Autumn at the ocean

September is the beginning of our favorite time to visit the Oregon coast. Saltwater and sunshine and sandy feet combine in an alchemy of pure joy. The winds are slow and so is time.

This particular September we are choosing rest. Is this possible in the midst of ballet, tap, jazz, modern, Guys and Dolls, piano, voice, sewing... farm work... and schoolwork? I submit that it is possible. At least it's worth trying.

Dear Mr. Suite and I talk a lot about finding balance. He runs an engineering business and serves as a planning commissioner for our county government. He fences (and re-fences) and hauls hay and fixes the farmhouse. I teach school to five students of hugely varied learning styles and giftedness and I keep the house (mostly) and garden (sadly small this year but still) and meals and carpool schedule. I also write grants for a few non-profits and squeeze in the occasional writing and photography that fills my heart. So there's that.

Our teens are intensely involved in community and children's and public school theaters. They dance at two different studios that are 25 miles apart. One is dedicated to ballet and one loves modern and tap. One is training horses and dogs and one is showing rabbits. Our younger children have pets and piano lessons and passions of their own. The Lego budget. The book budget. The gas budget. 

And the time and energy budget. I'm just saying.

We used to have an unofficial family motto, spoken somewhat in jest: "Work hard, play hard." Most famously, my exceedingly hardworking husband once declared in a time of exhaustion, before a 9-hour-drive to see a baseball game: "We. Will. Recreate."

In a slight divergence from that I propose: "We. Will. Rest."

We will rest in the moments between tap and rehearsal. We will rest in the knowledge that a great thirst for knowledge and discovery is a much better educator than is a proficient lecturer. We will rest and realize that sometimes good enough is truly enough, that perfectionism is a pit that separates us from joy and from others. We will rest knowing that the waves come in, the waves go out. The wind calms in autumn.

And there is a season for rest.

How do you find rest? Is it a principle or a practice? Or both?

The "getting real" post

It happens, every so often, that I read a flurry of articles and blog posts imploring mommy bloggers and fashion bloggers and farming bloggers and faith bloggers to just get real. (Political bloggers need not fuss with this stricture as there is no getting around the real ugly.)

In case you missed the memo(s): Others' Facebook happiness makes us depressed, Pinterest as a whole makes us dissatisfied with our mere human crafting/cooking/skydiving abilities, and the rosy lives pictured in weblogs are akin to Photoshopped models in fashion ads, creating a rarified air that none of us can really breathe. Focusing on the positive can smother a person, apparently.

Pshaw.

 If y'all want ugly there's always mainstream media. And the cupboard to the left of the sink. And screen-time-limit meltdowns and arriving a month early (or a month late!) to the orthodontist-whose-bill-comes-anyway, or an aching shoulder and a little bit of arthritis in that hand that makes you inadvertently drop a pot full of stewed tomatoes. Talk about a hot mess. The satellite internet limit that is exceeded by streaming school classes two weeks into the month. And the neighbor who left cookies in your mailbox and then got upset when the mail lady thanked you for them when they were so obviously for your kids from the neighbor (Follow? Me neither!). Someone from your church facing divorce, someone in your family facing cancer.

I kinda got on a roll there just thinking about the "real" of this week. It's only Tuesday.

You know, these are the everyday and bigger uglinesses that just don't bear talking about.

 Let's encourage each other with thankfulness and prettiness and focus on that. Won't you? I am aware that on your blogs and facebook pages, most of you edit out the schmutz. And I'm good with that. Not because I don't want you to be real! I do! I am so achingly glad you a real human being on this journey with me, and I want to walk with you through whatever you want to share.

One of the ways I survive the ugly is to post the pretty.

Y'all know it's bad if you can't look around and find some beauty. 

There's my one-time farmhouse. It is so very pretty in each season. Finally sale pending and approaching closure, not that I want to jinx anything, after seven escrows. Seven. I haven't blogged adequately about the heart-wrenching decision to move to this new farm two years ago. I haven't shared in any small part how I feel about the quality of light at that house, about how I left behind community and struck out for something new and found myself not just alone in the wilderness but lonely here. It took more than a year to understand that the light filtering through forest is its own kind of golden green. There's a glow from the barn when the stars are the only other light, and when you drive past the spaces between the barn boards look twinkly. My garden is amazing -- and overwhelming! -- and friendships once easily maintained by a stroll down the lane and a cup of coffee remain, and that spending time with those loved ones on the once-dreaded phone and internet is a new kind of beauty.

My new farmhouse takes more careful framing to find the photo-worthy. So I focus carefully because otherwise I'd live in a puddle on the floor. Truly. I thank you for your positive, for your gratitude, for your rose-colored glasses where the world wide web is concerned. Because I think the more we zoom in on beauty, the more we find.

