Scr- Babble

Last night at about 9 pm, the giggles of children subsided as they drifted into dreamland and we looked at each other with wide eyes that screamed, "You want to?" "Me too!"

After a few moments of setting the right mood, we began to party like only writers/parents/readers/lovers can. We got out that dictionary, set up the Earl Gray, and loaded down on the tiles....scrabble was on! We found that our brains were somewhat mush with words like axe and pi....but ozone, sniper, beige, and fink, though small words, proved to be quite high scorers.

Moral Dilemma: Is it okay to use nasty, low quality words on family game boards if the kids are sleeping?

I won't say who had the potty mouth, but could you blame them if that is all that they had? I mean if your options are slim, do you go for the high scoring profanity, or the missed turn for piety's sake? Obviously, not too much hesitation here at out house.

Yours truly won the game by at least 50 points, although Christo has the superior vocabulary.

p.s.- the naughty word is in the American Heritage Dictionary with a vast array of definitions. It in fact, dates back to the 1500's and was first used in Cambridge in a poem- so who has the dirty mind here.

Genes and Dreams

photo by plecojan

Have you ever wondered whether genetics play a role in your career path or talents? Would Lisa Marie Presley have been a singer if her daddy wasn't The King of rock and roll? Bob Dylan and his son...Miley Cyrus and Billy Ray? The Kennedy's and politics? The Judd's? Would Meredith Grey have pursued a career in surgery if her mom were not a famous Doctor? Okay - the last one is stretching it being that it is fiction- but you get the jist.

I tend to think that the answer is no becuase Billy Ray is Billy Ray and Lisa Marie can't even compare with Elvis. But to be truly excellent at something becasue of a genetic predisposition is a pleasant thought. Can you imagine saying, "I can't help it that I am such an excellent ____."? If this is true, Michaels Phelps' children will probably win 10 gold medals someday.

I love the movie Immortal Beloved about Beethoven. In it, he decides for his nephew, (who ends up being his own child) that he will be a famous pianist and composer just like himself. As his guardian, he makes the child study day and night. Beethoven is of course very deaf and cannot hear how absolutely terrible his son/nephew is at the piano. He has none of the gifting that his father/uncle is blessed with. But he is Beethoven's son/nephew and so much is expected.

Are we inclined by nature to be pretty good at the things that our parents thrive in? Do we share common gifts and goals because of the gene pool and life cicumstances? My aunt was reading my blog and shared with me that my great grandmother was a writer. She woke daily at 5 am to write because she HAD to write. Her children (8 of them I think) would consume the rest of her day and so she carved out a dawn time ritual that let her enjoy her craft, hobby, what have you.

I loved finding out this tid-bit of info because it encouraged me to press on. To write because I love the process. To have time to myself that is actually for just me. I would like to think that I shall have the same gift that Elizabeth Riley did many years ago. She did write a book of poetry and I would love to get my hands on it. I love that perhaps the gene pool will give me a chance at writing because of her. I did get this random head of red hair from someone in my ancestry, perhaps I will flourish because of a little science.

Opinions on this are welcomed.

Collecting

photo by Catherine Jamieson

I have a few collections.

I collect snow globes that are tasteful, not gaudy.

I collect books- too many to count.

I collect buttons and vintage sewing "findings" such as measuring tapes, spools, old ric rac, fabric etc.

I collect cancelled stamps that have already been somewhere. They have seen a few states or countries. They have a story to tell. They have a history. Some of them date back to the early part of the 20th century. They are old and I am young.

I collect old photographs and postcards, some familiar and others strange to me.

But, my most valuable collection cannot be gathered and displayed. It cannot be framed or used in any art project. It will never be covered in dust. If a fire destroyed the contents of my entire house, the collection would not be singed. If I wanted to take my collection to an auction house, they could not offer me enough money to make it worth my time.

My most valuable collection consists of things that cannot exist without me. I must be here, or they have no curator. No one to take the edge off. No one to deal with the ugliness that some of them wear as a banner. Oh, and they have power. The power to hurt, heal, make happy, and destroy. Each little piece of my most prized collection has it's own zeitgeist. It's own frame of reference. It's own possibilities.

I have a collection...I collect memories.

Being Relevant WHILE Being Faithful

photo: rio de gente - people river by z e n g a

I want to be relevant.
I want to read books that keep me aware and informed.
I want to help causes that need my help.
I don't want to put on lenses of prudish, pious, puritanical protection from the outside.
I want to see the job that needs to be done and then actually do it.
I want to be able to walk into a bar, a shop, a club, a market, a carnival, a festival, a church and be in the right place. Not be a sore thumb, not be a snob, not be a freak, or a self-righteous show-off.
I want to be calm in places that make my heart beat fast, and not too comfortable in places that seem like home.
I want to feel the itch that pain is near and I could possibly be the balm.
I want to see humanity with a simple scope and clear hope.
I want to walk with a plan and yet let the plan fall to the wayside if the moment craves some spontaneity.

I want to be faithful.
I want to read the only Book that truly matters.
I want to be the good Samaritan and a Friend that helps to set the captives free.
I am a Mary Magdalene. I want to know her heart and feel her passion.
I want to focus on the man who comes riding on a white charger and not let my gaze be moved.
I want to walk into any place at all, any country at all, and know that I do not belong and I won't belong, because I am from another world and speak another language.
I want to be wise, loving, thoughtful and considerate.
I want to see humanity, my brothers and my sisters in and outside of this chasm of created order, with eyes that heal, and hands that help, and a heart that bleeds truth from the Faithful One.

