Quiet Time

If you are observant, you will have noticed that, e. e. cummings*-style, I neglect to capitalize the titles of my blog posts.  This is to remind myself of how little importance my opinions are.  ([grin] - I'm not sure how effective that is, but it's an attempt, anyway).

Perhaps you have noticed that the title of this post is capitalized.

That is because of its great importance.  I always write about Quiet Time in capital letters.  I even try to speak about it in capital letters, although that is, admittedly, more difficult.

Since time immemorial we have observed Quiet Time in our family.  Originally we called it naptime (I didn't always think to capitalize it then), but as the nappers grew fewer in number - and greater in age - naptime became a misnomer and we transitioned to Quiet Time.

This is what Quiet Time is (for our family):

1)  Everyone is in a separate room (if possible).

2)  No one talks.

3)  Mommy (that's me) gets to read, or nap, or have a snack,

or talk on the phone to a friend without interruptions.

Sometimes, all of the above.

Since it started out as naptime, it was easy at first.  Of course it was quiet; they were asleep!  

But then they stopped needing sleep.  Then it got hard (for a time).  I put on calming music and gave them books to look at and told them no talking.  Someone-who-shall-remain-nameless required quite a bit of training in this.  I had to give up, for a time, my own nap/snack/phone conversation in order to sit in her room with her, at the ready should any corrections be needed (and they usually were). 

Eventually, though, everyone got the hang of it and it stopped being hard and instead became a Thing of Exquisite Beauty, well worth the initial effort required.

In our house now, every day at one o'clock, the children all gather in the livingroom (or the playroom, if Lego projects are in progress) and sit more or less quietly while I read aloud to them from a book.  This is a cozy time and the prime seats are considered to be on either side of Mommy, snuggled up against one shoulder or the other, following along in the book du jour.

By one-thirty, we're usually "right at a good place!" but my throat is parched and after all, it is time to begin Quiet Time, so we put the book away till tomorrow.  If it's a weekday, Sugar, Spice, and Nice gather their schoolbooks and whatever "fun" book they're in the middle of, and Lil' Snip puts a few toys and books into his basket, and up the steps they all go.

* * * sigh * * *

And for the next hour and a half, the house is quiet (except for Lil' Snip's signature request for a bum-wipe:  "I did a poooooo!").

And Mommy gets to read her book, or take a nap, or talk to a friend on the phone without any interruptions.

And when three o'clock arrives, restored by solitude, we are happy to see each other again.

And that, my gentle reader, is Quiet Time.

* [I feel it only honest to add that I know nothing of the poet e. e. cummings other than his uncapitalized name, and what wikipedia just told me.]

a new hope

A while back, I read a book by Elizabeth Berg, The Year Of Pleasures.  The reviews on Amazon were indifferent; she is accused of lacking cohesion and indulging in flights of fancy.  I dug in anyway.  The protagonist is a freshly-widowed 55-year-old woman, grieving her husband while simultaneously trying to make a new life for herself, per his instructions before he died of cancer.

Somehow, I could relate.

I still - thank God! - have my Farmer by my side, to love me, and provide a buffer from many of life's bumps.  And I am still far (it seems to me) from 55 years of age.

But lately I am grieving - the passage of time, the dreams I haven't yet realized that I thought I would have by this ripe old age of 39, the immaturity still resident in my personality and habits.  Maudlin, I know.  But what I loved about the book was that the widow's grieving gave her new eyes, to see beauty both in remembrance and in hope.

Her husband left her slips of paper, just a word or phrase on each, to remind her (or sometimes, befuddle her) with memories of things she'd let slip through her fingers, in essence to tell her over and over - say yes!  It's like the one thousand gifts in reverse - the gifts unseen, refused - enumerated not to incite guilt, but to spur the widow on to an acceptance of beauty, of abundant life.

This summer some girlfriends and I were browsing a vintage shop in town.  Upstairs, one of them called my name: "You have to look at this set of plates - they are you!!"  I looked, and they were.  The price was fair, too, but I reasoned the dinnerware away - I have a perfectly serviceable set of dishes [that I heartily dislike] and ... pretty things are not for me.

