Thursday Thirteen

**note - just to let you know how messed up I am this week, I wrote this whole post thinking today was Thursday and it's only Wednesday!**

It's been one of those weeks. The holiday weekend was great, but it has left me feeling like I'm dead last in the race of life. I just can't seem to get caught up. My brain is really too tired to do Poetry Thursday today, so I'm going to "creatively borrow" an idea from my blogger friend Amber and make a Thursday Thirteen list.

So here is my thirteen favorite things to do with my free time:

1. READ (duh) Anything I can get my hands on. Magazines, the Newspaper, the Internet, my Bible and yes, my favorite - a great work of fiction. It doesn't have to be incredibly intelligent, I've been known to dabble in the Chick Lit genre, but it MUST, with a capital M-U-S-T have a good story.

2. BLOG (double duh) Including reading blogs. I've been so inspired and motivated by the great writers and thinkers out there. The past few months I've tried things I never would have had the courage to attempt if it weren't for my new found blogging friends.

3. Watch movies. Love action/thrillers and comedies. Oh yeah, and I'm a sucker for a period romance. (Love, love any of the Jane Austin books to movies.)

4. Watch my kids when they think I'm not looking. It's such a window to their little souls. I love seeing my kids serve and encourage others - it does my heart good to know they actually know how to put the needs of others before their own (even if they don't practice it in the walls of our house every day!)

5. Going on real dates with my husband. Something we don't get to do very often, but it's always a treat.

6. Going to a bookstore or library, just to browse. I could do this for hours at a time, and I've been known to do just that!

7. Go to the downtown artists market in Portland. My dad took me to this Portland tradition almost every weekend when I was a girl. His office was near by and we'd go get lunch at the market and wander the stalls and then go back to his office so he could work for awhile. Unlike my very restless younger sister, I was content to sit and read while he worked. They were wonderful outings as a young girl and I still love to visit the market.

8. I love to make things - crafty things. I'm not the greatest artist in the world, but I like to try to copy things I see and like. A few years ago I saw wine glass charms for sale in a magazine and thought to myself, "I can make those for much cheaper." This sent me on a quest for the supplies and just the right design long before these things were in every discount store around. I like to knit (though I'm still just working on scarves), love to make beaded jewelry and try to scrapbook (but I'm years behind on the pictures). Visiting Swirly's site, I even tried my hand at collaging this year. I'm also working on improving my photography skills having been inspired by the incredible pictures I see on some blogs out there.

9. Go antiquing. I collect milk glass and love to go on hunts in my local antique stores for new pieces. I love imagining the history behind these objects - what have they seen through their history?

10. Hang out with good friends. The kind that you can just "be" with and don't have to put on any masks of politeness or pretention. Many people would say because of the work I do and the ways I serve at the church that I'm a people person but often, I'd rather be home by myself or with just the family.

11. Work. I know that sounds weird. I'm actually enjoying many of the projects I'm working on right now as they are stretching me in ways I hadn't imagined. I'm the kind of person who does better in life if I have a project and I tend to function better if I'm busy as opposed to having too loose of a schedule.

12. Teach. I get the opportunity every once in awile to teach our women's group at church (about 80 women) and I just love the time that goes into preparing for speaking in public. I love to find the delicate and mysterious threads that link our physical, emotional and spiritual well-being and share truths about what God really thinks of us. (That he loves us as a parent loves a child - knowing we will blow it, but walking with us, supporting us, loving us all the same.) If I'm going to be honest, I also like the attention I get when I teach. It's not so much that I want people to look at me and say, "Wow! She's really smart." (OK that's nice though . . .) But what I really want is for people to say, "Wow! She's really studied this issue and knows what she's talking about." I have often dreamed of becoming an expert in some area so that when the local news needed and expert in some obscure area of information, they would come knocking on my door and say, "Ms. G., as a local expert in ______________, could you please comment on _______________."

13. Travel. I love to travel but don't get much chance to do it at this point in my life. I love it because each trip is like a story waiting to be written. A great adventure, with me as one of the main characters. Some of my favorite (and sadly, only) trips have been to Boston, MA; York, England; Victoria, B.C.; Nashville, TN; and Southern California.

I'd love to read your favorite thirteen so feel free to share yours and let me know where to find your blog!

Sunday Scribbling - First Love

Evelyn lay on the bed feeling the air move across her body from the gentle circles of the ceiling fan above her. She watched their lazy chase and the pale shadows circling the ceiling. The June morning was unusually warm and the heat moved through the glass of the bedroom window even through the closed blinds. Evelyn could feel the texture of the wedding ring quilt underneath her as she lay in her bra and slip on the bed. It was the one that her Aunt Grace had lovingly sewn for her with all of her favorite colors. There were pale pink roses on a sage green background, white lilies of the valley against rose colored scallops and her favorite, pale blue hydrangeas against a deep ivory background with tiny lavender dots in between the repeating patterns.

