Breakfast, anyone?

“Francine’s here!” the kids scream, and the screen door slams as they run to greet her. Francine is my friend, who I adore, who teaches me so much about letting go, finding peace, living well, being kind, and allowing others to find their path without getting in their way. She loves people, and is tender with their feelings. She is clear about her limits, and always speaks truth.

When I grow up, I wanna be like Francine.

Francine comes every other month for an overnight visit. She pulls my little ones onto her lap and listens to their epoch tales of skinned knees and Pokémon movie plots. She brings amazing foods to share, and her African baskets and Guatemalan bags are always hiding wooden toys and beautiful pottery that find their way onto our shelves. On this trip she brought two sweet Crenshaw melons, a bottle of hours-old pressed apple cider, giant pastries, and a little silver charm she found that she thought I might like. We ate and painted and listened to the girls sing. She measured the boys against her shoulder, insisting they were taller than last time, and tousled Tessa’s shortened hair. When Francine comes, there is excitement and laughter and lots of hugs. When Francine comes, it's like a party.

What does every party need? Food. And, Oh, the breakfast we had at the hand of Chef Guy… What a perfect start to fall!

Pumpkin waffles with pumpkin butter cream spread, crescent rolls … some with bacon, onions, spinach, pecans and cream cheese inside, others stuffed with pears and chocolate and topped with slivered almonds. Next to that, herb scrambled eggs topped with pepper-jack cheese and turkey bacon. And to wash it all down, hot apple cider with a drizzle of caramel in it.

Guy gifts with food. It is how he honors the people he loves.

Francine left this afternoon. Our time with her is never long enough. We’ll see her again in a couple of months. Just in time for holiday baking!

Apple time

Fall has fallen. The weather has suddenly gone from 103 to a lovely 70-something, and there is that hint in the air that change is coming. I open the door wide for it.

Please, Change, come in, sit down, stay a while.

I have felt like it’s been yet another semester in the school of life, and fate has been helping me cram for test time. So much learning, so much growing. I am learning that I am not in charge. I am learning that I can plan all I want, but when push comes to shove, nobody ever plans to have things be difficult. They just are, sometimes.

So this week for our little Joyschool field trip we went to Apple Hill, or “Mountain Apple” as Tessa calls it. A short drive away from all my troubles, it is a cluster of little apple orchards and farms set on a hill that welcomes weary travelers to remember why Adam and Eve were so bummed to be cast out of the garden. With pumpkin patches and wooden bins of lovely, unwaxed apples, golden colored fresh-pressed cider, and the scrumptious smell of apple turnovers and pies wafting through the air, it is a blissful sensory adventure. It is not my messy house. It is not the funky smell in my kitchen that I can’t seem to find. It is not the boring food I keep buying because I have no time to cook. At Apple Hill I am renewed.


I breathe in the heavy, honey sweet smell of the cider press and the warm salty aroma of pie crust, the tang of the Granny Smiths, and see the day glow of pumpkins in the sun, and I begin to make new plans. Simple plans.

I want to be sure we carve pumpkins this year, and not it a hurried rush. I want to bake for my children and give them the memory of coming home to sweet, warm food made for them, not the left-overs of a meal made for someone at church, but just for them. I want to sit at the table and hear them talk about things I won’t hear about while we are rushing off to soccer or scouts or Daisies or the market (“Hurry, we’re late!”). And really, while I am talking here mostly about food, food is just a metaphor for time.

I brought home apples and Asian pears, and a turnover (just to get me in the mood). And I made a new plan.

I plan not to plan so much. I am going to try to cut out a few things. It’s true we can’t be all things to all people, and the more I try, the less I have to give to the people who matter most to me. What I do plan needs to matter. I plan to expend less energy stressing when stressing will not help. I plan to use the crock pot more. I plan to put more attention into the special details that let the people around me know that I care for them, and let the rest go.

Am I biting off more than I can chew? Am I overly optimistic? Maybe. Or maybe if I cut out the clutter it will be easy.

Easy as pie.

Placenta Talk: An interview with The Scarecrow

I have a theory.

Ya see, I am close to brain dead, most days. I recently explained to a friend that telling me something is like putting water into a cloth bag. It all leaks out. I forget everything. I write things on my hand, have a calender in my purse and a giant one on the wall, a dry erase reminder board, and when all else fails, I write notes to myself that I hang in places where I will literally walk into them.

I am just short of putting post-its on my forehead. But to no avail. Alas, I have no grey matter left.

But I figured it all out. Here is the deal...

You see, when a woman is pregnant her body manufactures this AMAZING organ that functions as a pump, filter, feeding mechanism and hormone manufacturing plant for her baby. It is like a lung, kidney, digestive system and pituitary gland all-in-one. It weighs a pound and a half... more than twice the size of a human heart.

And it is completely disposable.

There is no other organ in our body that we use and then throw away (though some treat their livers that way). We don't, one day, just cough up our lung and say, "I'm done". It is really amazing that in just a few months our body builds, and then discards, an actual organ. But where is that organ coming from, really? Do you know? I do.

Each placenta is a lobe of your brain.

After four kids, you are down to just your brain stem. After which, any subsequent children's placentas are portions of other vital organs, like the common sense organ, the patience organ, the energy organ, and the organ that lets you sleep. As each is discarded, the empty cavity that is created by it's loss is filled with fat tissue, because without a brain, our body can't think of anything better to put there.