I'm not sure where that belief came from, but when it showed itself that day, I realized I had believed it many times, for many things.  I'm glad to say that I was able to see truth, that day, and bury the lie:  my household budget allowed easily for the purchase, and the beauty of the plates would cheer us daily for years.  In the end, I bought them, and every time I set them out, they whisper "pretty things are for you...."

A couple of years ago, a group of wives gathered in a different friend's house to talk about how to be good wives, good mothers.  A question was raised about the Bible's call to self-denial versus the world's call to self-care.  We puzzled over it, some in favor of one, some in favor of the other, no one quite sure if the two could be reconciled.

But then I found a paragraph from Lisa Bevere's book Out of Control & Loving It that caught my eye.  She contended that self-neglect is different from self-denial.  I had never before seen that I was confusing the two, that I could deny selfish desires while still caring for basic needs.

Much in The Year of Pleasures is unrealistic, yes.  But like a list of gifts yet undiscovered, it calls to me, like the ocean, like a Japanese maple aflame with autumnal glory, like the opening strains of the Moonlight Sonata - "there is hope .... life can be abundant .... accept the beauty offered."

I will be keeping my eyes open.

I turn 40 in a few days.  This decade will be a new hill to climb, and beauty, and gifts, will be my fuel.

cozy

I'm sitting here by the fire this evening, and I keep feeling all these delicious new empty spaces in my house now.  The peace is such an untold secret .... but good secrets like that are for sharing.  It all started two months ago, I think, when I started doing coursework online that changed my focus from fitness to feasting.

I had hoped to lose a few pounds, but as I filled up my soul with truth, I began to shed excess everywhere.

What was first?  . . .  Books, I think.  I went through my shelves of fiction and "self-improvement" and gave away diaper boxes full.

It was like shouting in the Alps in avalanche season:  suddenly everywhere I looked, I saw deposits of unnecessary accumulation.  Out the door it went!

CDs and the CD tower.

More books.

Toys (the children, believe or not, helped with enthusiasm!).

Seldom-used bowls from the backs of cupboards.

Clothing (mine, and baby clothing languishing in the attic, "just in case").

Still more books.

Technological detritus.

Puzzles and games.

Papers that once seemed important.

[The funny thing is, it's actually difficult to think of what all I've gotten rid of - and some of this was stuff that we had to ponder over whether or not we'd miss it.  Needless to say, we don't.]

And as the stuff left, it seemed to release something in us that we didn't even know had been bound.

I painted a door.  He built a shelf.  I started sewing curtains planned a year ago.  He cleaned out the garage.  I painted another door.  He started building me a pottery wheel.  I moved all my pottery from littering my windowsills into a display case in my pottery room.  He attacked that ominous stack of papers.  I fixed a crooked curtain rod and hung a shade.


It's almost like . . . 
                             . . . the stuff we own . . . .
                                                                       . . . . owns us. 


And releasing our stuff, releases us.


Try it:  look around; can you find something to give away?  Something else?  Can you give until there are empty places?  Until you find yourself smiling a little more?  Until you see how restful blank walls and empty corners can be?

I don't know if it ever stops, honestly, if there's ever a time when there's nothing left to give away.  That's okay.  I don't think it's meant to be a task to be completed.  I think the giving's the thing.

And the spaces that are left - the wide open peaceful spaces - are the first reward.

There's also this strange security:  I didn't need all that stuff.  I'm okay without it.  I'm enough.

It's quite cozy.  I think you'll like it.

a day in the life ....

Snapshot for today:

Around my neck today is a red scarf I crocheted, white snowflakes on the ends.  Feels festive and lifts my spirits.

My Farmer just put Lil' Snip to bed after a day of much fussing.  We love that little guy, but we were glad to see his bedtime arrive.  May his night be long and refreshing, and may he wake up in a better temper than we've seen for days.

Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice are playing dress-up.  I've heard Spice referred to as the "Asian princess".  I'm not sure about the identities of the other two.  There is a lot of dancing that I suspect is a novel accompaniment to Handel's Messiah (which is still playing two days after Christmas and which I have no intention of removing from the stereo in the near future).