She should get up. The dull ache behind her eyes kept her on the bed a few more minutes. It would be a busy day and she would need the rest. Her dress hung over the side of the closet door, ready for her to put on. The guests would be waiting at the church. Evelyn closed her eyes and smiled. The church was going to be so beautiful. There would be roses, white ones to go with the deep blue hydrangeas that her friend Carol had graciously offered from her garden. There were candles, not tapers – they seemed too pretentious for this afternoon affair, but votives, tucked in arrangements of fresh ivy would offer extra bits of light in the old church. The stained glass windows behind the alter would be beautiful today in the afternoon sun. We won’t need the candles, thought Evelyn, but they’ll add a nice touch. They will reflect the light of our love, she thought with a wistful smile.

Johnny had been wonderful. Not like most men when it came to planning events. He talked for hours about this day with Evelyn. He helped choose the flowers and the music and helped whittle the guest list down to the friends and family they most wanted to be here. Johnny was great with details and he had done so much to help get them ready for this day. It was so like him. Evelyn smiled again remembering the night they had danced to song after song as they listened to CDs looking for just the right song to play on this day. How many men would care about that little detail so much?

Evelyn slipped the dress over her shoulders. The silk felt cool against her warm skin and she reached for the zipper at the base of her hip and slid it up under her left arm. She stepped in front of her vanity and arranged the delicate pillbox hat on her head. It had been her grandmother’s and she had always loved it’s delicate shape and the bit of polka-dotted netting that hung down just to the top of her lip. She slid a few bobby pins into her dark brown curls that were showing just a tiny bit of frizz with the late spring humidity. Smoothing the loose hairs and then running her hands down the sides of her dress over her hips and skirt she looked at herself in the mirror. Ready, she thought. Ready.

The ride to the church was quick. In a small town, you’re never too far from anywhere. Outside the church her Uncle Ed was waiting for her. A quick peck on the cheek from him and a pat on the hand and he was pulling her gently through the door of the church. This was it. The day she and Johnny had planned for. As he escorted her down the aisle, she smiled and nodded to as many friends and family she could see. They all looked at her with that loving look with their heads cocked to the side, tears in their eyes as she passed. And then she saw him.

Looking at the front of the sanctuary, she felt her breath sucked out from within her by some invisible force. He was so handsome today. He had such a rugged and outdoorsy style about him, she could hardly ever get him to dress up. Jeans and tshirts were his uniform, but there he was, in a gorgeous new black suit with a tie that matched the deep blue color of the hydrangeas surrounding him. She felt the tears start at the corners of her eyes and was grateful for the netting that could camouflage them for now. She knew that soon, they would escape the boarders of her eyelashes and there would be no hiding the depth of emotion she felt today. As they crossed the threshold of the aisle to the platform, Evelyn’s uncle gave her arm a squeeze and gently let go. She looked lovingly at him and mouthed the words, “Thank you” to him.

She took the steps up to the podium smiling at the pastor as he nodded his head to her and then, she knew it wasn’t quite the right etiquette, but she just couldn’t help herself. She reached out her hand and gently touched Johnny’s cheek. Smooth and soft, but cold. She traced the line of his chin and gently touched the knot of the tie. “You look wonderful, my love. My first and my one true love.”

She moved away from the coffin and took her seat in the front pew. The smell of roses, the flicker of candlelight and the brilliant light from the stained glass windows filled the church. “Yes Johnny, we did good planning this day. Everything looks lovely.” She eased herself into the pew as the first few notes of their song began to play.

Poetry Thursday

This week's prompt was to find one line of poetry that inspires. I guess the line that jumps out the most to me as a writer and a reader is, "for life's not a paragraph". I know many of my blog friends would agree, a paragraph would never be enough life!

since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

ee cummings (1984-1962)

Blessings to you all!

Burning the midnight oil

Literally. It's 12:36 a.m. and I can't believe that I just spent 4.5 hours on one assignment for my class that I'm taking for ENRICHMENT! I'm such a freak! Why can't I just do the basic? Now I've had 4 late nights in a row and I can feel my body and brain screaming, "Why are you such a freakin' perfectionist? Who cares if you don't have the best project in this class? You're not even getting graded on it!" Sometimes I wish I had a slacker switch that I could turn on and off at will.