I managed to come up with all that on just a brain stem. Think of what I could do if I only had a brain!

Image borrowed from Wikia Entertainment

Blinded by the light

It's nearly one AM.

I should go to bed. I will be up in 6 hours, attempting to make lunches, find shoes, and shove kids out the door by 7:55 AM. Yep, I had a few things to finish up for my new church assignment. But that is not why I am still up.

Why am I up?

Boogers, that's why. And eyelashes.

Tessa staggered out of her room a while ago, whimpering (finally, she is sleeping in her own room, but can I keep her there? No, of course not).

"My eyelash huwt." (That's hurt for all you non-preschool scholars). She coughs.

I hug her and put her back to bed.

Moments later... "Will you help me go potty?" (She says this one a lot, hence the clarity.) Then begins the tussle over the hall light. She says it huwts her eyes. I can't see to help her with out it. I win.

Sort'a.

I return a now furious, congested, and self-proclaimed blind toddler to bed. She cries for 15 minutes. Finally, cries become whimpers, and whimpers fade to blissful silence.

Moments later... "Mommy, yook ad my doze" (which is stuffy-nosed talk for My boogers are running down my face). She stands with her eyes shut (to prevent further retina damage, certainly), pointing with her finger to the snail-trail running down to her top lip. Since her eyes are shut, I get away with a quiet giggle.

I retrieve a soft, Chinese pre-fold cloth diaper for her (I am a diaper snob. Read Chinese pre-fold, think Cadillac.) and ever so gently, wipe her little button nose.

I tell her to go back to bed.

"I scaywed, it dawk." (What do I do with that? It's too bright, it's too dark... some one hit me in the head with something very hard, please.)

She curls up beside me on the couch. She throws her leg over the top of my right arm while I type, and fades into gurgly slumber.

Her leg is still there. My hand is now numb. It's gonna be a long day tomorrow.



Special thanks to husband Guy for the help with my ridiculous punctuation in this post (because) I (use) too (many) of (these)))))!

One of God's lesser known Divine Plans

Her contractions started at about midnight. She called at 5:45 am. By 7:00 when I went to her, my friend was laboring beautifully, and quickly. We arrived at the hospital by 8:30, and she was already six centimeters dilated. She was majestic, she was calm, she was powerful, she was unmedicated; she was amazing.

At 11:24 am my friend pushed her beautiful baby girl out into the world, reaching down and pulling her out with her own two hands. I love it that baby never stopped touching her mama from the minute she entered this life. It will be a pattern - that connectedness that she will have to her mother. Though I usually don’t cry at births anymore, I cried when that baby came.

Two years ago, just one day short of the exact same date, this same mama welcomed her first baby into her family, only that birth had been fraught with stress and fear. It had been one of my most helpless feeling births as a doula. When we had arrived, they dragged mama off to do her check-in, but decided then to check her cervix without informing the father and I. With no support in the room, the terrified young woman screamed so loud it echoed down the hall. Not knowing it was my client, I thought to myself “that poor woman needs a doula.” I was heartbroken when I learned it was her. I felt like I had really let her down.

She had already been unsure of herself, and in a culture where natural childbirth is seen as uneducated, antiquated, “selfish” or hippy, she had been flooded by input from the outside that she was idealistic for wanting a natural birth. The message was clear, “You’ll never be able to do it. It’s too hard. You are too weak. Don’t set your heart on it, you will only be disappointed.” That first moment in the hospital set the general tone for the rest of the birth, and sadly the young mother was so depleted by the time she was 8 centimeters that she asked for medication, even though it was not what she really had wanted or planned for. She lamented it later, but we all do what we can in the moment to survive.

But this time, with this second birth, there was a confidence that comes with experience. She knew it would be hard, but she believed that she could do it. She was prepared, and though she was a little worried, she was committed to feeling her baby leave her body, and to welcoming it into the world without drugs in her system; to being fully present in this most amazing moment. What had seemed impossible in her mind the first time was completely possible this time.

I get a lot of criticism for promoting natural, unmedicated childbirth. I am seen as judgmental when I mention it in a crowd of women who love their epidurals. They joke about wanting to be hooked up by their eighth month of pregnancy. Women who would never consider drinking a caffeinated soda during pregnancy sign up ahead of time for a catheter to be punched into the durra of their spinal column. They are thrilled at the prospect of checking out from their body while their baby experiences the sensations of birth alone.

They see no value in the pain of labor. I do.

I believe that God, in his supreme wisdom, gave women birth. It is a sad to me that so many women miss it. It is an opportunity to experience a moment in time that cannot be had when the body is disconnected from the heart and mind by numbness. After a woman births in this way, I always see a change in her. There is a new understanding in her of her ability - of her capacity to do wherever is necessary for her child. There is the subtle goodbye to pregnancy as she feels her baby leave her body and enter the world, which echoes back to her as her baby grows to child, then on into maturity.

There is more, though. There is the father who is needed, who stands beside her and gives comfort with his hands, who endures hours of standing in one position so that she can lean on him over and over again. She will never forget his strength. It is imprinted on her to return to him again and again in her trials, to lean on him and receive his strength and encouragement. There is the husband who, watching his wife, his love, be overcome by a power that comes from deep within her with each contraction, is awestruck by the bravery of this woman to whom he has committed his life. The stereotypes of “frail woman” melt away as he sees her both vulnerable and powerful at once. He is witness to what she has been willing to do for their child, and he will never doubt her courage and strength. He becomes proud of her in a way that is unique and sacred.