The laptop is currently (temporarily?) residing in a dark corner of the kitchen near the door to the backyard - a door which my Farmer, incidentally, freed a few years ago while I was away for the weekend.  It had been boarded over for decades and its unearthing makes seven doors in the kitchen, as well as adding a window, and giving us a quicker route to the garden, chicken yard, and (more importantly) the hammock.  But oh yeah, the reason why the laptop (and I) are back here is that we have upgraded from dialup internet (I'll give you a second to get up from your faint) to a wireless 4G connection.  But.  Since we are in the sticks, coverage is spotty and works best from this dark (and peaceful, now that Lil' Snip's in bed) corner of the kitchen.

My Farmer, having tucked Lil' Snip into his crib with bear and "night-night" (that's "blanket" for you big people), is now plucking randomly at his banjo, making music and airing his soul at the same time.

The potato chowder we had for supper is tucked away in the fridge for a repeat session later in the week.  I always make too big a pot ... probably because I don't use a recipe and often only remember key ingredients as I go along (i.e. "oh that's right, I usually put ham/hard-boiled eggs/celery/garlic in here...").   That's okay, it turned out well and will save me from having to come up with a menu some night.

I figured out how to read while using the elliptical, and have finished reading Dorothy Canfield's The Home-maker.  I don't know when I've read a more viscerally shocking book.  What was that one on the high school reading list?  The Catcher in the Rye?  This one (published in 1924) wasn't as crude, but I have a feeling that Dorothy was one strong woman.  I'm not sure we would have been friends.  Her book gave me plenty to think about, although I much preferred her children's novel, Understood Betsy.

And now the daughters are wrapping things up for the night ... early bedtimes started way back when they were all babies and we've learned to enjoy our couple of quiet hours to wind down from the day after they all go to bed.  It'll be another hour yet till everything is quiet, but it's in sight.

And that's it for today .... another day in the life of our family.  Thanks for peeking in.  What was your day like?

fire and ice

Four and a half hours after leaving my house, I turned into the half-mile lane we came to first eight years ago.  Three friends and I unloaded bags and boxes, ducking under the pine boughs to reach the porchlit door. I knocked.

“Come in!” she called, and in we came to warmth and cozy lamplight, rooms full of whimsy and books, steeped in love. We were home, again.

Hugs and shortquick studies of each other and we burdened the kitchen island with our treats, sustenance for a weekend away: lemon bars, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, Chex mix, almonds, dried apricots, guava paste and Maria cookies. We pulled up chairs around the gas flames and warmed our souls.

I gathered up the gifts those two long full days we spent away, arms full, and squirreled them away like nuts to lunch on through the winter of ordinary home-demands. All the long drive home, I handled them like strings of pearls, to keep their luster bright in my mind:

# 329 – hot air balloons on a grey day

# 330 – Rose's miracle armchair

# 331 – welcoming warmth of a home

# 332 – those warm wooden walls again

# 333 – sound of rain on tin, a nighttime lullaby

# 334 – heavy white flakes, so slowly descending

# 335 – brisk walk in a white bracing wind

# 336 – pulling the needle in and out, to make a bear

# 337 – our eight-year tradition

# 338 – coziness of lamplight, rocking chairs, gas fireplace

# 339 – beautiful music and the sound of turning pages

# 340 – all the house quiet in afternoon sleep

# 341 – a word fitly spoken

# 342 – the smell of soup, prepared by another's hand

# 343 – sunshine on snow: gold on white, fire on ice

# 344 – brilliant drops of liquid light on ends of twigs

# 345 – lungfuls of outdoors

# 346 – a horizon, for the health of my eyes

# 347 – keeping some thoughts to myself

# 348 – scarlet sugar maple against October sky

# 349 – clumps of snow clinging high to leaves

# 350 – morning nap in sunshine

# 351 – liquid drumbeat: melting snow meets roof

# 352 – patterns, everywhere (potential pots!)

# 353 – inspiration for a bowl

# 354 – lead-seamed glass lampshades like exotic flowers

# 355 – miles of thoughtful silence along winding creek, in flickering light, by spacious river

# 356 – flaming pink sun melting into mountain

So many gifts, pearls stringing out to the horizon ... 

