Snow

We packed 460 lunches for local school children in an hour and a half, assembly-line style: Pudding cup, juice box, apple, snack mix, cheese sandwich, bologna sandwich. Eliot was at the apple station, Ethan covered the snack mix.

As we left, the first snow was falling—wet pavement, white rooftops and lawns. “Oh, look at the snow!” I crooned to the boys. Ethan was already etching his name on the car window with a warm finger. This is the first winter he can write his name.

I let down my window; the snow clumped and stood four inches tall, where the glass had been. The boys found this spectacular. We rolled slowly down quiet city streets, held by the wonder of Christmas lights in the snow. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” Eliot said.

Depression is sometimes delineated as a negative schema the brain adopts, in response to childhood trauma or stress. There are other explanations: hormonal imbalance, insufficient levels of neurotransmitters. Cortisol, serotonin, norepinephrine, dopamine. I have my own theories—general theories, including the unique nature of modern alienation, the corrupting power of affluence and consumerism; and specific ones I’d dare not apply to anyone but me. The truth is probably what it usually is: intricate.

Last night a volunteer coordinator supervised our lunch-making, on her birthday. “What a perfect way to spend your birthday, isn’t it?” observed a fellow coordinator.

A few days ago I let my tongue loose while it was Under the Influence of Negative Schema and in the vicinity of my older children. I lied. I said I didn’t believe in change, didn’t believe that people could change, didn’t believe it mattered anyway, and I didn’t believe in joy.

I don’t need to tell you what the last decade of my life has been—how I’ve squandered my time, money, talent, health or that I’ve lived in pursuit of the Great Sop and become ornery, unkind, and aloof. Is it enough, instead, to say that I awoke crying this morning before I knew why, wearing a powder-blue volunteer shirt and remembering the snow?

Meet Lucy

She's eight years old, transplanted here, after her owners of seven years moved to an apartment with no room for a pet. We hope she spends her golden years well and learns to love us. She's a good old girl.

Winter Ending

When skies conspire
to suffocate the light
and leaves wither
and breathing creatures crawl into
ground-holes and wait--
winter lays its stiff shroud
of snow; and all is silent.

This winter has been long,
Narnian: not wicked in itself
but ill-conceived.
There has been no war
for many years but
neither has there been
feasting. Our dim hearth fires
have not brought joy and have made
no gains upon the cold.

I discovered today, while
folding a child's shirt,
that I begin to want goodness;
not merely as a matter of course
but as longing.

Ah, the melt begins!

What We're Missing

Lightening struck two of my neighbor's trees today; it was unlike anything I've ever seen--split a huge old Oak tree right down the middle. It's still standing there, stripped of most of its bark, a slit in the center, letting light through. Another tree next to it lost all its bark on one side. There are splinters and fragments all over the yard, but no big branches or pieces of the trunk fell at all, no chunks or slabs of bark--its as if the Looney Tunes' Tasmanian Devil roared by, or a sudden plague of locusts. Now you see it, now you don't. Pow! The trees stand naked and ashamed.

The power went out all over the neighborhood at the exact moment of the strike--a bright flash, a sizzle, and a pop--then all was dark. I prayed my new computer was safe. I hoped I'd have refrigeration again before my milk spoiled. Since our well pump is electric, I couldn't wash dishes or laundry or even flush my toilet more than once. I couldn't work (or dawdle) on my computer, I couldn't listen to radio or use the phone. So, I lit candles in my living room and did puzzles with my four year old son. He said the candles were pretty and was more excited than usual at finding where each puzzle piece exactly fit.

Later, while I sat with my legs tucked under me, reading on the couch where the light was strongest, everything turned on, again. I did take a moment--a long one--to notice the change, but I did jump up, then and check my email to see what I had missed while the world went on and my neighborhood slept. I had missed nothing. But all afternoon and into the evening, cars pulled off and stopped along my street and people stared, dumbstruck at the naked trees.