It is no accident that of all God’s creations, humans labor the longest. In fact, most mammals labor for under two hours. The higher the level of intelligence in the creature, the longer it labors. In fact, dolphins and elephants actually receive help by others of their group as they labor. And the more dependent for survival the infant, the longer it takes for it to be born. In animal studies, cows and sheep given epidurals give birth and then get up and walk away, abandoning their babies. We as humans realize we shouldn’t, and are present enough to bond with our children and even with adopted children, but that does not discredit the fact that the act of truly experiencing birth creates a bond unlike any other. In the case of humans, it creates a family, and the bonds of that family are strengthened through the trial and journey that comes about through the intensity of unencumbered birth.

I went to see the new mama today, two-day-old babe in her arms. There are new worries this day, worries of not enough milk, of sleepy baby who doesn’t want to wake up to nurse, of not knowing how to recognize a problem. New days bring new fears, new challenges. But there was also the quiet confidence that comes to one who has endured. That mama knows that she has everything within her to care for her child, and that she is good enough.

When I asked her about how she felt about her birth, she simply smiled and said, “I can’t wait to do that again.”


(Photo from family archives, Tessa at 5 days old. I will replace it as soon as I have a picture of the new baby.)

Between moments

Sometimes when things are quiet, when there is a lull

in all of the happenings,

a calm in the chaos- when life returns to normal for just a bit,

you find yourself sorting laundry and doing
the back stage sorts of things,
the boring maintenance tasks that keep life going.

It is in one of these unimportant, insignificant,
you'll-never-think-of-it-again moments,
that you look out the window
and see what your life is really made of.

Sometimes you never forget the in-between moments.

When Julie Andrews comes to stay

Warning: cheesy post alert (and no, that does not mean it is a food post, but that my darling hubby thinks I have lost all literary tact). Cheesy or not, I figure sometimes ya' gotta focus on what ain't broke.

Rain makes me crabby and kittens are noisy
'only see snowflakes when I go to Boise
Don't care for winter, my bed needs new springs...

These are a few of my favorite things (for under $5):

Trader Joe's Salsa Verde -mixed with sour cream and eaten with corn chips after school with the kiddos.

Capitol Aquarium. Free admission, because it's actually a store, but they have an indoor Koi pond, an electric eel named Smud (named after our local electric company), a 400 gallon fish tank with ginormous fish in it, and a cichlid named Sherbet that you are allowed to tease. We tell the kids it is Marine World, which works until they're about 5.

Fancy cheese from Grocery Outlet for $1.99. Current favorites: Havarti Dill and Smoked Gouda (Guy says it's very gooda).

My magic Filipino broom. about 4 bucks at the Asian market. Magic, because normally I can spend about 10 minutes to sweep a room with a normal lame American broom. The same floor will take about 2 minutes with my Magic Broom. I calculated once that over the course of one year, I save 26 hours of sweeping time. That means I get a whole day back every year that I use it. What other cleaning appliance gives you that?

Extreme Moose Tracks ice cream from Safeway, on sale $2.50 for a half gallon. But don't go buy it because they might run out and then I won't get any (it is like a frozen chocolate massage...um, ok, sorry. That is just weird.).

Eating a ripe pear (pealed) over the sink and being all drippy about it.

Jack Johnson, Duncan Sheik, Peter Gabriel, Natalie Merchant, Indigo Girls, Crowded House... on volume 8... 10 if the kids are home. (I got most of these at used stores like Dimple on Sunrise or via Columbia House online when they do promotions with free shipping).

Eco Thrift on Greenback and San Juan in Sacramento. Organized, great used clothes -cool stuff for $.98-$3.98, mostly. Big dressing rooms, too.

Jango.com, free streaming music. You choose the genre, then rate songs you like or don't, the website creates a radio station for you with similar songs to what you have chosen. I love it.

Second Saturday in downtown Sac (free). All the galleries stay open late. They serve cheese and crackers and fruit, and if you are lucky, you will get to see the flamboyant Tuxedo Twins in their limo.

Used books from http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.half.com/. I have been finding some great books for under a dollar (add $3.99 for S&H and you have a whole penny left for your "go-to-Hawaii-someday" jar). My latest finds: Parenting Teens with Love and Logic (to help me with my pre-teen with full blown teen-tude), and Love and Logic Challenges (see above).

Online movie reservations from the public library. FREE!!!! Yes, you have to wait until you have grey hairs in your ears before some of them come in but they have a ton of flicks. They hold them for 10 whole days, and if you realize at 11:30pm that they were due back today, you can recheck them for 3 more weeks online.

Date nite, Barnes and Noble and my hunny. Open till 11pm, lots of floor space to sit side by side and look at cookbooks and art books. Priceless!