Richard Paul Evans & the meaning of life

A quote from A Perfect Day, which is, in my humble opinion, a book every aspiring writer should read, and an excellent read for anyone at all, at least as far as page 197, where this quote occurs:

“... The simple truth is that we don't come to earth to make a name for ourselves just so time can erase it. That's not what it's about.”

“Then what is it about?”

Michael smiled. “Finally you're asking the right question. But you already know the answer. You've always known.” He looked into my eyes and his gaze pierced me. “It's about learning how to love.”

Get the book in your hands if you can.  Our local library system has it, and I bet yours does, too.  If you've ever wanted "success" in any form, this book may clear your vision a bit.

a note of outrage to a favorite author

No, no, no, NO!  You cannot, in good conscience, end a mystery novel like that, Mr. Smith!

You mention resolution, and then fail to provide it.  You leave unexplained myriad titillating incidences:  why did the sight of Graeme in the pub make Ian feel suddenly ill?  Was Graeme following Isabel, and if so, why? Had Ian really seen Euan during his recovery?  And, whether or not he had, why did his meeting Euan in the end not affect him as his seeing Graeme had?

What about Grace's new friend? Was their romance in fact interrupted by the medium's inventions? And what about Tomasso? Was his family's business really shoes? What had his interest been in Isabel, and what was Cat's role in it? Why did he return so suddenly to Italy? And the waiter at the fish restaurant in Leith – why did he start so at Isabel's comment on honesty and kindness? Had there been a significant look between him and Tomasso, or not?

This is incorrigible, Mr. Smith. Either your talents as a writer have slipped, or you are indulging in that most inexplicable of all literary crimes: ghostwriting (which is, unfortunately, not actually in any way illegal).

When a person makes use of another's writing without asking permission or giving credit, we call it plagiarism, and regard it as intellectual theft, and rightly so. But when a person who has made a success of writing, grows lazy (or ambitious?) and employs another to do his writing for him, then sells it under his own name, he calls it ghostwriting, and regards it as a way to sell more books.

I regard that as highway robbery. Or, you could call it selling your soul. Take your pick.

A talented writer will naturally have readers. A well-liked author will have readers who want more of the same, and, seeing his name on a book, will purchase it, anticipating a good read. When an author sells his reputation for royalties, he cheats his readers, robbing both their pocketbooks and their trust.

[pause.  deep breath.] 

Now, I'm not saying Mr. Smith hired someone to write this book.  I hope he didn't.  I really hope he didn't.  I actually liked all but the last few chapters, when the mystery was cozily and unconvincingly wrapped up.  Maybe Mr. Smith just got tired of it by the end, or maybe there were just too many loose ends to wrap up, and he forgot some (or wasn't sure how to wrap them up....).  

*sigh*  

My outrage ends.  Mr. Smith, is, after all, human.  Not to mention that he's an excellent writer, most of the time.  I don't even know how to wrap up this post, so who am I to throw darts at an established, intelligent, entertaining author just because the last few chapters of one of his books is disappointing.......?

Being able to see both sides of the coin has its disadvantages; I'd never make a good critic.  You'll excuse me now while I go open the next book in Mr. Smith's series?

the lady I met at the park today

I love people.  So varied, with so many stories to tell.  Especially, I suppose it goes without saying, older people (more years, hence, more stories to tell).

Today, my mom drove down to my house to watch my children while I ran some errands and took some much-needed time off my job (but you other mommies know all about that).  In the morning I took Nice, my youngest daughter, to a great bulk-foods store that's out of our usual path, so that I haven't gone but once since Lil' Snip's birth a year ago.  We had a lovely time, the highlight for Nice being the dried pineapple ring she got to eat on the way home, I think.

In the afternoon, I free-styled.

First I went to the discount grocery in search of dark chocolate (success!  Newman's Own organic espresso dark chocolate!!) and then hit the library to pick up the books they regularly import from other libraries for insatiable, grateful me.

[plug:  I LOVE the library!!  all the books a person could want, free for the borrowing, nice people with whom to chat and swap book recommendations, and air conditioned comfort for temporarily escaping the responsibilities of home life.]


Then I was off in search of a restful place to read and daydream (people-watching optional).