Stopping By Woods

A poet could say many things

About a white wood;

I can only say

That I brought my heart here

And stepped mildly aside

There is a wound that only

A white wood understands,

With its eternal memory

Of bark and leaf and forest floor

Of the man and his dog

Who are back again,

Standing in the same place

But finding it new

More Qube Stuff

My new blog at Qube Books has been filling my writing time, and this blog has fallen by the wayside. I plan to change that by finding more writing time. In the mean time, I am enjoying thinking and writing about Qube questions. If you read the blog or are interested in the idea behind it, you can join the qube books mailing list by emailing info@pencil-sharp.com

Birthday Boy

Ethan turned four, yesterday. I asked him, "How old are you?"

"I'm three years old," he said.

"Nope. It's your birthday today. That makes you four years old." He giggled and looked at me sideways, the way he does when he can't figure out if I'm serious or pulling his leg.

"Silly mommy. I'm three years old," he said.

.......

Four years and eight months ago, a faint pink line announced him to me. He was a tiny parasite, with a beating heart; I was his host. I began talking to him when no one was around, as I had to each child before--beginning with the first, unwelcome one, who took root in my immature womb. I held the secret close, then, because I was afraid; but I let it sink deep into me and fill me with wonder.

I held the secret of Ethan, too. I talked to him, let him sink in and waited for the wonder. I wasn't ready. I wasn't well. I was afraid.

.......

His birth was a miracle, for the ordinary reason of new and tender life. His perfect lungs gulped up the air of our world--air polluted by cruelty and want, and made pure through love and beauty. He cried, and he purified the room with his trembling wails.

It was a miracle, too, because a holy stillness caught and held me, and I labored without pain. I fell silent, listened and waited for the wonder.

.......

"I'm three years old" is a phrase of definition and identity, which my son has applied to himself for a whole year--as long as he remembers. Yesterday, I took that away and gave him a new tag to wear. Four years ago, he had already re-named me by the time I blessed his wet head with my lips.

Ethan talked to his grandmother today. I held the phone to his ear and kissed his forehead. He said, "Hi Grandma. I'm four years old."

Ear Drums and Intuition

I've had a cough for a month now, and three days ago I coughed forcefully enough to burst my ear drum. It isn't really painful, but I've lost a great amount of hearing in that ear. The Dr. says it should come back, as the perforation heals, but healing may take several months. The biggest inconvenience (other than being deaf in one ear) is that I get episodes of vertigo and nausea; on the other hand, it is nice to hear all my boys' crying and fighting at a muted level. I'm naturally keeping my voice down, too, because it is much louder to me now, inside my head. My neighbor put shock collars on his dogs to keep them from running into my yard or the street; my ruptured ear drum is my shock collar--if I raise my voice above a quiet, controlled tone, I pay for it. I think every frazzled mother should try it...

I've been reading a paper by Hubert Dreyfus, and it has me thinking about intuition. What is it? Where does it come from? Can it be developed or stifled? And what, if anything, does it have to do with the creative process? Any thoughts on this would be appreciated.

Genius Insomniac

I believe this is the first time I have ever posted, just to post. So, if you don't like bloggers who ramble, hit the back button in your web browser, NOW.

So I'll tell you what's up with me. Over the past few weeks I have unintentionally developed a new habit, in place of some old ones. Insomnia! And, unfortunately, it has nothing to do with coffee or exercise or medication. Here's what's been happening: every night, no matter what time I go to bed, I sleep fitfully and wake at 5:00 A.M. My alarm is set to scream at me around 7, so when I wake, I lie in bed and try to go back to sleep. But I can't. I can't stop thinking. My brain fixes on a problem or a definition and I can't stop thinking it through, over and over, until I'm sure I've exhausted all possibilities and have left nothing out. Then I obsessively start the whole process, again. What makes this interesting is that I usually do fall into a sort of "wakeful sleep", and that really messes with my perceptions.