Fences

Warning: Placenta-Talk Zone Ahead

For 12 years I have worked in childbirth, either having babies or helping other women to do so. If I had a buck for every time I have comforted a pukey first trimester mama, an aching full bellied mama a week past her due date, or a weepy mama with sore nipples and a screaming newborn, I could pay for new carpet. It is work I love. I love, love, love being the person who gets to throw the life ring into the water. There is probably some psychiatric term for people like me, folks who like to rescue. It's in my blood; my dad was once an ambulance driver, my mom worked in mental hospitals, just about everyone in my family has dabbled in special education, teaching, fostering... rescuing. It feels so good to help someone to feel less... less pain, less fear, less confusion.

And I have a lot of personal experience to lend to the discussion(s). Cesarean, epidural complications, natural birth, postpartum depression, infection, breastfeeding challenges... I can often relate to a mama directly, just by looking in my own back yard of pregnancy and childbirth experiences. It's a regular landfill.

Today I find myself on the other side of my fence. Over here, nothing is familiar. Over here there is going to be a bunch of stuff to learn and figure out. I never imagined I would be on this side of this particular fence.

My appointment at the infertility clinic is at 11:00.

What's (not) cookin'

I had an idea.

"Honey, people have been asking me for the recipe you invented for my birthday. I was gonna just post it on my blog... I mean, if that's ok with you..."

"No."

I laughed. He is so funny.

"No," he repeated seriously. "It's not ok. That's my recipe."

I can't believe it. My most easy going husband - my I could care less, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, devil may care hubby, feeling protective of his recipes. This from a man that seriously would be okay with me taking belly dancing lessons, with having Thanksgiving with perfect strangers (which we did once), with sharing money, food, and shelter with whom ever might need it.

But, apparently, not his recipes. Hmmm.

I have heard of these strange creatures out in the culinary-wild, but this is the first time I have encountered one in real life.

So, for now, I guess I will have to share the experience of his splendiferous concoctions via the written word. He says he may write a cook book someday. Let's all hope.

This stuff is way too good to keep to ourselves.

A new page in my book

For the past year I have been dreading my birthday. Yesterday I turned 40, and up to that point I had (have!) been a huge baby about the whole thing. To me, 40 seems half way to dead, and that’s if I live to see 80. I am in utter shock that my life is moving by so quickly, and a little bummed that I haven’t done more with it. So I pouted around for the past week and told Guy I didn’t want to celebrate.

Generally, I am a big fan of birthdays, but this one had been hard for me. The year has not gone at all as planned. The only saving grace being that I was to bridging the gap to “middle age” (eww) by bringing a new life to the planet. I guess I had hung way too much on that hat rack. This birthday had come with a sense of loss. All my life, 40 has seemed like the beginning of the end, the winding down, the getting fat-and-slow-and-sore. I pictured 40 as the year you become an extra in the film of your own life, while children take the center stage. The year you start talking about your aches and your retirement plan and new facial hair. The year you lose you.

But it came. It came despite my attempts to ward it off. I woke up yesterday, and I was oooooold (all of my over 40 friends can laugh at this point). Like I said, I was being a huge baby. I battled the kids to get ready for church and showed up 20 minutes late, already refining the “slow” part of old. But at church, no one appeared to notice that I was creaking while I walked or that there were cobwebs in my ears. Everyone seemed right pleased to wish me a good day, until by the end of church, paper birthday- crown on my head, I was feeling a little bit, well… normal. I hadn’t even had a single cardiac arrhythmia, and as far as I could tell, my bladder was holding out just fine.

But like a good little granny, I came home and took a nap. I woke to the beautiful music of my hubby on the piano, and yummy smells from the kitchen. The kids were in the studio being “busy” (“Don’t come in here, mom.” said with a secret-y smile, homemade birthday cards hidden behind backs), and all seemed well with the world.

My husband presented me with his cherished gift... hours spent in painstaking preparation culminating to the pinnacle of a gorgeous gourmet meal. Just for me, he invented a chicken breast stuffed with cream cheese, cashews, bacon, spinach and red onion, topped with smoked gouda and roasted pear slices, with a sweet, tangy pear cream sauce on the side. Beside it was a brilliant orange scoop of mashed sweet potatoes mingled with onion and bacon, followed by broccoli and French bread. A meal fit for royalty. I had a battle I have never had before; ‘which flavor do I choose as my last, lingering bite?’. It was a toughy. I went with the chicken.

Just as we were finishing up, friends began to arrive. There were so many people Guy would have invited if I would have let him, but I could only expose my aging underbelly to a select few (exposure metaphoric, of course. I'm not that far gone yet). We laughed and visited, and opened gifts. Peggy and “Baker” (as he is known to my children, David to us), did the foster-grandparent thing that they shine at, becoming hug dispensers and jungle gyms for my kids.

My friends know me so well… Heidi remembered my skin allergies when choosing bath soaps. From Steph, an elegant hand stamped box filled with “love notes”, little embellished cards for me to use for love notes for my dear ones, (and dark chocolates!). Dave had spent 3 days designing and building a journal for me (which will need be a post all unto itself). I actually want to hug it, it is so wonderful. Ethan remembered the name of my favorite childhood book, Girl of the Limberlost, and ordered it specially. We will read it together. Guy helped the kids each choose something special. That's the word for it all... special.

We indulged in an amazing chocolate Ganache cake with strawberry cream filling and the most amazing icing I have ever had (though true to form, Guy was analyzing the texture, calculating future improvements to the recipe). We stayed up really late, on a school night no less, and talked art, religion and food. We said goodbyes under a moody sky that teased with random rain drops, and I could not say enough thankyous to satisfy the bubbling gratitude I felt in my chest.

