Funny how my world rearranges itself for weather

This weekend, first in December, forecast for the Suite family a flurry... of Nutcracker and It's a Wonderful Life. Dancing and tech rehearsals and opening nights were predicted to swirl about and sweep us into a vortex of holiday rush.

 And then the weather decided to slow us down.

 In our corner of the world, snow is cute and fluffy and always melts by noon. A three-day snow and ice storm with temps in the single digits? Unheard of.

So this year, our dance and theatre plans were laid aside and postponed and generally, blissfully, stalled in the high drifts of white space.

 Oh impassable roads how I do love you. As do I my little white picket fence by the creek. It serves no purpose except to say I live in the house by the side of the road... with the white picket fence.

Recently the picket fence spoke hospitality to a pair of lost mushroom hunters who had been in the woods all of a wet, wintry night. So it's doing its job of advertising our friendliness.

At least one of our neighbors, one who lives about a mile away, thought us plumb cuckoo to have offered hot coffee and a ride to the young couple.

I don't know. Most of your garden-variety psychopaths aren't going to knock on the door at 6:45 in the morning with blue hands, chattering teeth and soaked jeans. I'm thinking not anyway.

 It looks lovely to walk through that gate to the creek. Except under a foot of snow lies a sheet of ice and one might go down the hill sled style without the equipment. Don't ask how I know.

 The horses'  tank has a floating heater that makes their water steam in this weather. They still ventured to the pond and broke the ice with their front hooves. Refreshing drink anyone?

 Murphy the dog was born for this weather. He and Madeleine explored the pastures and hillsides like it was a North Pole expedition. The rest of us were on the second pot of hot chocolate by the time she came in, stomping snow from her boots and pink-cheeked.

We still have another day of being homebound, if the forecast is correct. I'm trying not to plan ahead. If suddenly the roads are safe tomorrow is the matinee opening of "It's a Wonderful Life" at our local theater. And if the snow and ice remain, it's a wonderful life chez farm suite.

In the weeds, 2013 edition

So this year my vegetable garden is enormous. Sixty feet of green beans, thirty feet of carrots. Cabbages and tomatoes and corn oh my. Basil for year-round pesto, if I get my way.

In my heart I think I am a raised-bed-square-foot gardener but as of last year we became (spectacularly badly) farmers. With gorgeous, enormous beds-o-weeds. Because chemicals, not so much. (And don't get me started on genetically modified anything. We cannot afford that rant.)

So anywhat this year my father-in-law has very diplomatically put himself in charge of weed control. And because of that there is probably some hope for our row crops.
Let's just say that after last year, the expression "hard row to hoe" means a lot to me. I am demoted to the care of my gorgeous raised beds, which I filled with the herbs and tomatoes and peppers after I shoveled on the compost. Mah-self.
Oh and I am also responsible for the two-hundred-square-foot (or so) perennial garden which is packed with heirloom peonies, daylilies, roses and irises and of course weeds. On that front my history is repeating itself to the extent that a neighbor girl stopped and offered to weed it for me.

I think she might've wanted to be paid.

And since my own teenagers and pre-teens are much cheaper labor (they work for popsicles) I thanked her kindly but declined, whereupon she proceeded to join my children on the redneck slip-n-slide they made out of a tarp on the hill behind the house. While I went in to put some more juice and yogurt in the popsicle molds just in time for them to freeze for the end of the sprinkler festival.

So I still have weeds.

Which brings me to the metaphorical point of this post.

When a girl, say someone I know well, takes on too much (dance lesson delivery six days a week for four girls; the care and toilet training of one toddler boy; voice, flute, sewing and piano one per customer per week; equestrian and farm animal insanity daily; academics at the table and on the run; "side jobs" of a onetime, long-neglected, true love: writing and editing; occassional clerical and administrative details of her husband's engineering business) and won't admit it that it is too much, or can't edit it down to manageable levels of crazy, when this happens to the extent that she doesn't even care about massive overuse of the comma, well, then, this girl may have cause to understand the phrase "in the weeds."

Some days I can't see the flowers of my life for the weeds. I'm just sayin'. At those times I know I must sharpen my focus and choose to see only the beauty amongst the chaos. Because the need for a floor-length black gown for a vocal recital shouldn't reduce one to tears. And showing up on the wrong day for a doctor appointment shouldn't cause a panic attack.