This morning, I was tossing around a philosophical theory, which I am sure is the key to the universe. It precisely and comprehensively explains the human predicament and much, much more. I do so wish I could remember what it was...I can tell you, though, that it was a sound theory; I tested it from every possible angle and against every possible situation--and it held like super glue.

My experience put me in mind of a Simpsons episode in which Homer asks God to tell him the meaning of life. God hesitates, but Homer insists that "after death" is too long to wait (even though God has just revealed that as six months). So, God caves in:

"Oh, ok... The meaning of life is..."

Cut to commercial. End of show.

Later this morning, I asked Scott if we had any aspirin (my arm was hurting from not sleeping on it). He started talking about Aspirin being a generic name, like Kleenex or Coke (in the South). What he said was: "Aspirin is the same as Kleenex and Coke".

Since I was about to give a logic lesson to Marshall, and I like to amuse him, I said:

Aspirin = Kleenex
Aspirin = Coke
Therefore, Kleenex = Coke
Kleenex is full of snot
Therefore, Coke is full of snot

Marshall thought this was funny; Scott sort of rolled his eyes.

I'll bet that was the grand theory I worked out, this morning.

Any tips on sleeping? Or on the meaning of life?

Qube Blog

If you haven't noticed yet, I've added a link to Qube Blog, which is a project I've been asked to help out with. I think the idea is eventually to publish a series of coffee-table style books, featuring thought provoking questions paired with high-quality images, intended to generate interesting and important discussion in social settings. My job is to see how well the ideas discuss. I'm not sure a blog works best, because the discussion gets a bit long for the narrow column format.

Consider this your personal invitation to participate in the discussion (so I don't look like an idiot talking to myself) and also a request for feedback on the blog (what you like or don't; what works or doesn't). Feel free to email me re: Qube Blog at: qubeblog[at]gmail[dot]com.

Thanks. I Hope everyone is well. I've been sick since last Wednesday (yup. I was sick on Thanksgiving and couldn't smell or taste the turkey). I'm feeling somewhat better today, after sleeping fourteen hours yesterday, but I'm still not sure if I'm actually recovering or if the three cups of coffee I had this morning are masking the symptoms.

Peace.

Rain Baby

Tomorrow Eliot will be seven. He was born six weeks premature, so seven years ago to this moment, I had no idea he was about to arrive. I imagine myself napping on our old, wood and wicker couch or staring out the enormous picture window behind it at city houses all in rows, and city children hanging lazily on porches and playing in the street. I remember rain, and maybe there was rain—as is common in St. Louis in November. But rain is almost all I remember that year.

In my thoughts of childhood, I am perpetually seven. I was seven when I hugged the white house on 8th Avenue and said goodbye to hay fields and country roads; to Johnny Height and Mindy Plumpton, whose straight brown pigtails I both adored and envied. I said hello to sidewalks, green lawns and neat suburban blocks. My heart widened that year. I sat on my swing set in the dark and told God a great secret-- I would love Him forever. I would love people, too; the hurt ones, the lonely ones. This was the great awakening of my heart to inner dialogue and large questions. Also that year, I split open my chin to the bone, while racing bikes with my brother. For weeks afterward, I could walk past Grace Bible Church and see my blood dripped all over the stony sidewalk. Once, I squatted near it and covered the brown dots with my hand. I wished until my stomach hurt that I could go back, and not glance sideways at my brother's tire. At first when I looked at the blood, my stomach always churned like that, but later, as the story spread, I grew sort of proud of it. That’s my blood there on the sidewalk; that’s a piece of me. It seemed like years before the rain finally washed away the last spatter but when it was gone, I knew I had lost something. That year I wrote my first poem.