My hunny and I walked across the wet grass holding hands at nearly midnight, and soon inside, were washing up the dishes. I flashed back to our first night of premarital dish-doing so many years ago. Time has passed, but some things have not changed.

What a blessed day. I fought it so hard. Silly. If getting older means better food, better friends, more time with my sweet family and more gratitude in my heart, maybe it won’t be that bad after all. After all, I will never be younger than I am today, and I have a whole new book to write.

Somebody's watching

Everyone has little quirky things they do that they don't even notice.

Apparently, I pull my hair up into a loose pony and throw a towel

over my shoulder while I do dishes. How do I know?

Because somebody must have been watching.

Toddler Philosophy

The other day at the pool, the sun was glaring in my eyes so brightly that I sat on the step with my hands under my chin, my eyes closed. Tessa-loo came up and wrapped her drippy hands around my shoulders, giving me a start and a little chill.

"Why you got you eyes shut, mama?"

"The sun is too bright." says I.

"Den why you don't put sunblock in your eyes. Dat be all better."

Now, why didn't I think of that?

Still Waters

In my front yard I have a little pond. I dug it myself and framed it with rocks from my sister's ranch. Right now it is a mess. It is over grown, weedy and wild. The reeds are growing up in random directions and the lily pads are so thick you can't even see the bright orange fish in the dark, still water. The nasturtiums that usually creep sweetly around the pond and dip their toes in the cool water are now just plain creepy. My Japanese Maple tree, a gift from my husband on our tenth anniversary, looks like a hairy Muppet in desperate need of a trim. The braided foliage of last season's bulbs lay brown upon the ground, and the geraniums are covered with spent blooms.

My poor little pond is a mess.

It's time for the raccoon.

About twice a year, a local raccoon stumbles upon my pond. The first time it happened, he cleaned me out in two nights. I woke one morning to find a tidy pile of fins and scales stacked neatly in the middle of the walkway. Apparently, fins are too cartilaginous for his refined pallate. He had consumed two 6 inch comets, and returned the second night for the last one. In the process, he also knocked over the reeds, toppled the rocks and pulled up the lily's root ball.

The pond looked destroyed, but really it was a blessing. It had needed a good thinning and cleaning, and I had needed a good reason. It is not a simple job, and I spend an hour or two up to my knees in mucky water before the task is complete, but it is well worth the energy. The pond sparkles afterward, the plantings look elegant instead of ridiculous, and a zen-like peacefulness descends where chaos once ruled. In my continued efforts at mosquito abatement, I restocked the pond, this time with speedy little 10 cent goldfish. It would be some months before a raccoon would even notice them, but eventually they, too, became the midnight snack of my masked bandit.

And so we go, he and I. Sometimes he tears up my pond and never gets a fish. Sometimes he cleans me out in a night. Always he leaves a mess. Always when I am done cleaning it up, the pond is more beautiful than ever.

In this cycle of destruction and reconstruction, something happened. My pump broke. The water was no longer able to circulate.

Then came what can only come in still water. A lily. A creamy, beautiful, lemon-kissed bloom that opens in the morning light, closes tightly with the setting sun, and lingers for days. It is breathtaking.

I don't know what it is about me and the lessons I seem to learn from things like chickens and gardens and old trees. Maybe God has to talk to me this way because it is the only way he can get me to pay attention.

This is what my pond has taught me: Sometimes you need a raccoon to tear things up a bit to get you to do the deep work that you were always capable of doing. And sometimes beautiful things will appear when, quite by accident, your water becomes still.

Ressurection

About 5 years ago, the 50 year old Modesto Ash tree in our front yard met it's match with a wind storm that blew through town. More than ironically, I had been standing in the front yard not 10 minutes before with the lady from the Sacramento Tree Foundation, talking about that tree. It was oddly shaped from having become codependent on a nearby Canary Palm that had recently moved to live at a resort in the desert (and that is a story for another day. Honestly, I don't make this stuff up).

As the tree lady and I went to the back yard to look at the trees there, the Ash tree succumbed to the blustery day, nearly half of it splitting off and crashing to the ground in the exact place that we had been standing. Strangely, miraculously, blessedly, the branch that was squarely aimed at our house missed, where only 3 feet away from the window, baby Ellie lay sleeping. When we returned to the front yard, we found it laying at a 90 degree angle to the direction it had been leaning. I told anyone who would listen that God reached down and pushed it aside with his mighty finger. The branch twisted and flipped, laying itself across our lawn and trailing all the way to our neighbors front porch.

We were unbelievably blessed that day.

We kept the remaining tree, thinking that we might somehow save the old fellow. A few years passed, when one day my husband noticed a terrible split running the length of another large branch. It was too much. Too dangerous. The tree needed to be "put down".

I was so sad to loose my tree. Trees are not like people to me, they are people. They have a magical life to them that I love. They whisper in the fall, and make every afternoon breeze into a ticker tape parade. In winter they carve the grey sky with black, reaching limbs, and bring glorious relief as they announce the coming of spring on budded branches. Generously, they dapple the grass with delicious shade in the summer. They may actually have fairies in them, I think.

I was sad, but I knew it had to be done.