Yesterday I realized my husband's dog Jake died five years ago. And my dog Bonnie Belle died nearly three years ago. So we got Murphy and Molly two years ago and now Molly is gone. Guess what? I never blogged adequately about the vomit and the accidents and the geriatric care that each of those pets required in their final days. Do you know how I got on this subject? I happened upon an old photo of sweet Bonnie Belle on the forbidden couch, and then laughed as I scrolled through that album to see all of the dogs fully owning the couch at one time or another. I remembered that Jake's last trip around the property was in pursuit of sitting by Laura in the stroller, down by the barn where I was watching the big girls ride ponies. I remembered that Bonnie Belle would ever so genteelly accept treats at the coffee drive-through even though she would never, ever ingest them because she was above the crunchy bone-shaped weirdness and she knew enough to wait for homemade peanut-butter-filled jerky treats at home. Molly? Molly loved the children so much that she let them dress her in hats and scarves. She would paw around in the dress-up bin for a favorite wool (dog slobbery) beret. Which is more true? The embarrassing bodily functions of aging pets or the photographed and internet-shared memories that cast them in best light?

I'd rather watch for the prettiness on the internet and hold your hand in person when we're having a crisis, big or small. I want to be "real" with you, but not so much on the internet. I'm just sayin'.

Dogs and other happinesses

Today as I quickly upload these snaps of late-summer fun and games I have six students at my school table. It's transition time.

We are still jogging through the last bits of summer chez Suite but the autumn rituals are tapping in for a good run.

A cozy wrap after bedtime bath.

Some wildflowers gathered for seed.

Mommy's seasonless dreams of pictures wherein everyone is smiling angelically and no one is pulling anyone else's hair or last nerve. It's the tradition that transcends cultural and national boundaries. (And you thought that was music?)

Salt dough travels

Madeleine's been spending a lot of time in Mexico.

While Grace is around the world in France.

And Sarah? She thought India would be interesting.

The school year marches on and the 'big girls' have been studying topography, geography, culture and chemistry. We're sewing costumes and practicing recipes for madeleines (a French cookie) curry and fried ice cream. We're very authentic that way.

I love watching each girl's concentration meet with imagination.

I love homeschool.

This week we received the sad news that the rural school across the road from us is closing. We have loved that school, more specifically its teachers and staff and students, for five years despite our decision not to attend. We will miss the tiny red school on the hill. No matter how far we "travel," a little bit of our heart will remain there.

We live and learn

How is it March already?

It's nearly time for spring fever for school children and mommies everywhere.

My daffodils are still shivering and the maples aren't yet in bud. I haven't yet started a seedling although I plan to do so this week. Winter storms still pound on the skylights and most passing cars still wear snow tires.

I suggested a hike to my sweet children the other day. A nice, long nature hike to collect mosses and cones. "That sounds miserable," replied one child who then entered a form of witness protection. She was right but it still stung. I'm ready, for goodness sake, for spring. So why won't the weather cooperate?

Thirty days of thanksgiving

I was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone yesterday evening when we realized it was exactly one month to Thanksgiving.
It's a good year to be thankful. Come to think of it, when is it ever a bad time to be thankful?

For family and fun and free time (little inside joke there, not to worry) and the fantastic fireworks of life.

Man, that dog likes to jump at falling leaves. Every year I take dozens of pictures of him leaping in the air like a fool after leaves as they drift down. The girls enjoy helping him out with his game. When there are no leaves falling, he settes for bubbles. But the leaves are clearly preferable.

.

I stayed home yesterday in a serendipitous dead battery situation (it was a car, not a metaphor) so Laura and could have tossed a few leaves between rain showers. But we didn't. We baked chocolate chip cookies while the big girls walked across the road for band and a wetlands project.

.

The wetlands part cracks me up a little. Don't tell Grace; she takes it very seriously. And of course she's right. Preserving and restoring our native environment is very important. It's a big part of what my husband does every day. But last week? The kids came home full of knowledge of the "edible" plants of the wetlands.

.

Um, well-meaning school district? Do we need to be encouraging our children to forage in the wild for camas bulbs and cattails?

.

Even more for which we can be thankful.

.

On the homeschooling front, I am grateful that we are in a good groove this year. Last year's shiny slick has worn off and comfort is back in our learning styles. Madeleine and Sarah spend a good deal of time on self-directed reading and research every day. We opted not to drive into town for chess or archaelogy or any of the other cool electives they took part in thanks to a homeschool co-op last year. Although the classes were fabulous, the girls and I were in the car way too much. So this year everyone is blessed to take part in our local great music program including flute for Sarah and clarinet for Madeleine. In addition to that they can and do join the school for any special projects.