So. Focus on the beauty and let the rest recede into blurry background. Easier said than done, you say? And you'd be correct.

I started researching panic disorders and adrenal failure and in general regretted having access to the internet before I remembered that when cleaning out a flowerbed, just as in cleaning out a closet, or a schedule, it is best to start with what you want to keep.

What brings me joy, what can I not do without, what is worthy of my time and the space in my life? These are the questions I have asked myself periodically to regain a sense of margin and peace about our schedules and our lives. NOT "who expects me to continue this" and "what will happen if I don't do that."

Then, after identifying the keepers, the perennials that bloom, attack it with a sharp hoe. And mulch it all around so the weeds can't creep back in too quickly. Don't forget to ask for help if you need it. Don't let it go for so long that the taproots of busy-ness are impossible to dig.

Notes to myself on gardening and life.

Mudslingers and muckrakers

 

Before raising children I was a news junkie who ate out more than she cooked.

Local and fresh meant the corner diner. 

 

Muckraking meant bringing up some really good dirt that needed to see the light.

Mudslinging was something politicians did and I reported.

 

 Gee, I'm happy to be a farm girl raising vegetables, flowers and children.

That other life was fun and I'm glad I had it.

It makes me appreciate this one so much more.

Spring fever meets summer planning? And a little melodrama.

From my spot on the lawn I have done the math.

We have just three weeks of schoolwork left before summer vacation.

I almost regret the nearing of the end of this school year. Don't mind me, it's just my bittersweet acting up again. You see, next year Madeleine and Sarah will begin logic curriculum. My babies, those creative nutty bookish sweethearts, are ready for more advanced studies whether or not I'm ready.

Isn't this the way of motherhood? Just when I'm all snuggled down with infant Salvador and ubercontent with my rocking chair teaching style, he's ready to wean and the big girls are ready for their own desks, [classical] educationally speaking.

Ah, well, at least I still have Grace and Laura to torture. I mean, to read aloud to. You know what I'm talking about even when I dangle my prepositions, don't you?

And then will come Salvador with the Tonka trucks and the We Help Daddy texts.


The thought, the mere thought, of him starting school is enough to make me lose control of my tear ducts.

I'm preparing for empty nest syndrome and I like to get a running start. That's all.

From whence does all this melancholy and melodrama spring?

From looking at the short list of what must be done before our whirlwind summer can commence.

It's a pretty short list: A little geography presentation, a little Constitution recitation, a little long division. And then let the school holiday begin, coinciding tidily with the end of my stint of teaching exclusively elementary school and preschool students.

I'm not ready, my father said to me when I announced my engagement to be married fast upon my graduation from university. (Maybe it was slightly before, but that's hardly the point.)

And now here I stand at a hardly comparable milestone with the same reaction. I'm not ready.

Of course life doesn't give me a warning, a "ready or not" chant during which to secure a better hiding spot. (Living in the moment might have its drawbacks when one is gobsmacked by the future.)

So. For the summer. We are hosting family, camping, taking a road trip or two, celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, gardening, riding ponies, sending children to theater camp (Melodrama! I kid not.) and church camp and art camp and then taking a deep breath before we jump in the deep end. Again.

It reminds me a little of the time Madeleine (now 12) was about to lose her second baby tooth. She must have been five and the first tooth had come out just a month or so beforehand. As she approached me with the news of the wiggliness, her baby self said very soberly, "Mom, I don't want you to freak out or anything. It's bound to happen."

Yes, Miss Madeleine, it is.

What are you planning? What milestones do you pass this season?

I choose pretty. For real.

When I was a girl I used to get in trouble for decorating my room. Well, more to the point: I used to get in trouble for re-decorating my room when I was supposed to be simply tidying.

And who wouldn't rather plant flowers than weed?

Who wouldn't rather read a book than dust the bookcases?

Who wouldn't rather have a lemonade stand than... pretty much anything? Maybe there is a little Mary Poppins in me after all.

A spoonful of pretty helps the real go down.

For today, and most days, I'm considering the lilies

along with the positively brilliant Pretty, Happy, Funny, Real linky

over at Like Mother, Like Daughter.

