Yesterday, On West 1st Street (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Saturday morning our kids were all away at sleep-overs.  John got up early and brought two cups of coffee back to bed.  When I stirred from my nest of sheets and sun, he asked, “Are you ready to hear about what I saw this morning?”

I guess I must have been ready because he told me how he let the dog out the back door, then went to the living room and looked out the big front window.  Across the street, the field has gone from green to gold and on the porch, two cats - one black, the other calico - sat facing the field.

“Really?” I asked, interrupting.  

We have one cat, Blackie, who wanders outside, the other, Perfect, is skittish and  rarely ventures from her self-imposed seclusion in the second story of our house.  When she does manage to make it outside, she ends up hiding in the garage, pressed out flat on the shelf formed by the open garage door.  Most of her adventures end with me on a ladder, coaxing her down, then carrying her back inside. 

“Yes,” he said, “I think it was Perfect.”

Seeing the cats, he went to the porch door and opened it.  Then he saw one cat, trotting off calmly down the road and Blackie sat alone on the porch.  We puzzled for awhile over the cats.  He was certain it was Perfect he saw on the porch and the cat trotting away looked an awful lot like her too, but “trotting off calmly down the road” isn’t in her repertoire.  

The more questions I asked, the more his story started to fall apart.  Blackie spent the night outside, that much we knew for sure, but I thought I saw Perfect in the morning.  How did she get outside with the doors and windows locked tight all night?  Maybe a third cat was involved? 

“This story is starting to sound less and less believable,” I said. 

“It’s true,” he said, laughing. 

“Next you’re going to say, ‘Then, along came a tiger, wearing pants, riding a unicycle.’” I said.  “And then I saw an elephant playing a banjo,’” I mimicked.  “This is starting to sound like a Dr. Suess book.”

I worried about Perfect all morning.  I scanned the rooms upstairs and quietly circled the garage calling her name and listening for an answering mew.  John cut out a cabinet in the kitchen and I worried the deafening sound of the circular saw would terrify her.  I trimmed shrubs around the house, hoping to find her cowering in their cool shade.  When we went out to lunch, we left the screen-less window open and the mud room door, hoping she would ease her way back home.  After lunch I found her back inside on the upstairs landing, jumpy and out of sorts.  She’d clearly had an adventure. 

Later we decided to wash the dog.  After trying to coax her upstairs and tugging her on a leash, John gave in and carried her to the upstairs bathroom.  Coco loves to go upstairs, but refuses to because the black cat guards it with growls and hisses and razor sharp claws - the upstairs is Perfect’s Oasis and Blackie likes to keep it that way. 

John set Coco her down in the bathroom and I shut the door, then we trimmed her fur with the electric clippers, focusing largely on her tail and hindquarters.  I hugged her body, holding her still while John trimmed her heavy wool coat.  She didn’t like it and skirted away when she could, but we cooed and praised her and she was torn between her dislike of the clippers and enjoyment of the attention. 

Satisfied with her haircut, we turned on the hand-held shower and John lifted her into the tub.  She shrank as the water soaked her coat.  She raised a tentative paw and looked longingly over the side of the tub, but stayed put under a steady stream of warm water and praise.  “Good girl, good girl, Coco,” we chirped.  I drizzled shampoo down her back and John scrubbed, clucking and singing over her like a mama bird over her chick.  Then the rinsing began and we exulted in the streams of dirt pouring down the long white tub toward the drain.

Crouched there beside my husband on the bathroom floor I remembered the first baths with our babies, the blue plastic tubs set on the dining room table and filled just so with warm but not hot water.  John is the bath man at our house, taking the honors of those first tentative sponge baths then graduating to cups of water scooped and poured over waving legs and arms.  He cooed and clucked over our babies singing love in half-flat tones and they, much like Coco, endured the alarm of water on skin, pulled along by the attention that poured down from their father’s eyes, his words and hands.            

When the dirt was more or less done running down, we turned the water off and I threw a towel over Coco’s head.  John wrapped her and lifted her to the floor where she shimmied and shook with that silly all-over-wet feeling dogs get and we were happy and pleased. 

These are a few of the things that happened yesterday on West 1^st Street.  The cat got lost and found, the dog got washed and trimmed.  At the end of the day I shut the chickens in the coop and walked slowly back into the house, looking out over all the green glory of this place of goodness we’ve been given.  Then I stepped my bare foot in chicken poop in the mud room and the cool, wet shock of surprise on my foot, the down-to-earth reality of that moment, summed up the day quite well.