Sorry - nothing really intelligent to share tonight - the brain cells are collapsing in on themseves with exhaustion. (Proof of this - I've had to retype about every third word of this post. The fingers and the brain are revolting. "Stop the madness!" they cry.)

I still have tomorrow and Thursday so please be patient and stop back by my blog on the weekend. I'm sure I'll have some more positive and sunnier comments to share by then.
Good night all!

Sunday Scribbling - Three Wishes

As I sit here tonight after an exhausing two days of strategy and planning meetings for my work, I could wish for the simplest of things. A good night's sleep in my own bed to make up for the lousy one last night in the creaky twin bed with the faux wood headboard that banged against the wall every time I moved. I could wish for a chilled glass of chardonnay to wind down my brain that is still going ninety miles an hour from the deep discussions about the poorest of the poor, and the hopeless situations in this world, and the monumental tasks of showing these people that we really do care as well as moving those around us to action. I could wish that all the questions brought up this weekend would be magically answered and the group of thirty people I spent the weekend with could stop talking, and start DOING the work. Ahhh - tonight that is what I would wish for. But then I would wake up in the morning and . . .

WAIT! What have I done? I wasted one of my wishes on a glass of wine? On a good night's sleep? Wait. Hold on. Rewind. Let me think about this for a minute. Only three wishes? I'd keep that last one, but the first two I would chnage, I'm sure. In the light of day, with less tired bones and a clear head, I'm sure I would be wiser in my first two choices. I think I would selfishly wish two things for myself. I know - not very "Christian" of me, but I think I have a better pulse on what I would need than what others would need.

First, I wish that I could joyfully and cheerfully give without expecting in return. Give compliments, give love, give compassion, give money, give my time, give my possessions, give my opinion, give my heart and soul. Without expectation and sans strings - visible or not. I wish I could do this with a pure heart and without wondering, "Who is going to give to me?"

Then, I wish that I could turn off the part of me that says, "You will never be able to do that - you are too flawed, too shallow, too needy and too selfish." I wish that part of me would take a permanent vacation. The mobster kind. Like taking that attitude and filling it's boots with cement mix and dropping it into the river, kind of vacation and finding the freedom from the "hit" out on my soul. Freedom to be who I believe God wants me to be.

Not very sexy or lottery-esque but I think I'd take those wishes over good chardonnay and great sleep any day.

Read more Sunday Scribblings here.

Poetry Thursday

Well, I followed prompt and carted my kids to Barnes & Noble's poetry section today. (They are out of school for conferences today and tomorrow.) A very generous gift card from my lovely ladies at Bible Study was burning a hole in my pocket so I took the plunge and bought, "Poem A Day - 366 poems old and new" so that I'd have ready amunition to participate in Poetry Thursdays.

So here is the poem on the page marked "May 18". Fitting as I'm writing from the suburbs of Portland, Oregon - the City of Roses. I love the capital letters in this poem - giving seeming importance to everyday things. Perhaps this is the message, the importance is in the ordinary things like bread and books and roses as well as the abstract ideas of paradise, sovereignty and treasure.

from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur
translated by Edward Fitzgerald (March 31, 1809 - June 14, 1883)

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!" - think some:
Others - "How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of distant Drum!

Look to the Rose that blows about u s - "Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
"At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
"Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two - is gone.

Signs of Summer

Baseball.














Sunbathing.














The last tulips.














Flowers wilting in the heat of the day.
Kids counting down until the last day of school.
Teacher husbands counting down to the last day of school.
Roses peeking red and purple and pink from the green buds.
The whir of the blender as it mixes smoothies.
Walks in the park.
Squirt guns.
Fun.

Tempting Fate

I should have known better. My very supersitious mother would have said I asked for this. At a graduation party this weekend for my nephew and his lovely wife I was visiting with my sister-in-law and saying how healthy we had all been this winter. I knew I was taking a risk by saying it out loud, but hey - it's May. The winter germs have all flown north for the summer, haven't they? Even my few taps on the laminate chair for luck could not prevent the inevitable.

So here I am, surrounded by a pile of used powder blue tissues, a to-do list with only a few things checked off, a large glass of icewater and a headache that feels like it's going to split my face in half. I've tried to be strong - I did a little work today from home, feeling guilty about the projects that are waiting. Anything that requires real brain-power to accomplish just seems so overwhelming. I cleaned the kitchen and even threw some laundry in. But that's about it. After each activity, I've needed at least an hour on the couch to rest from it. Even as I type this, it feels like my head weighs about 25 pounds heavier than it should and feels like it is teetering dangerously on my head, ready to loll to the right or left at any moment and take out my glass of water on my right or the growing pile of papers to be filed on my left.