Our wonderful 70-something friends, Dan Mealy and Gerald Corbett, came to help us bring down my dear tree. A long while of negotiating angles and ropes resulted in a very brief but very nerve wracking and thrilling 30 seconds as the tree came down. They made some well placed cuts and tied the tree to the bumper of an old Ford and with the gunning of the engine, down it came.

I was too sad to think of my good old tree being burned in a temporary blaze of less-than-glory as firewood, so I put an add on craigslist for an artist to come and save my tree. I wanted to give it another life, an new chance to continue on. I also wanted to support an artist and give them materials, sometimes hard to come by when you are broke and making art.

A kind young man named Chris contacted me and came out with his chainsaw to take my tree trunk home with him. When he arrived, he pointed out a meandering black line in the trunk's interior wood. It was damage from the rotting tree that had creeped down deep into the wood. "Oh, no, does this mean you can't use it?" I asked. "Oh, no." he said, and then he explained that this was coveted in woodworking. The black line would leave a beautiful and unique design in the finished pieces.

Off he went with a promise that in a year or so, after the wood had cured, he would send me a photo of the finished work. I was hopeful, but thought I might never see what my tree had become. After all, people get busy and forget. I was just glad to see it going home with an artist.

True to his word, a year and some months later, Chris emailed. He wanted me to see the bowls my tree had become. He invited me to a show to pick one of the bowls to keep. I was beyond thrilled.

It took me a while to get my act together with all that has transpired here lately, but this weekend Ethan and I went out on a date. We drove to Roseville and met Chris and his beautiful wife at their booth at the Fountains. We saw their lovely work (http://www.freerangewoodworking.com/) , his woodwork and her glass work and pottery, and enjoyed a lovely visit. He let me choose a bowl, and his wife pointed me towards one I had already had my eye on. The black damage that had spelled the end for my tree had indeed become, at the hand of a skilled artisan, beautiful designs on the side of the lovely bowl.

Isn't it wonderful that a flaw can become a strength? Isn't it amazing what a master can do with raw, imperfect, damaged material? Isn't it wonderful?

I made a meal for my family yesterday, and my son hurried to get the bowl for a beautiful salad. The bowl made the common elements of the salad look elegant and vibrant.

I am grateful that my tree was not really lost.

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them. Ether 12:27"

Little bit big

This morning Tessa came out and asked me a very simple question.

"Mommy, is I a little bit big?"

Her voice was loaded. This was not a question about stature, and the last thing she wanted was accuracy. There was almost a worried sound in her sweet little voice.

"Yes," I smiled, thinking I might know what she was getting at. "You are a little bit big." I waited for her explanation, or perhaps her proposition. Surely she had a plan for which being "big" was a crucial factor.

"Thank you!" She said it earnestly, and with relief. I was surprised. She didn't have an agenda, she needed a compliment.

When I was a kid there was a song on the radio that proclaimed "Short people got no reason." I remember being small, and making myself little promises. I told myself, "When I am big I will not say "never mind" to children." I told myself I would pick children up so they could see over the counter at the hardware store. That I would listen to children when they gave epic accounts of favorite cartoons. I promised my childhood self that I would never make children feel small.

When I was a teenager my mother once asked the deadly question, "Do I look fat in this?" In my idiotic 15 year old brain, I saw an opportunity to give my mother an obvious lesson in perseverance. I replied, "You know, Mom, you could loose weight if you really wanted to." Now that I am older, along with a little more grey matter and a few extra kilos, I know what she was asking. She felt badly about herself, and she wanted to know if she was worth loving.

This morning I think that Tessa was asking me very plainly; Am I important? Do I matter? Am I OK? Do you love me?

"Is I a little bit big?"

To me, she is HUGE.



Photo by Cute Annmarie Hall who takes the best pictures ever.

I think I broke your arm

I did it again. Open mouth, insert foot. I was talking big for my britches, acting like I know more than I do, and embarrassed myself. I do it so often that I have a large pocket in the back of each cheek from shoving my hooves in my mouth so often. I'm like a hamster, only instead of whole carrots, I use feet.I apologized, but that rotten "I'm such an idiot" feeling didn't leave. An hour later I sought out the victim of my moronic mouth and apologized again. She said no worries, but I still have them. I haven't been able to shake the feeling. I want to say sorry again, but I won't. I have to just work it out in my head now. Becky taught me that.

When I was in college, I had a friend named Becky. She was tiny, about 4'10", and had a tiny voice like a child, but in all other ways she looked like a grown up. She was bubbly and laughed a lot, and I really loved being around her. One day as she walked by me, Becky bumped me with her ball point pen. It left a little mark on my arm and she was very concerned. "Are you OK? Did I hurt you?" I laughed and assured her that I was fine, that she couldn't hurt me with a club, but a few minutes later she asked again. Again I reassured. Then about half an hour later, she asked AGAIN! "OK, Becky, What's up?" I asked.

"Well, I guess I really should explain..." she began. When Becky was 12, she developed strange horizontal stretch marks on her shins. Her mother took her to several doctors, who all brushed her off. But the last doctor, the kind they make movies about, knew what he was looking at right away. "Your daughter has a rare benign brain tumor on her pituitary gland." He told them. It was a one in 100,000 kind of deal. Test confirmed it, and a surgery was scheduled right away. The tumor was removed through a tiny cut under her top lip and into her sinuses. She recovered and all seemed well. Then on a follow up visit, the unimaginable. Becky had another one. Not a recurrence of the same one, but an entirely new tumor. Now Becky was a 1 in a million, and she became a case for the medical books. Doctors were forced to remove Becky's pituitary and adrenal glands, along with the tumor.