*   *   *   *

Only 16 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

   

When Your Huggy-Boy Won't Hug (i.e. Everything is Coming Undone)

(THIS is the lovely view across the street from our house.  Amazing.)

When the day starts with your huggy-boy not willing to give you a hug. 

Then progresses to yelling and hitting. 

When you let them watch way more T.V. than they should and it only whets their appetite for more.  And even the fun of pulling sunflower stalks thick as trees from the garden isn’t enough to help you all find a flow. 

Time is wrinkled.  And you are caught in its folds. 

On those days there is no low hanging fruit.  The easy way cannot be found.

//

The caterpillar, trapped within its cocoon, let’s go completely.  Dissolving all but its essence – a bit of memory and the cells that tell what it will become.  Antennae, wings, legs.  

Sometimes I think this is what we must do on these ill-fitting days that confine. 

Let go, completely, of all but the essential. 

Curl on the loveseat by the woodstove and nap. 

Sit under the weight of a blanket, bookended on either side by the boys who were fighting, the ones who want more T.V., and read book after book.

Then maybe something new, but familiar as your own memory of how the day could have been, will emerge.  Something composed from your own longing for something more. 

//

Unable to fit together as you are, the boys will spend an hour playing in the bathroom closet, their “office.”  And you will doze in and out of sleep in the one room where you can hear them the least. 

You will make a cup of coffee, adding cream and chocolate syrup.  Then it will be time at last to wait for the bus on the front porch.  The boys, happy now, will attack you from their picnic table pirate ships.  They will “fick” you into believing they’re innocent farmers before whacking you with a sword. 

In the afternoon sun, you will realize it’s warmer than you thought and the day, unveiled, will emerge as something new.    

Food Assistance (I Don't Feel Entitled, I Feel Grateful)

The Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) provides Federal grants to States for supplemental foods, health care referrals, and nutrition education for low-income pregnant, breastfeeding, and non-breastfeeding postpartum women, and to infants and children up to age five who are found to be at nutritional risk.

I hate WIC.

I’m so thankful for WIC.

These two thoughts follow seamlessly one after the other as the milk, eggs, peanut butter and other sundries pass on the grocery store conveyor belt.

//

We signed up when I became pregnant with our oldest and have been on and off of the Women Infants and Children Supplemental Nutrition program ever since. 

Every time I work – adjunct teaching stints and a year as a pastor – we call and drop ourselves from the system.  Every time we return to one income, we reapply. 

Every few months I cart our kids to the small, gray office and fill out reams of paperwork.  The kids alternate between playing and clinging anxiously.  Twice a year the visits include a weight and measure and much dreaded finger pricks to check for iron count.  

Despite frequent well visits at the pediatrician’s office, the WIC office needs its own numbers. 

At times I feel indignant at the intrusion.  I’m angry for my children who cry at being poked and prodded.  How much blood, how much information do we need to give for a few dollars worth of food?  

Then I remind myself we need the money.  

It’s their office.  They set the rules.  

Does this make me a bad mother?  

Or, would pride that kept us from receiving such assistance make me a bad mother?  I'm never entirely sure.

After these intrusions we squeeze into a smaller office.  I wrangle kids on my knees while answering questions about our food consumption and setting nutrition goals for each of my children. 

At the end of the visit I leave with a ream of checks averaging $120 worth of food per month.  We received the most when the oldest kids were four and two and I was pregnant with twins, we’re nearly off the system now as the twins prepare to age-out next summer at five years old. 

//

Do I look too wealthy?  What will they think of the Marmot ski coat I wear, the $300 dollar coat I got on clearance for $50 after Christmas one year? 

Do we look poor? 

These are the questions I ask myself waiting in line at the grocery store.

//

With just one week left to use August’s checks I head to the grocery store with six in hand – two for as little as $8 each, two for about $30 and two somewhere in the middle. 

I keep the checks in the shopping cart and subtly check and recheck acceptable sizes and brands for peanut butter, grains and cereal as I hurry through the store.  When in doubt, I sheepishly pull out the large white pamphlet that clarifies. 

I hope I don’t run into anyone I know. 