[Pause. Blow nose in powder blue tissue. Wash hands with anti-bacterial soap to try not to let germs jump from hands to computer keyboard.]

I can't really complain. Like I said, we've had an incredibly healthy year compared to many of our friends and in the grand scheme of life, I should take this as a gift. An opportunity to slow down. A chance to rest. Something I wanted, right? So why is it so hard to do that?

Here's my motivation to get better: It's supposed to be 80 degrees on Mother's Day! Woohoo! Excuse me, need to grab another tissue . . .

Sunday Scribbling

Shoes

Shoe buying for me as a kid was a traumatic and uncomfortable process. I had such narrow feet (tripple A) that there were rarely any of the cool shoes in my sizes. It was an exercise in disappointment all they way into my adult years. I'd find a cute pair of shoes on the rack only to try them on and have them literally fall off my feet. My mom should have bought stock in Stride Rite and while their syles have improved, back in the day the options for kids with narrow feet were sparse.

With the birth of my kids came a whole new era of shoe buying. The were born with lovely, chubby little feet and I have so enjoyed over the years being able to buy them any pair of shoes that caught my eye. No inserts or odd sizes required. Just wonderfully, normal, average-sized feet. The picture is of my favorites of their first shoes. The little cream colored Mary-Janes were for a wedding we attended four weeks after the birth of my daughter. She wore an absolutely beautiful dress with cream colored eyelet lace peeking out from a pastel floral dress. It was such a joy to find these perfect little shoes for the outfit. She wore little cream colored socks with lace trim around the cuffs and she looked like a doll on the shelf of a collectors showcase.

The birth of my children also ushered in a new phase of shoe buying for myself. My feet grew a half size with each child and suddenly expanded to a normal width. Gone were the days of paying premium prices for specialy sized pumps. I could now buy tennis shoes at a discount department store instead of the high end athletic stores. It was an unexpected but very welcome blessing. And now, my little baby that wore the beautiful cream colored shoes, wears the same size shoe I do! For now, I have the blessing of a doubled shoe collection to choose from!

Grateful Friday

Can't remember where I saw this, but I know a few bloggers have this tradition and, since I've been a lazy blogger this week . . .

Things I'm thankful for:
- a husband who still thinks I'm hot in spite of the extra lbs I've put on in the past 16 years
- kids that don't sass me too much and know how to make me laugh
- a good night's sleep
- stealing time to read good blogs and good books
- a blooming garden
- payday and filling the fridge and cupboards with yummy food
- a warm and cozy home that has been used for entertaining multiple times in the past two weeks (family dinners, poker nights, dinners with friends)
- great neighbors
- cups of hot tea in the morning!

Have a great weekend all!

Sunday Scibblings - Living

The prompt for Sunday Scribblings was Why I Live Where I Live. I could tell you of my wonderful multi-ethnic, multi-generational neighborhood filled with loving friends and people who are never too busy to give us a hand with big projects, share their garden bounties or just stand and joke with us in the street. I could tell you about the process that brought us to this residential paradise and how two years ago, when we were thinking about moving, we found a way to stay and have not regretted that decision once. But, another story is clawing at my heart this weekend, and I just can’t rest until it is shared. It is the story of the Night Commuters of Uganda. Children forced to leave their homes each night for fear of attack from brutal rebel soldiers. If the story moves you, I encourage you to visit one of the websites I list at the end where you can take action and make your voice heard.


The rocks in the road search for the soft spots on her feet to cut into the skin. “Ha!” her feet seem to mock the craggy rocks, “There are no more soft spots here!” Beatrice lifts her feet and sees the small clouds of dust in the twilight each time she puts her bare foot back down upon the road. Her feet are calloused and tough and the toes are large and muscular. Her feet are her freedom and Beatrice studies them each night as she walks.

Her brothers William and Joseph walk beside her. Since her parents were killed by the rebels, Beatrice has watched over them closely. During the day they work together to collect twigs of just the right size for their grandmother to make brooms that they will sell in the village and the nearby camp. Compared to others, Beatrice and her brothers are fortunate. Their grandmother is able to provide enough for them to eat each day and keeps a fierce eye out for those in their Village that would take advantage of the young children. Nights are a different story. Grandmother is no match for the rebel soldiers that will storm the camp like a swarm of unwelcome bees. The soldiers come for the children and anyone who protests their actions, will quickly be silenced by a rebel machine gun if their lucky. The unfortunate ones are beaten, tortured, maimed and left to suffer with the signature of evil men with no boundaries in their desire to inflict their anger and resentment on the poor villagers. The war is a fog of evil that penetrates men’s hearts and erases their memories of love and peace. How else could they do what they do?