Go West Young People

I bought On The Road By Jack Kerouac, for a friend last night. Instead of actually giving it to her, I began to read it because it is the original scroll version, unedited and uncut. More authentic. We own 2 other copies of this book, but this one is different...so, maybe she will get it and maybe not. Haven't decided. Anyway, one of the first and most telling passages of run on sentences in the book, describes his problem of forever planning the trek out West and yet never getting around to going on the trip.

Christo, my husband, has always been afforded the opportunity of wonderful family trips all over this country and even into Canada. Riding wild horses, fly fishing in icy rivers, hiking incredible forests, biking over barren landscapes, you get the picture. And Yet, he and his buddy Kip, planned the Great VW Bus Adventure, and never got to go.

Call me the Yoko Ono of their teenage years, but somehow I weaseled my way into the plan and pushed the best friend out.

He bought that 1970 VW Bus, at age 15 (and with his own money), for the purpose of escaping into the great wide open; just two guys, 100 pounds of rice and a lot of Holden Caulfield angst. The boys planned and tinkered, and dreamt and struggled through the rigmarole of high school drama. And then, like a sudden snow in September, I came into view. The bag of rice and I were at war for a spot on that bus. I would not be missing the bus...the rice had to go and just like that, I was co-captain of the trip. Kip moved to the back of the bus and eventually he was altogether out.

Poor Kip. Somehow lost in the shuffle of our teenage romance, he moved on. Don't feel too bad for him though. He did go north and jumped on a different kind of bus. The kind that has educational classes through the logging fields. He became an intense activist and still is one of the most environmentally conscious people I know. He married a beautiful woman who is brilliant and witty and surely made for him. And of course, he went West and happens to live on the opposite of the country now in Bellingham, Washington. So, he actually gets the last laugh, you see. While he is experiencing the thrill of having lived the dream, we are still planning ours.

While we are still trying to get a bus ready, (it is in pieces in our garage) we know our day will come. We are no longer at liberty to pack 100 pounds of food, because now we must pack 100 pounds of kids. And yet, we love this crazy life and we long for our crazy trip and all of the unexpected surprises. Perhaps our trip out West will be to visit Kip and Brooke and we shall laugh as we eat their wonderful vegan victuals served over rice.

If You're Listening

Angel of Grief by *FeX*

We were all downstairs and getting ready to start the homeschooling thing. And just like any homeschooling mother, I decide to crank up the Ipod and rock out to Jimmy Eat World to get the day off to a great beginning.

I was going to take out the trash but...."if you're listen-ing, whoa..oo..oo..oo..oo" forces me to drop the bag and start the "spinning free" and full on crazy dancing with the kids all staring. Lily yells out at the top of her lungs, "Mother- it's a magical song that makes you drop everything because you just have to dance to it!" I know this and she knows this and that is why we have such a great relationship.

But all of this blissful, calorie burning, spirit rocking elation stopped abruptly as the next song began.

"May angels lead you in" is a beautiful song, and before Wendy died I could listen to it and just sing along. But Wendy did die and someone put the lyrics on her my space page and voila, the song now is about losing Wendy and I weep for a lost friend. My dear Wendy died at 26 years old after battling cancer for only a year and a half. At her memorial service there were some strange elements that I could not figure out. When Wendy and I were close friends, she loved God and music and great books. At her funeral there were a lot of quotes from great books, but not much music and no mention of God. There were a lot of Angels and Fairies.

I had lost touch with my dear friend for few years and when I came back into her life, she was already dying. I tend to believe that she still deeply loved God and knew Him better than I do because she had tasted mortality in a concrete way. But I am not sure about all the angels and fairies and what that meant to her.

What is it about memorial services that make you wonder who the person really was? What is it about music that could have you rocking out at full speed one minute and weeping in a corner and contemplating the meaning of life the next? Lily is absolutely right. The songs are magical and they make you drop everything because you just have to__________!

A Long Lost Friend

photo: vintage by cagedbirdy

Sometimes you meet someone and you know that you are kindred spirits. There is just some connection that goes beyond the basic, "I like Pearl Jam." "Me too! OMG!"

I have been blessed to have many people throughout my life that I had the chance to recognize this connection with. One such friend however, has been long ago lost from my communication reach. She is probably one of the most free-spirited people I have ever known and so it makes sense that she has left my radar.

God had put us literally in each other's backyard. Our parents' houses were connected by a large span of grass that became a perfect meet-up place for two teenage girls who could not yet drive.

We both loved to read and write. We both have red hair. Eat entire cans of black olives. Anne of Green Gables marathons. Listening to music by candlelight and the list goes on. The quirky thing that took a little warming up to find out was that we both coveted long white nightgowns. Maybe we thought we were Jo March. Perhaps we wanted to connect to the bygone years when the white nightgown was the only acceptable night clothing around. When we had sleepovers we took out our long white nightgowns and pranced around the backyard in the middle of the night. I don't think anyone suspected.

I still own an entire drawer filled with beautiful white nightgowns. My mother even brought one back from Germany for me. She found it at an antique flea market. It is actually old and thus authentic! Most teenagers I knew at the time, wore long t- shirts with baggy thin pajama pants to bed. They even wore semi-sexy camisoles with boy underwear /shorts. But not us- "Clary Mama" and I donned the nightgowns with innocent glee. We lit candles and played pretty music and talked about interesting things and read poetry aloud. Sometimes our own and sometimes not. But we both have husbands now and I wear random things to bed.

I just noticed while typing this that I am wearing a white nightgown. It was given to me by my dad and stepmother a few years back. It is from April Cornell and is just beautiful. I love it because it makes me remember and I am in a remembering mood.

Hopefully somewhere out there, my long lost red headed friend is remembering too and will send out her radar. Perhaps we shall meet again, dressed like Victorian ghosts at midnight in the backyard someday.