We travel one town over now to bigger grocery chains to use our checks because the small local grocery store requires the cashier to call a manager to approve WIC checks.  The unwanted attention and wait feel mortifying enough to warrant a ten minute drive.

The cashier is unfriendly and I wonder if it’s because of the WIC checks lined up in front of her.  Is she judging me?  I feel myself get snappish, then reign it in.  Maybe she’s just tired, maybe it’s been a long day. 

I planned to get three checks, but ended up with four separate orders on the checkout line.  I feel bad for anyone who gets in line behind me, not knowing I will check out not just once, but four times.  I wonder what they think of my food, of me.  Maybe they’re happy the State gives needy families wholesome foods like milk and cheese.  Maybe they despise the fact that I choose the more expensive brands. 

Who knows?

I group the food by check, separating each with a spacer.  I sign the checks ahead of time to speed the process along.  Still, it takes time and often I fail to get exactly the right product.  Sometimes the rules change and items that were once ok are no longer allowed. 

//

When election season rolls around people inevitably make nasty comments about those who receive government assistance, about people who supposedly feel entitled to benefits.    

Are they talking about me?  Do I feel entitled to these benefits? 

No, mostly I feel embarrassed and hugely grateful. 

Does my family need WIC?  That’s a question I haven’t been able to answer. 

At some point we decided that not accepting the extra help would be a prideful and foolish move especially in the years when the sudden break-down of a vehicle or unexpected home repair left us in debt to credit card companies. 

There’s something about mouths to feed that lowers the playing field for me, that helps make it all a little clearer. 

My children need to eat healthy food, so I do what I can to make it happen. 

Even when it’s the last thing I want to do.    

The Last Day of Summer

At the end of the day two cats sit in the window, sunset facing, while my husband walks the trash to the curb.  Two fresh bodies are tucked into bed.  Two still-dirty ones stretch the last minutes of daylight in the yard. 

There was some discussion this morning of knocking out a wall in the upstairs of our house.  Common sense prevailed though (No new projects right now, thank you very much!) and the cool blue sky drew us outside. 

We moved a pile of wood, cleared up a patch of land under the big pine tree.  The kids built a fort, tag-teaming lumber from the garage to the very space we were clearing, under the big pine tree. 

The dog found a toad, who became a pet. 

Lucky, he was rescued from the dog. 

Unlucky, he will spend the night in an old fish tank. 

Dead flies, worms, pieces of fruit, the lid of a peanut butter jar filled with water, all of these served as offerings for the toad.  Still, he seemed to be without appetite.

I chopped some wood, throwing the axe out over my shoulder, missing half the time, aware of the vulnerability of my toes exposed in sandals.  Every once in a while I hit home and the wood snapped with a satisfying crack – worth the effort it took.

The wood pile behind the garage grew slowly, a long stretch of Lincoln Logs strung together, wobbly.  I hammered nails in the kids’ fort.  Hooks for the hatch-door.  My daughter knelt on the ground with wire cutters snipping chicken wire which became a window. 

By the end of the day, the oldest boy built a zip-line which, failing to zip, turned into a log-launcher.  And we all left the dinner table, measuring tape in hand, and stood staring at the old wooden stairway that runs through the heart of our house.

“Could we turn it into a slide?” someone asked.

My husband turned to me, a light shining in his eyes. 

"It’s 14 feet," he said.  "You can buy a 2x12x16 ft. board for about $30."

“Will we? Will we?” the kids clamored. 

"Maybe," we said, "it'll be a winter project."

Happy Labor Day!

How did you celebrate?

Snow Days

But Sarah's heart was full.  It was as full as when the sounds of her own children had filled her house. - in "The Mitten Tree" by Candace Christiansen

Everywhere I look people are writing about the silence, the quiet hush of these snow-covered days.  Upstairs alone for a few brief moments, the fluffy, white duvet on our bed fills me with longing to be covered also, to lay down under a blanket of white.  Two full walls of windows fill the room with sunlight so inviting, but I turn and head downstairs to the kitchen, the heart of our home. 

Snow brings silence, peace, stillness, they say, but our house hums like a hive on these winter days.  School is canceled or delayed and four little bodies fill every corner with motion and noise, the steady, spinning, thriving sound of energy bottled for a time. 

A whole beautiful day of giant fluffy flakes passes without a moment to pause. 

No sitting quietly by the window with a steaming mug. 

No time to marvel much as the setting sun paints the landscape pink with long steady strokes.   