Still raining

It's cold and wet outside and we're not huddled by the fire waiting for Spring. We're watching the neighbors re-roof and we're reading a lot of Little House and we're playing with the ponies in the rain.

Mainly because our little homestead has no fireplace. Also? We have to send a couple of sewing machines to the hospital.

And a little bit because some of us were born here and think that if our animals are out in it, we should be too.

For the first time in as long as I can remember I am not wishing Winter away. I haven't even cracked a seed catalog nor ordered baby chicks. And it's time, isn't it? I'm almost late already.

Who is this masked farmgirl, content to let the seasons keep to their own pace?

Gah.

I think a still, small voice must be getting through to me.

Groove? I had a groove?

I like to worry way, way ahead of time. (Which of course is ridiculous as there's not really an appropriate time for worry. But follow me for a moment, if you will.)



I especially obsess about things I can't control and/or about which I have only a vague idea, such as Empty Nest Syndrome and Blog Readership Decline.

Well, maybe I could work on controlling the blog readership thing. But in my random notions on the subject I'm sure that it would require posting regularly, with some, er, content, and even possibly some expectancy of quality. And the main reason that's a problem for me is that I'm too busy worrying about how to keep all my babies from ever leaving me in an empty nest.

Kidding.

Sort of.

After our fourth baby, Laura (who turns a dynamic, energetic THREE today!), I spent a little bit of precious time looking for my "groove." I emailed with some friends and some bloggy buddies, fellow travelers and writers on the subject of getting that groove back for goodness sakes. I wanted to know if I'd ever feel "myself" again. That writing, reading, traveling self who skipped the recipe section in magazines because she ate mainly yogurt.

But after the arrival of our fifth child, Salvador (who is all of six months old and still as delicious as can be), I'm not feeling the groove search. It's possible I'm still caught up in 2010's goal of living in the moment (which sounds a little, upon re-reading, like living in the past?). Or it's possible I've simplified to the point that I don't need to return to any pre-mommy glory days.

These days are fairly glorious all on their own.

And they're fleeting.

Our eldest, Madeleine (a scary-smart 12 years old!), second daughter, Sarah (still my 10-year-old bookworm mini-me), and our middlest, Grace (6 and a half and a Lego/puzzle/spatial genius)... these three have taught me that the baby years go too quickly to be wished away in any way, even in pursuit of finding oneself. There will be time for that when the nest is emptier. Right?

At this point, and I reserve the right to freak out later, I like my particular current groove just fine. I like my recipe-reading, bread-baking, baby-wearing life like I like jazz. It's sometimes unexpected. And it's beautifully full of high and low notes with an engaging beat of soul.

I might even call it groovy.

Watch and learn

If I were a chubby little baby (a-hem) I'd watch other people fall down and laugh and I'd think falling could be fun.

.

I'd think there'd be someone to chuckle with me over this hilarity of falling. I might even think people fall on purpose for the experience. Over and over.

.

I certainly wouldn't confuse falling with failing.

.

I might do this and then grow up to be a risk-taker, thrill-seeker, limit-pusher. Or I might just grow into one fantastic individual unafraid to fall, or to fail, in the pursuit of new horizons.

.

I dunno.

.

This parenting gig might have something to teach me.

.

p.s. Did you get a glimpse of that baby's hair?

Long awaited (?) updates from the farm

Tallulah died. The first cold, cold, snappy cold night of the season found her huddled under the heat lamp in the henhouse. We knew she needed a little extra coddling... what with her age, her molting near-nekkedness and the chillier weather... so we had plugged in the red warming light and brought her a personal feeder and waterer.

Maybe it made her last night more comfortable.

Maybe it was just her time.

But.

Just last autumn we were still raking leaves for the dog. He really loved to jump in the leaf piles with the kids. He especially loved to try to catch the leaves as they fell from the trees. It looked so very comical -- an 85-pound golden blur leaping and twisting to reach fluttery maple leaves.

We've had our share of loss this season.

The girls (and I) are campaigning already for a new dog, for a new batch of chicks, for a leaf blower (just kidding about that last one).

But if we look around, really looking, there's more to be thankful for than ever before.