I wrote a letter to Marshall the year he turned seven. I was away in England for ten weeks, and I wanted to tell him about being seven. Micah turned five while I was gone, and Eliot was just one and a half. I have a photograph of him: blond curls piled high on his head and a bottle hanging from his smirking mouth. His eyes are clear blue and as often as I’ve tried to find him in that picture, I can’t. This child isn’t in my memory. I wasn't there. It was only ten weeks, and I needed to go. Still, I imagine a churning hole of sadness in his middle, as my memory faded like blood stains on the sidewalk.

Tonight, I lay down on Eliot’s bed to kiss him and tuck him in. He asked me to sing The Meatball Song, so I laughed and started in,

"On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese;
I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed."

He sang along with me until we came to the last line. He was quiet while I sang,

"It rolled down the sidewalk and under a bush
And then my poor meatball was nothing but mush!"

“That is such a sad song,” he said. “Do you know what I would do? I would run and catch the meatball and clean all the dirt off it and then I would put it back on my spaghetti.”

He asked me why the person in the song didn’t do that and then he asked me why anyone would write such a sad song and call it funny. I laid my head on the pillow next to him and smiled as he sang his very own continuation of The Meatball Song, which finds the meatball “pulling up its sleeves”, making its way back into the house and “onto the plate”, and wraps up neatly with everyone having a “happy day”.

It must have been a healing rain that November and it must have been enough, because Eliot is all flowers and sunshine.

And More...

Ah, Michigan!

To Will One Thing

"...let us suppose a man wanted... a blue world. He would have no cause to complain of the slightness or swiftness of his task; he might toil for a long time at the transformation; he could work away (in every sense) until all was blue. He could have heroic adventures; the putting of the last touches to a blue tiger. He could have fairy dreams; the dawn of a blue moon. ...If he altered a blade of grass to his favourite colour every day, he would get on slowly. But if he altered his favourite colour every day, he would not get on at all. If, after reading a fresh philosopher, he started to paint everything red or yellow, his work would be thrown away: there would be nothing to show except a few blue tigers walking about, specimens of his early bad manner."
-G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

I tend to think steadfastness or single-mindedness is useless, unless it finds a proper object. There are unworthy pursuits: for example, painting the world blue. Chesterton (elsewhere in Orthodoxy) seems to suggest it is better for me to pursue a path unswervingly, even though I am not sure it is right, than to waver and swoon around the truth, unable to start out in any direction, for fear that new evidence or tesitmony may arise to inform my decision. Of course, it is better to do something than to do nothing. But is it better to do something in which you are misguided than to do nothing? Better to steadfastly paint blades of grass blue, than to waffle and back-track and re-direct, following evidence in pursuit of truth (and making a big, colorful mess, in the process)?

I guess it was two years ago that I read Soren Kierkegaard's "Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing". I thought then as I do now, that in it, there is an answer to this question:

"So let us, then...speak about this sentence: PURITY OF HEART IS TO WILL ONE THING as we base our meditation on the Apostle James’ words in his Epistle, Chapter 4, verse 8:

"Draw nigh to God and he will draw nigh to you. Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts ye double-minded." For only the pure in heart can see God, and therefore, draw nigh to Him...

Let us...come to an agreement on an understanding of this verse, and on what the apostolic word of admonition "purify your hearts ye double-minded" is condemning, namely, double-mindedness.

To will only one thing: but will this not inevitably become a long-drawn-out talk? If one should consider this matter properly must he not first consider, one by one, each goal in life that a man could conceivably set up for himself, mentioning separately all of the many things that a man might will? And not only this; since each of these considerations readily becomes too abstract in character, is he not obliged as the next step to attempt to will, one after the other, each of these goals in order to find out what is the single thing he is to will, if it is a matter of willing only one thing? Yes, if someone should begin in this fashion, then he would never come to an end. Or more accurately, how could he ever arrive at the end since at the outset he took the wrong way and then continued to go on further and further along this false way? It is only by a painful route that this way leads to the Good, namely, when the wanderer turns around and goes back. For as the Good is only a single thing, so all ways lead to the Good, even the false ones: when the repentant one follows the same way back.