We twirl through these days like so many snowflakes falling, carried along by the weight of who we are.  It would be a lie if I were to claim an unwavering contentment about this – about the noise and motion, the constant clutter and chaos.  

But I’m learning to love what is rather than longing for what is not and that in itself offers a silence of sorts, a settling-in to the falling, swirling journey of these days.  I know now that this too shall pass.

Piled on the couch with my boys, reading "The Mitten Tree," it comes to me: the silence and the sound, the stillness and the humming hive, they are but two sides of an ever-changing coin.  In welcoming one, I prepare myself to welcome - embrace - the other; the key to contentment and joy is hidden in the surrender to what is, rather than in the longing for some preferred alternative.  

Linking with Jennifer Dukes Lee.  Photo credit: Here.

She Wore Red (a poem)

She never wore red, although
it was her favorite color. But
when she died, her coffin was
draped with red roses, soft
as velvet.  And so in the end,
dressed in a soft pink
housecoat, she wore red
and I stood over her casket
in black with a red leather purse
tucked under one arm.  

Every New Arrival (Lazarus)

 

In mid August I spent some time in a local Behavioral Health Hospital due to the sudden onset of severe panic attacks.  I continue to write about it as a way of processing the experience.

 

Every new arrival receives the same tour – 

here's your room, your room mate.

This is the nurses’ station, the meds window; 

here's the bathroom and shower,

a towel and washcloth, a blanket, 

all bleached white.  

The newest is heavyset, balding, 

with stringy dark hair.  He wears jeans

and hospital-issue paper top, 

the kind they hand out in the ER

when the clothes you wore upon arrival 

were torn or bloodstained. 

He carries the rest of his belongings 

in a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. 

A shower is the first order of business 

for every new arrival, then meds. 

Standing behind him at the window 

I notice the band aids on his wrists.

No one is ready for eye contact 

on their first day, each one jittery 

like a wild animal, trapped and wary. 

But on the day I will be discharged

he shows up in Group and tells us all his name.   

His words come slow like his voice has gotten lost 

somewhere deep within his body, a small sound that fell 

deep into a chasm of fear or pain or despair, but now 

he speaks, sitting at the end of the table, 

every syllable a step toward resurrection.

He is Lazarus, we all are, here in this tomb 

of dying and learning to live again,

and the therapist at the opposite end 

of the table calls us out each by name. 

This post is linked with Playdates With God  and Unforced Rhythms.

Harvest (I want to be home when the combine comes)

Photo Source: HERE.

The neighbor’s dog killed

our kitten.  He’s an old

speckled hunting hound

who hobbles painfully

through a large fenced yard.

Our kids feed him handfuls

of bone shaped biscuits

through the fence

and run back and forth

calling his name. 

The kitten, slender and spry,

climbed the fence, curious,

and the old dog found

youth coursing through his

veins.  It was quick, they said, 
she didn’t comprehend the threat, 
he acted on training and instinct. 

The daycare children who played

nearby watched it all go down.

Crying, they were hurried

inside, to where the classroom bunny

sat safe in its cage. 

We weren’t home at the time. 

Later, when I sat in the grass snacking

with my boys, the neighbor called me

over to break the news.  We stood there

on opposite sides talking for a long time, 
our conversation divided by the fence.

He was apologetic, I was trying to figure

out what to tell the kids. 

“I didn’t think he still had it

in him,” my elderly neighbor observed.

We talked, as usual, about the woman

who owned this house before us - 
born here and died here at the age of ninety-seven -

and about the neighbor's own twin brother, a monk

in his seventies still making plans to teach overseas. 

The cat was handed back

over the fence, stiff and oddly heavy

in a plastic bag.  I put her in a box,

then went to wait for the school bus

to crest the hill, delivering

my happy children back home to me. 

//

The farmer has started cutting down

the dried brown corn that shines golden

when the sun hits just right.  Any day now

the field across the street will be empty

again.  The harvest feels like an inevitable 
end, the cutting down of it all and already 
I feel a sense of anticipatory loss.

I want to be home when the combine comes,

to witness the transformation.  Then 
there will be the long wait of winter
before seeds are sown in the quiet earth
and green shoots break through again. 

This is our sweet Tiger who loved to curl up and nap in my Asparagus fern.

Linking with Jennifer Dukes Lee for #TellHisStory.