Beatrice raises her head as she hears a rumbling in the distance. She quickly motions William and Joseph to her side with a look of her deep brown eyes and a wave of her hand. They move to the edges of the road, ready to jump deep into the brush and burrow deep to avoid the rebel soldiers that might be in the approaching jeep. With a cautious eye, she watches as the jeep grows closer. It drives at an even, slow pace. Not the jerky fast, then slow way that the rebels do as they harass the evening walkers. Beatrice watches with cautious curiosity as the jeep passes. Inside she sees the most amazing sight. A light skinned woman! Why would anyone who is not from Uganda, come here?

Walking faster now, Beatrice motions for William and Joseph to keep up. They are close to the safe place now. Less than a mile of their four mile walk left. The sky is getting darker and it is better to arrive before full darkness. The guards are much less grumpy if you get there before full dark. As the children arrive at the gutted school at the edges of the city, piles of garbage and debris are scattered in the road. Beatrice wrinkles her nose at the smell that the heat of the day has left behind. Though they are tired from their day of work and the walk, Beatrice and her brothers jog towards the large wire fence that surrounds the school’s play yard. They join other children waiting in line to enter. The Ugandan Soldiers look official in their uniforms and little William salutes them as he walks through the gate. The soldiers look sadly at him and do not smile. Instead their eyes move quickly to watch the distance and the edges of the road for the rebel soldiers who sometimes snatch children just as they are on the boarders of the safety of the school yard.

Each night Beatrice and her brothers come here. They are safer here than in the village so this is where they sleep. Before laying their burlap sacks on the cement and settling in for the night, Beatrice sees the woman from the jeep again. She is on the outside of the fence with a man with a machine on his shoulders that has a light shining from it. In the woman’s hand is a stick with a puffy top. She is walking around the perimeter of the fence calling children to her and talking with them. She has another woman with her. A woman dressed in beautiful African robes and a headdress. Beatrice feels a strange sensation as she looks at her. A tightness in her chest and a pain behind her eyes seem to spread through her like water spilled onto a patch of cracked dessert sand. The women and the man with the machine on his shoulder come closer and wave Beatrice over to them. Slowly she approaches, keeping her eyes down at her feet – her freedom feet. She will run if these strangers try to hurt her or her brothers.

Instead the beautiful African woman asks her, “Tell me my dear, why do you come here?” The white skinned lady looks searchingly into Beatrice’s face and the man points the machine at Beatrice. It doesn’t look like a real gun and in the recesses of her mind, she goes back to the time when she was a child in school and thinks to herself, “I have seen one of these machines before – they capture a person’s image.” She breathes evenly and relaxes as the man looks kindly at her.

Beatrice answers, “Because this is where I must come to live. If I stay at my home, the rebels will come and take me and my brothers away. If I want to live I must come here where it is safer at night. If there is to be hope for me and my brothers, we must survive and we cannot survive the nights in our village, so we come here.”

The white-skinned woman smiles a small, sad smile. The man with the machine lowers his eyes and the beautiful African woman with the robes and headdress gently grasps Beatrice’s chin through the fence and looks deep into her eyes. “We will tell your story my daughter,” she says with firmness in her voice. “We will tell the world of you and your brothers and your friends and we will tell the world that you need a safe place to live. A safe place to play and to go to school. And we will keep telling them until they hear. Until then, you come here, you stay here and you do what you must to survive.” With knowing eyes and lines of sadness around them, Beatrice feels like the woman is looking into her very soul and seeing the horrible things she has seen. Feeling and absorbing the pain, the sadness, the grief and even going to the hidden places and seeing the rage in her heart. For a moment, Beatrice feels like a child again.

And then they are gone. The jeep rumbles off into the darkness. The children settle in on their burlap sacks and relax in the cooling temperatures. The only sounds come from the guards boots as they crunch the gravel beneath them as they walk the edges of the fence, watching the distance and guarding their precious and willing captives. In the morning, they will open the gates and Beatrice and her brothers will walk back to their Village. And the stones in the road will again be disappointed – there are no more soft spots to cut.


If this moved you or you want to know more:

http://www.savedarfur.org/ will send an electronic postcard to Pres. Bush asking him to stop the genocide in Darfur.

You can sign a World Vision online petition that demands that end of using children as soldiers

Send an email to President Bush and your Congressman asking them to step in and demand an end to the war in Uganda.

Other helpful links if you want to know more:

www.unicefusa.org

www.genocideintervention.net

www.worldvision.org

www.ugandarising.com

www.invisiblechildren.com

www.creativevisions.org