...Instead of wasting many moments on naming the vast multitude of goals or squandering life’s costly years in personal experiments upon them, can the talk do as the life ought to do -- with a commendable brevity stick to the point?

In a certain sense nothing can be spoken of so briefly as the Good, when it is well described. For the Good without condition and without qualification, without preface and without compromise is, absolutely the only thing that a man may and should will, and is only one thing. ...The way this one thing is willed is not such that: one man wills one thing but that which he wills is not the Good; another wills one thing nor is what he wills the Good; a third wills one thing and what he wills is the Good. No, it is not done in that way. The person who wills one thing that is not the Good, he does not truly will one thing. It is a delusion, an illusion, a deception, a self-deception that he wills only one thing. For in his innermost being he is, he is bound to be, double-minded. Therefore the Apostle says, "Purify your hearts ye double-minded," that is, purify your hearts of double-mindedness; in other words, let your heart in truth will only one thing, for therein is the heart’s purity.

And again it is of this same purity of heart that the Apostle is speaking when he says, "If someone lacks wisdom, then let him pray... but in faith, not like a double-minded man" (James 1:5,6, 8). For purity of heart is the very wisdom that is acquired through prayer. A man of prayer does not pore over learned books for he is the wise man "whose eyes are opened" -- when he kneels down (Numbers 24:16).

In a word, then, there is a man whose mind remains piously ignorant of the multitude of things, for the Good is one thing.

Blogger Remorse and Other Fun Things

Apparently, Thursday afternoons aren't the best time to think. I re-read my post this morning, and found that I completely disagree with it. Well, not completely, but significantly.

I'm tired of blogging. So what are all you lovely readers up to? What's on your mind? Take over my blog. I welcome you. I'm begging you.

I came home the other day to find my kitchen, newly-floored dining room, and newly-carpeted living room covered in two inches of standing water. My washing machine broke while I was out (yes, I left it running) and just kept pumping out the water, until I came home, waded barefoot through the pool, and turned off the machine. The water seeped under the wall, into the boys' bedroom, too, and it looks as though we'll need to replace the carpet.

I've got most of Marshall's curriculum, now, but I haven't been able to look at it in too much detail; I've been swamped. Ha, ha.

I can't wait to learn latin, though. And to diagram sentences, again. OOOOHHHH. I don't believe I've ever enjoyed anything more. Sentence diagramming may be the one thing I was born to do.

Thoughts on a Thursday Afternoon

Maybe heaven is having both the freedom and the will to do that thing which your soul craves; the thing that crouches, like a word on the tip of your tongue; surges, like the ocean swell; fights, like a dog against a chain. Desire for it can be restrained but never vanquished. You neglect it for the sake of duty or for lack of time or out of fear, but it is the one thing you know is true, without doubt or demonstration.

It approaches each of us differently, and as a result we are forever misnaming it. It is Truth, but goes far beyond any account of the facts; It is Beauty, but is immaterial and unadorned; It is Love, but it is impartial. It is the wedding of what you long to be with that which you long to do; of what you desire to give with that which you desire to receive. Heaven is to act without self-thought and yet be satisfied; to abandon all else for the sake of one passion, and find that it is the road to everyone and everything else. It is exactly what you were made for.

We could call this passion, "God", and say that we find final purpose in "worship of God", and that would be true, though perhaps misleading. This suggests a uniform human experience of it, and leads us to think we may lose ourselves in God, as masses before a powerful orator, or a man before the muse. When you throw yourself into God, you journey from the collective to the individual, from the vague to the specific, not the other way around. God has specially named each one of us, and heaven will be, at last, finding out that name.

