deeper my darkness, the brighter the Light.

I have a choice to make.  Keep the dust hidden and risk bumping into something else that is hidden right beside it.  Something that I didn't even know was there, even.  Or I had forgotten.  Chose to forget, actually.

or

I can tear open the shutters and throw open the sash.  I can let him into my caves of darkness.  Let him haul out all of the bags and boxes of darkness, into that noonday sun.

Today, and everyday, I must choose light.

"...sun is shining, the weather is sweet

make you want to move your dancing feet

to the rescue, here i am

want you to know just if you can

where i stand, no, no, no, no, where i stand

sun is shining, sun is shining..."

Bob Marley

FINALLY some pictures!

I can now share pictures with you again!!!!  It's a long story about why there haven't pictures on my blog for the last six months and most of it doesn't reflect well on me.  Simply put, we have purchased a new computer with something like 4 million times the memory as the previous sloth machine. Now I will be able to illustrate more of my blog entries as I have been wont to do for eons...

As a way to celebrate, I thought that I would share some shots of the natural happenings around our place.  I LOVE my camera and I am so impressed with its incredible ability to make me look like I know what I am doing behind the lens.  Granted, Mother Nature provides the perfect material.  I'm just lucky enough to stumble upon it.

"My profession is to always find God in nature."

Henry David Thoreau

Catch up time

August on a friend's zip line.

"Mr. Meanie" who will be one of the first roosters to be butchered.

One morning's harvest.

A sampling of our refrigerator pickles that are threatening to take over our kitchen!

Our living room could now be dubbed Lego Land after Aidan's 7th birthday. The boys spend hours (I'm not exaggerating!) constructing all varieties of vehicles, space ships, houses, weapons, you name it. It is so fun to watch them create endlessly.

Aidan is now officially an independent reader. Why I ever worried about him, I'll never know. He loves to read the comics in the paper everyday and he pours over history and story books by the dozens. My challenge now is to provide him with a rich and varied selection of materials from which to choose.

Aidan and I share a birthday kiss. It really is something special to share your birthday with your first born. What a gift, the day that he was born and every year thereafter!!!

This is Beulah. We drove to the ends of the earth to get her for free. Her dad was an Australian Shepherd and her mom was a Beagle-mix. She is absolutely adorable and she is absolutely more work than I EVER imagined. Half of why I haven't blogged this summer is because of the immense amount of time I spend making sure that she isn't peeing in the house, sneaking into a room where she doesn't belong or biting holes in my pant legs as I walk about minding my own business. It has been an intense month and I'm still praying that it will all be worth it in the end. When she is calm and sweet and loving, I get a foretaste of glory divine, when she is all that I wanted in a dog. In the meantime, I'm really trying not to curse more than ten times a day.

We've been busy this summer and thus there has been very little blogging on my part. What with chickens, a new puppy, a garden that won't stop and all of the other things that make summer "summer" I've simply put this to the wayside. But life is full and good and tiring and challenging and I want to write about all of that. I'm trying to figure out how to make use of my very early rising to care for the chickens and Beulah dog, as that seems a logical time and space within which to write. But it's hard.
And then we will be starting to reintroduce "school" to our daily routine soon so...
you see what happens.
I will do my best.

Corners of my home

The very large and sunny window sill in the upstairs room.  This has become one of our new favorite spots in the house because of its glorious light, warmth and general charm.

Other views from around this same spot.

Our hall bathroom.  Yes, it is orange. No, I would never have picked out the color myself. BUT, I love it!  It makes a very cramped space (there is a bath/shower immediately to the left of the toilet) very tolerable.

Our "bird nest" compost pile.  We've started it behind the garage and it's "walls" are the tall, hollow grass stalks that we mowed down from our hill.  Although we've been adding to it daily, it's decompensation rate is greatly slowed by the frigid temperatures.  I'm not sure how much of it will actually be ready come Spring.

Our everyday woolens, drying after an afternoon of sledding.