Everyday, Becky carried a large Tupperware in her backpack. In it were dozens of pill bottles. Because she no longer had the glands in her body to regulate her hormones, she had to take medicines to either imitate those hormones, or stimulate their production. Things we take for granted, like insulin, progesterone, thyroid, and many more I don't even know about, were provided in pill form. She carried her medicine with her everywhere, because if a bus broke down or a storm stranded her away from her medication, she would die.

Becky explained that when ever doctors had to tweak one hormone level, it would send a few of the others out of whack. And each time that happened, she had some unusual side effects. "I know it sounds stupid," she said, "but because I bumped your arm, I truly believe in my heart that I broke it. My logical mind says it's impossible, but right now, I believe I broke your arm."

She went on to explain that this was one of her more mild imbalances. She has had germ phobias and hand washing obsessions. The worst was the phase when she believed she was killing people. If she drove past someone standing on the street corner, she would think she had accidentally struck and killed them. She would circle the block looking for their dead body. "That was a hard one." she smiled.

I had known Becky for months and had never known of the struggle inside of her. I knew she was tiny and had a ridiculously high voice (she was never blessed to finish puberty), but I had no idea about her daily mental struggle to function when all her radar was giving her misinformation.

Becky's story has gotten me through some difficult times. I struggle with inappropriate and inexplicable guilt. I rehearse conversations in my head after the fact, sure that I have offended the other person. I fret over hurting other people's feelings, not meeting expectations, and not being in tune enough to the hearts of others. I loose sleep, get physically ill, and can't shake the thoughts. I know it's getting bad when I find myself calling folks days later to apologize. When I hear the confused voice on the other end of the line saying, "Really, I didn't even think about it. I wasn't offended. You're worrying over nothing." I feel embarrassed. I have gotten used to it, but like Becky, I still wander around looking for the damage I believe I have caused.

I am really glad that I know about Becky, though, because more than giving me patience with my quirk, it has helped me to understand the quirks of others. My son Ethan will say and do some very irrational things with total commitment to their logic. No explanation will change his mind. If he believes it, then it's true. Becky taught me about my son 7 years before he even existed. Really, we all have odd little stuff. Becky's life explained to me a little about almost anyone I could ever meet.

I think the thing that I appreciate most is knowing that, in this case, I am not totally crazy (or maybe I am, but it's mostly just a chemistry quirk in my head, not necessarily a ginormous character flaw). Oh, I have those, too. Character flaws. Ask my husband. Heck, ask anyone who has been a victim of my hamster cheeks. But Becky showed me how to work on the things about myself that are hard to change, and to be kinder to myself when I fight the same battle over and over again. And again. And.... again. It's not an excuse. It's not a crutch. It is a very wonderful tool.

Thanks, Becky, where ever you are.

My life as a house plant

OK, I'm confused ("yes, we know." says the peanut gallery). No, I don't mean generally. Today I mean specifically, confused about something.

Six years ago we moved to Sacramento. We, well, actually I, believed we would be here in our starter home for about 3 years before returning to what had become our spawning grounds, Santa Rosa. Anyone who knows us has been repeatedly annoyed by our droning on and on about the virtues of the place. "It's beautiful!", we say- rolling hills covered in oaks and vineyards, misty groves of redwoods and pastures dappled with black and white cows. Eden. "Oh, the weather! " we say - balmy, not-too-warm summers with cool sweater wearing evenings, an outrageous blue sky, cotton ball clouds and hair tousling breezes. "And the feel of the place!", we say - Artist colonies, theater, galleries, cultural events, music, farmers markets, a half hour from the ocean and the redwoods, an hour from San Fransisco. All the things we love to do right in our front yard.

Lastly, "and we have such good friends there.", we say.

Oops. Something has happened in six years. Try as I might to have avoided it, I look down at the earth beneath my feet and realize I have set down roots here. I have friends. Wonderful friends, here. Wonderful friends ...in both places.

We stole away to Santa Rosa this past weekend, and because for the first time in ages we didn't have to be back for Sunday responsibilities, we stayed and went to church at our old meeting house. I worried as we walked in that we might not be remembered, or casual handshakes of recognition would let us know we had been out-of-sight-out-of-mind. But to the contrary, we were surrounded by sweet faces, beaming smiles and enormous hugs. We almost created a disruption as a crowd gathered to welcome us.

"Are you back!?" the questioners demanded. "We have missed you!" My heart both swelled and ached. I love these people. This is the place we started our marriage. This is the place where 3 of our children were born, where our friends cared for us through new babies, the death of my mother and many other trials and joys.

They hadn't forgotten us, but instead literally enfolded us in their arms in the chapel aisle. Within moments we had both lunch and dinner invites, and several offers to stay the night. It felt like we were home.