Dog Days

I'm sitting in the family room, sipping tea, listening to a steady rain and blessing its Sender for the seeping, pooling way it cools the earth. The house is dark and I've left off all the lights so I can feel the rain work. My three-year-old son is running up the driveway in his underwear, puddles splashing at his knees and streams of rain wetting the curls on his head. Another day I might stop him, but today I'll welcome wet clothes and muddy feet.

Yesterday the heat index topped off at 106 degrees. I don't know for how many days the sweat has beaded above my lips and at my hairline, and run down the middle of my back, but the time has been sufficiently long to make me forget that t-shirts aren't perpetually damp and clinging and that I sometimes like to wear my hair down.

I didn't think we'd need air-conditioning in Michigan, after living in stifling St. Louis heat for six years. I also thought that experiencing and changing with the seasons was a noble goal or at least a grand idea. Two days ago I spent the better part of the day in my air-conditioned car. I called myself a wimp and a traitor, but I knew I needed to get out of the heat. I had already yelled at my kids and thrown a pile of papers on the floor and chucked a plastic cup at my kitchen counter, and used a few choice words without choosing to. I was just getting started on the "I hate everything/nobody likes me/I just want to die" stage when I realized I had to get out. So that's it. I am weak. But I believe concession is the wiser course than the one which crashes and burns.

And, today, the lovely rain. I'm looking around with eyes which seemed open before but must have been closed. I'm seeing my front garden, over-grown with weeds, my bookcases which want dusting, and I'm trying to remember where I have been these past weeks. The best that I can come up with, is that I was waiting out the heat, the way one waits out the flu or the way a woman in labor waits out the pain. Now that it is over, I can begin to move.

The Fruit of our Labor

Trinitas Classical School is now online! Check out our website

Ahem.

Yeah, so my little experiment didn't work out so well. But I get to have another go at it, as Scott is in Florida this week. It's also the last week of school for the boys, so it's my last chance to get everything in order before they descend on me for the summer. Anyone have any good organization tips for a scatter-brained woman living in a too-small house with a husband and four sons?

Metamorphosis

Reading way too many books. Must stop.
Must clean toilets.
Must create space on kitchen counter to assemble and cut one peanut butter sandwich (make required number one at a time).
Must email friends.
Must find missing school papers before last day.
Must find missing library books before last day.
Must brave laundry piles to find Eliot's gym-shirt (close eyes and dive).
Must grocery shop (taco bell doesn't count).(Taco Boy also doesn't count- in spite of their "wet burrito" menu- mmmm.)
Must take shower (insert this item before item reading, must grocery shop).
Must garden.
Must take long walk.
Must not substitute for true and deserved satisfaction that false sense of accomplishment achieved by reading books on any or all of these subjects.
Reading way too many books. Must stop.

This is my "To Do" list for the next few days. Scott left this morning for St. Louis and won't return until Friday evening. I have a secret plan while he is gone and I'm letting you all in on it: I'm going to pretend to be a homemaker or housewife or executive familias or whatever they're calling it these days, instead of the scholar/researcher/philosopher/writer/VIP that I really am.
In fact, I am going to do more than pretend, seeing that while I am actively engaged performing the duties and rites of a homemaker, I will in fact be creating an environment which could, under certain circumstances, be called home; and thus, I will BE, in fact, a homemaker. The benefits of this, I expect to be both profound and multitudinous, the chief of these being that I will stop pulling out fistfulls of hair and screaming; I will be able think clearly again; I will be able to walk on nothing but the floor, all the way to my bed. Maybe the kids will even come back from the neighbors' house (Add to above list: call neighbor and remind kids not to forget toothbrushes.)
When all is complete, and I am a sane, clean woman in a clean and sane house, I will pour myself a glass of pinot noir, sit leisurely on my sofa, and admire my shiny new "homemaker" badge (I lost the first one ages ago, and haven't been able to convince any self-respecting institution to issue me one, since). I'll carefully apply a natural clay face mask, and paint my toe-nails pink. And I know just the book I'm going to read.