The park was loaded with large children on the loose for the summer and rather lacked the serenity I sought.  I drove on.

I remembered a smaller park a friend had showed me, hidden in the center of a residential area, and began threading my way up and down streets and alleys till I found it.  There were two other parties there - a mom with two young daughters in matching dresses, and an anonymous driver napping in an SUV.

I parked and found a bench in partial shade.  When my legs fell asleep, I moved to the grassy hillside, and read till it was almost time to go home.  On my way out, I noticed an older lady weeding one of the flowerbeds and stopped to express my appreciation of the park's well-kept appearance.

As we chatted, she wondered if she had heard me laugh over my book, and what I was reading.  We traded favorite authors-of-the-moment (Alexander McCall Smith and Richard Paul Evans), and talked about the best spots to plant hydrangea (partial shade, wettish soil) and why our rosebushes' blooms looked "crippled" this year (too much rain?).

She recommended the parks' summer concerts to me and took me to her house across the way to give me her program.  I admired the green glass bottles on the windowsill (I collect blue).  We chatted our way back to the park and she said she'd look for me at the next concert.

It is so easy to find new friends.  It takes so little effort - a smile and a compliment - and yields such satisfying results.  Behind every unknown face is a story waiting to be told, similarities waiting to be unearthed.

I want to remember to ask, more often.

attachments

In the last couple of months, I've been de-cluttering here and there, as inspiration strikes me (thanks to Don Aslett's book: Clutter's Last Stand).  It feels great to clear out the junk, but I'm discovering some peculiar attachments.  

Empty boxes, for instance.  They are so useful.  So full of potential.  Think of the things they could hold!  The things we could use them for - why, organization!  Covering with cute paper for toy storage boxes.  Carrying a meal to a friend.  Shipping pottery pieces.  Stabilizing a full crockpot during transport.  Facilitating the wrapping of oddly shaped gifts.  And so on.  Don Aslett (or was it Sandra Felton of the Messies Manual?), advises keeping only four boxes of various shapes and tossing the rest.  I compromised (and felt strangely consoled) by using the boxes for the junk I'm giving away.

Chairs, too, claimed my affection.  The one at my desk has a caned seat, and (despite its dubious strength) brings me joy every time I look at it.  The dark wood armchair in our bedroom is incredibly comfortable, although seldom used for seating.  In my attic is a "telephone chair" with a charming calico-covered seat and an attached stand and shelf for the phone and phone book.  The beautiful heirloom rocking chair in the spare room is upholstered in ancient gold tweed but the seat is too deep to get out of easily.  It's a lot harder to part with chairs than cardboard boxes.  The chairs stay, for now.

I was already aware of my infatuation with books.  What caught me off-guard as I pulled one after  the other off the shelf was how many of my books evoked guilt in me (to the tune of "I should read this/there's so much good information in here.").  I liberated myself of FOUR big boxes.  No more vertical stacks on the shelves.

And then, of course there was the clothing:  baby clothing, children's clothing saved for next season, maternity clothing, and "pre-pregnancy" clothing, not to mention surplus coats and shoes.  Thinking of those who could use these right now (as opposed to me, "sometime" in the future) steeled me to be ruthless.  Five bags to pass on....

Toys were hard to get rid of - for me, anyway.  My daughters didn't seem to experience any pangs when they decided to give away my favorites.

But, despite all my wrenching feelings of attachment, out my Stuff went - box after merciless box of books, toys, clothes and all.Preview

I had some discouraging moments of contemplating how encumbered I've been by my Stuff, but mostly the high of de-cluttering has been sufficient to keep me from wallowing in regrets.  Emptying spaces has the exhilarating effect of directing my focus forward rather than backward.

It was cathartic:  when I cleared out an area and trucked the Stuff away, the house felt more spacious, airy, lighter with less Stuff.  I feel better able to pay attention to what I'm doing after some "shoulds" have been evicted. Possibilities seem to have multiplied.  I could get that door painted now.  I could rearrange the girls' room.  Start on that comforter for Isaiah.  Use that adorable flannel to make pajama bottoms for the girls.  Finally paint the trim in our bedroom....

.....Figure out how to keep the clutter I cleared out of my house from showing up on my to-do list....