It seems that simplify is, after all, an active verb. It takes a lot of thought and planning and frankly a lot of hard choices and a little loss to truly simplify one's life.

Running between chess and ballet class and band practice and horseback riding lessons, not to mention doctor appointments and, you know, delivering our fifth baby -- none of this was simple. None found us enacting that other cliche, either, of "living in the moment," which is a noble goal with a regrettably stupid catchphrase. Rather we stumbled from one event to the next. "Next" was the operative in my so-called stay-at-home, homeschooling, homesteading life.

I didn't know how to be still. I actually missed out on a lot of contemplative opportunities.

Did you know that kneading bread can be a chore to be rushed while the baby's asleep before homeschool co-op convenes? In those circumstances the yeast and flour and water combine to create a pressure-filled panic attack.

But with a little gumption and a clear decision a girl can say "no" to a few things, leaving room for the mundane to be even a bit beautiful.


"Be still and know that I am God." (Ps. 46:9) What I think this means to me, in this season, is that all my self-driven busyness is the opposite of stillness and, worse, puts me in the position of being god of my own circumstance. Which I gotta tell you I am so not qualified for.

In the midst of some gains and some losses and some difficult choices, in the direct aftermath of saying "no" several more times than is comfortable for a people-pleaser like myself, then did we feel some peace.

A little tranquility, at home in our little rural village.

And room for fun?

It's amazing how much more fun we have when we're dang I wish there was a better way to say this living in the moment.

When we're being still a lot more often.

Raking the leaves. Jumping in them. Reading some poetry and some fairy tales. Kneading some bread. Laughing more. Worrying less. Turning the light on for the chickens and remembering that God is in heaven.

One week in

I can't seem to find the proper balance between experiencing the moment and recording it.

The newborn sweetness is intoxicating. Time holds its breath while paradoxically flying by.

And then the beginnings of interaction and emerging personality tiptoe in to surreptitiously albeit joyously replace the milk-breath exhilaration and exhaustion of new life.

I know these minutes and days go too quickly; I am determined to memorize them.

Makes me happy

The pretty little cherry tree and its valiant first-year fruiting effort makes me so happy each time I wander through our tiny orchard.



And you know what else makes me happy? The way the girls "decorated" the inside of the rabbit habitat. It sits between the chicken yard and the orchard, so the bunnies have a nice view no matter which way they look.

If you are reading this now, it does not necessarily mean I have not yet had the baby. Nor does it mean I have. And it CERTAINLY doesn't mean I've gained the patience I need for the long haul.

Why is it that I keep hearing stories of women who were pregnant three and four weeks after their due date? Clearly I'm hanging out with the most patient crowd of induction-averse, trust-your-body weirdos. And you know what they say about the company one keeps.

I trust my body alright. I just don't want to think about it anymore. So I'll keep meandering around my yard, contemplating the rabbit hutch and the cherry trees and pretending I'm uberpatient and Earth-mother-like.

And if you know me in real life, try not to let on what a whiner I am in between bouts of heroic peace and calm. K?

She's back.

Just look at the eyes on that horse.

I think I mentioned my mini crise de nerfs when we sold the incomparably beautiful, sweet and well-bred Seven before Christmas. And I'm pretty sure I updated you last week that she'd been, well, abandoned at the boarding barn when something happened in the would-be buyer's life that kept her from following through with a lot more than farrier care and stall rent.

Now we've Seven back. Like a lucky penny I guess. (Isn't that how it goes?)

Someone asked Madeleine yesterday as she was mucking stalls whether Seven is for sale again.

Like a mom (and, to be honest, like a salesperson) I answered with a price. Meanwhile Madeleine kept her back turned and continued picking the stall clean.

And then I got in big trouble later with my oldest daughter. It's an emotional roller coaster, this adolescent girl and horse thing. Not to mention how I feel about it.

This is after all the horse Madeleine came off of and broke both arms. This is after all the horse on which that same tiny but fearless girl broke the barrel speed record in her age group. When she "wasn't even trying." It's a pretty deep chasm between the two experiences and it's somehow to be crossed with possibly the same difficulty and certainly similar trepidation as raising a soon-to-be teen. Letting go and hanging on. Risking and protecting. Balancing happiness and inevitable pain.

But did you see those eyes?