.

Gracie is excitedly learning to read. Her favorite book character is "Bob." As we are attending a masquerade party next week at which everyone must dress as a character from a book, I am struggling to figure out how to dress my five-year-old as a stick figure with a very square head who likes to rhyme every sentence with the next.

.

Madeleine is going to be -- who else? -- Nancy Drew. I am on the hunt for some penny loafers. Sarah vacillates between Hermione Granger of Potter fame and Fern from Charlotte's Web. I hope she decides quickly or I am going to be thankful for my sewing machine in an all-nighter kind of way.

.

Laura doesn't get to vote. She'll be Dora the Explorer and I defy the host and hostess of the party to mention that Dora is not primarily a literary figure.

.

It's 29 days to Thanksgiving Day here in the United States. What are you thankful for?

A Powell's pilgrimage

What could possess me to wake up at 4:45 on a foggy August morning? Further, to rouse five sleepy girls (mine plus one sleepover pal) just 15 minutes later? To bundle up for the still chilly air, to buckle into the Suburban fortified only with a cup of coffee in the pre-dawn moments? To drive three and a half hours on the Interstate? Oh, my. What could be worth that?

Downtown Portland is nice.

Waiting for the train with strange silent umbrella guy, equally nice.

Oh! Powell's famous independent bookstore. Covering one full city block on seven levels of near-heaven (I'll have to ask them if they designed that many levels purposefully) is tailor-made for a perfect day for a bibliophile and her bookworm brood. Totally worth the pilgrimage.

Madeleine stood mesmerized in the young adult mystery aisle and caressed the vintage Nancy Drew collection.

Laura happily read Eloise Wilkin as we walked and shopped. Literature and reference sections for Mommy. Curriculum for the school year. Maritime fiction for Daddy (who had to work but was with us in spirit). Forensics for the big girls. Oops. Gory. Let's move on from that to see if they have any age-appropriate references on crime solving. Well, of course they do! It's Powell's famous independent bookstore, the City of Books. So the girls chose some books that detail how to make and use fingerprint powder and how to tell (without a polygraph) whether a suspect is lying. That should make life in our little town interesting.

I visited my old stomping grounds in writing and literature but didn't dare take all five girls into my favorite haunt: the rare book room. You can peruse that ever-changing collection at Powell's online, but it's not the same as being there, breathing in the particular scent of centuries-old hand-decorated volumes nestled up next to signed copies of first edition Ursula LeGuin.

So in lieu of the rare book room we had lemonade and sandwiches in the coffee shop, which is not as funky or fun as it was in my pre-mommy days when my husband and I used to close down Powell's like some 20somethings close down bars. But it's probably cleaner. I'm alright with that tradeoff.

.

Sarah kept a notebook close to her chest. What was she writing all day? A list of "strange" things she witnessed. The dog in a "wheelchair" to support its paralyzed back legs. The men with "inappropriate" piercings. The woman with no apparent disability in a designated seat on the train really offended Sarah's sensibilities. Green hair, blue hair, business suits and tall buildings that reflect everyone passing alike. Someone wrote on that window with a diamond. Someone didn't buss their plate. "City people are colorful," she concluded in her notebook. I just love the little editorial journalist in her.

.

I successfully navigated city traffic in the Suburban -- so much different than in my Volkswagen! The kids played highway bingo and catalogued nine different state license plates. We stopped at the Northwest classic Burgerville for real ice cream shakes (none for me, thanks, Carb Police) and drove along the river through Oregon City and meandered back roads all the way home.

.

We were back by dinner, bags full of books and hearts full of memories.

Breaking news on the farm

So Tuesday I scrambled. I scrambled farm fresh eggs for breakfast and then I scrambled to make deadlines. It came on without warning. Monday was rather uneventful: only the normal amount of post-weekend freaking out about scheduling issues and sleep deprivation. Madeleine was to spend the day at the barn; Sarah had a play date with her friend Noelle; my former neighbor Christy visited with her brand-new baby. Joy! Monday was fun and a fitting calm-before-the-storm-0f-Tuesday.

.

Little did I know as I cracked the eggs into the pan on Tuesday morning that I'd be facing crises on what seemed to be every front: real estate, personal finance, parenting, business, health. As I told my husband, by the end of the day my insides were tangled barbed wire. My thought processes were so disconnected that I'd dial the phone while repeating my intention for the call, out loud, to myself, so as not to forget it by the time someone answered. (I'm aware this makes me sound more than a little nuts.) And heaven forbid the phone should ring! So of course it did, incessantly bringing more news of urgency and import.