Later I sat in the sister's meeting, and a seat away sat Becky. She was shuffling through papers and didn't realize I had sat down beside her. Becky and I had just begun our friendship when I left. We had so much in common, but our paths had not crossed often enough for us to realize what good friends we could be until just before I had moved. I reached over the empty seat between us and touched her hand. She looked up, and a wave of expressions, one after the other, crossed her face in rapid succession; confusion, recognition, surprise... and then she pummeled me with a bone-crushing hug. She embraced me, wrapped her arms around me nearly twice and kissed my hair. She wept and and held on, and whispered, "I have missed you so much." Later, my family and I laughed and talked through lunch and dinner with the Funk's and the Hall's families. We fell in love with our dear friends all over again. It was like no time had passed at all.

It flooded back again, I love these people.

But there was a familiarity in that feeling. It was like being with one of your siblings and realizing that it is making you miss the others. I became aware, suddenly, of roots that I have also anchored in other soil.

I have been blessed in my life with lovely friends. When we came here to Sacramento I made an effort not to get too emotionally attached to anyone for fear of pain when we eventually left. But, wow, am I ever attached. And I get more attached by the day.
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In the past few months a new friendship peeked around the corner. Ellen and I have been in the same general vicinity for nearly two years, but just realized that we are woven from the same cloth only a few months ago. There is a safety and comfort I feel with her that takes years to cultivate in your run-o-tha'-mill friendship. Then there is Christina, who has made me laugh for several solid days with her emails. I never knew all that was sitting across (not acrosst, she hates that) from me in the chapel all this time. Before them was Stephanie. I have known her since we moved in, but only had the blessing of her hysterically funny phone calls and monster hugs in the last year or so.

I could make this the academy awards; "I'd like to thank Nicole, Heidi, Rebekah, Joanna, the Bakers..." Wow. Have I ever got roots. Too many to name, too special to leave any out.

Sometimes I wish I knew what the future held. Since life has taken a completely different track than I ever planned, I would want to know how many of my other well-laid plans I would be better off deleting from my mental Life's-to-do list. But then if I knew, maybe I would try too hard to avoid any deviations from the plan. Deviations like making lifelong friends. I would keep my self in a pot and never let my feet touch the earth.

But potted plants never grow as much as they could when planted in deep, fertile soil.

Let's not go to the hospital and say we did

Last night I was working on a lesson I will be teaching tomorrow for a church thing. Family relations. I am an expert in what not to do, so I guess it qualifies me to teach. As I sat at the computer working away, Guy put shoes on nearly a dozen feet and headed off to baseball practice with the kiddos. As he kissed me good bye and shuffled little ones out the door, I jokingly called out, "No broken bones, please!"

Approximately one half of one hour later, Guy surprised me by walking in the door, far too early to be back from practice.

"Guess what?" he said dryly.

Ellie trailed in behind him holding her arm, face beat red and tear streaked, horrible noises coming from her chatter box.

"Oh, you're kidding me." (My ultra intelligent response to calamity). "What did she...?"

"...jungle gym." Guy stated. Of course.

Well, last week we had spirited Adam to the ER rather hurriedly. I decided while we were there that I had been hasty. Not that I wouldn't have taken him, just that I would have waited a few more minutes for him to calm down so that I could see what we were really dealing with. So I sat Ellie down with a bag of frozen corn and some arnica (our miracle bruise cream, ask me about it anytime, I should be the company spokesperson...) and my mother's ancient, tattered copy of Little House in the Big Woods.

Two chapters later, it was clear that no bones were broken, and that an ace bandage and some love would be just what the mama ordered. What a blessing. Really, I have spent way too much time in doctors offices lately.

And way too much time at my pitty party. The company (me) is getting old. So I feel like making a list of my blessings right now. Here I go:

Ellie's smile. I'm so glad it's not broken (it = arm, not it = smile, but I'm glad her smile is not broken, either!).

The kids at 3:15. So far, 5 days in a row, all smiles after school.

Guy with a cotton ball taped to his arm. He is taking on all the testing we now need to do after so many miscarriages without a complaint. When he came home with that cotton ball taped to his arm after his blood test, I felt like he had brought me flowers.

Unlimited access to our neighbor's pool. No explanation needed.

My kind friends. How could I survive being in my head all day with out a phone break with one of them? Or several?

Ice cream: Legal narcotic. Not against the Word of Wisdom.

Ellen's hands. She and I bartered for an art/massage trade. It's massage, it's therapy, it's friendship. It's bliss. If there were chocolate involved I would find no need to pursue a glorified afterlife.

Scriptures that fall open to a whole chapter that was written thousands of years ago, just for me. (Job 5). Thanks, Job.

Hand me downs. When we had all these kids we knew we would have to provide for them. I am so blessed to receive hand me downs for them to start school, and that they don't care at all that the clothes aren't new.

Prayer, even when I'm not getting answers.

Tessa's adoration of me. I have never had a child be so in love with her mama. She gets high on rubbing her face on my skin. Seriously, it's like she is stoned, she loves it so much. "Mama, you so wahm!" she croons. She heals me.

Silly hats at dinner to celebrate a new school year, complete with sparkling cider and pinkies held aloft, "dahling!". Life needs to be fun again.

My helpful husband. He knows he can't take away my trials, so when things are hard he steps it up a notch to help me deal. I truly feel sorry for women who chose men that act like an extra child and choose not to help with the house and the kids.

Past trials making current ones a little easier to bear and to understand. Just another egg. And one less trip to the hospital.