.

A client's short sale was barely beating the scheduled sheriff's sale of foreclosure and so naturally hit a big snag that threatened the deal and necessitated my administering real estate mouth-to-mouth (just as gross as CPR; even more spit involved). Another listing was inexplicably the victim of an attempted break-in. Long-promised and financially essential receivables were delayed (again). The girls were uncharacteristically snappish with one another, picking up on my stress no doubt. We visited the dentist: Grace needed work. We saw the doctor: Sarah added asthma to her list of crosses to bear.

.

Tuesday, in short, was lousy. I felt like Sandra Bullock in "Speed," an adrenaline-powered flick that requires the heroes to keep their miles per hour above 65 in a crazy car chase of doom without crashing the bus or (hmm... how did that work?) running out of gas. Of course I drank a couple of quadruple-shot lattes, so that probably didn't help with my jitters either.

.

Wednesday continued the theme. After waking up still possessed of a tangled-wire constitution, I put more than 200 miles on the Suburban. And to quote Sarah I "didn't even go anywhere good." Place lockboxes. Meet locksmith. Plant signs. Prepare invoices. Answer cell phone ad nauseum. (Try not to remember that it's illegal now to drive while talking on the phone.) Pick up checks. Fax eighty seven thousand pages. Drop off checks. Call mortgage companies, title companies, other Realtors-who-don't-work-as-hard-as-I. Drop off kids. Pick up kids. Forget ballet lesson. Remember horses, chickens, rabbits, gargantuan garden. Deer have walked through the as-yet-unbuilt gates and eaten the tops of the tomato plants. Forget to hang bathing suits to dry. Curse silently in lieu of self-lullaby while husband works late. (Or early into Thursday, to tell the truth.)

.

Thursday. Oh. My. Word. If it could have gone on like that, I'm not sure I'd even have the heart to blog it for you.

.

Let me just say that on Thursday, I re-enrolled in school. The President wants me to finish my MFA. Did you know that? Yeah, he pretty much called me from Russia to say, "Hold on Michelle, I'm on the line with Miriam. Yes. Miriam, I am thinking maybe you need to immerse yourself in academia where you can return to your bookworm ways. I'm thinking there are grants for this and then you can stop running around like a proverbial chicken with its... well... that's a little graphic for an international phone line....

.

"Thanks for taking my call, Miriam. Michelle sends her best."

.

All kidding aside. (And here, although it's probably not necessary, I feel the need to tell you that in fabricating that phone call I am making a lame joke about the even-lamer-yet-oddly-compelling ads running all over the Internet. Obama wants moms to go back to school. I took it personally.)

.

Thursday I actually pulled into my alma mater, parked the biggest vehicle seen on campus ever (not counting the 22-passenger Outdoor Adventure van) and spoke with the English Department about getting back into the MFA program. I went by the registrar's office and, you know, four kids later, re-enrolled. For Fall Term. A nice woman even said, "welcome back," which I thought was funny since it's been more than a decade.

.

Is this fantastic or what?

.

I may freak out later (okay, that's pretty much a given) but for right now I just feel so much better. It doesn't make the real estate crises go away, or the business climate improve, or my tomato plants whole again, but it sure does lighten my perspective.

.

Also it added a little brick of solid gold to something I like to call hope for the future.

.

Last night, after impetuously choosing this huge life change, I stopped in at the regular Thursday night gathering called "Bread Club" in a small town near me. I bought some homemade feta cheese and a few onions from a woman who actually lives across the road from my farmhouse. I burst out with my story. She was the second person I'd told (I did call my husband) and I was just so joyous that my artesian news bubbled right out and laid itself on the Bread Club table for the first near-stranger I saw.

.

People, I am not even ashamed to admit that I had tears in my eyes. It was not the onions.

"What will you do with your kids?" she asked. She knows I home school our children. I don't see it as a contradiction at all, to be truthful. Why shouldn't I be immersed in learning along with my children? It seems much more natural than carting my kids along whilst selling houses or making collection calls for my husband's engineering firm, frankly.

.

I told her I'd figure it out as I go along. Pretty much like everything else.

.

For Christmas my friend Katie gave me a book called something along the lines of "How To Get Your Groove Back After Mommyhood Mush Takes Over Your Brain." Or some such thing. I didn't think I'd lost my groove. And then I remember: that's because it's a rut.

.

I keep hearing that nice woman in the academic advising office with her genuine words.

.

"Welcome back."

.

Is that like getting my groove back? To do something so huge, that's just for me? I don't know, but I'm excited to figure it out as I go along.