Sun-Baked Wood

Today, I was sitting outside on the picnic tables at work with (soon-to-be) NewYorkRachel and I kept smelling this familiar scent. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I definitely associated the smell with summer. And then it dawned on me. It was the smell of sun-baked wood, a scent I strongly associate with the beach.

Growing up, we used to spend weeks at the Outer Banks. I am unable to even remember a summer that I didn't go to the beach. My earliest summer memory is when I was four, my mother was pregnant and we spent a good portion of the summer at the beach. I remember my mother's red and white maternity bathing suit, the tang of the salt water and the grainy sand between my toes.

The sounds and smells of summer stick with me. Beach houses in the Outer Banks are made of wood, weathered over time and in the middle of summer day, smell exactly like the picnic table, this indescribable smell of wood and sunshine.

I've been living out West, away from home, for almost 7 years. It's a long time to be away from the smells I grew up with. But sometimes, I still wake up in the morning, sun streaming through the shades, the call of a morning bird piercing the air and for a split-second, I'm 11-years old again, waking up to the indescribable joy of a summer day yawning before me.

Silent Nights

This poem was on The Writer's Almanac yesterday and it captured the heartache and beauty of Christmas for me.

Noël
by Anne Porter

When snow is shaken
From the balsam trees
And they're cut down
And brought into our houses

When clustered sparks
Of many-colored fire
Appear at night
In ordinary windows

We hear and sing
The customary carols

They bring us ragged miracles
And hay and candles
And flowering weeds of poetry
That are loved all the more
Because they are so common

But there are carols
That carry phrases
Of the haunting music
Of the other world
A music wild and dangerous
As a prophet's message

Or the fresh truth of children
Who though they come to us
From our own bodies

Are altogether new
With their small limbs
And birdlike voices

They look at us
With their clear eyes
And ask the piercing questions
God alone can answer.

As an adult, Christmas brings twinges of bittersweet with the joy. Those memories of years past, the excitement of childhood, the anticipation, the magic that comes with the smell of a pine tree and the twinkle of lights. Christmas, the story of Christ (even though, yes, I know that Jesus' birth didn't actually occur in the angelic manner described in Silent Night), resonates with me in an unexplainable way. Perhaps because now, I cringe at the thought of riding a donkey at any point during pregnancy, much less giving birth on a pile of dirty hay. Perhaps because I already know the ending of the story that begins with a manger and a star but closes with a night of agony on a cross; my mother's heart hurts for Mary and what awaits her.

My favorite Bible verse of all time speaks to me as a mother. I think about Mary, tired, sweaty, bleeding, holding a tiny, red, screaming infant in her arms, wondering if this was her miracle. (I also wonder, at times, if she felt a little cheated after all that angel build up.) Like most women in the Bible, Mary isn't much more than a bit player. I mean, yes she is Virgin Birth, but aside from being cherished for her virginity and a vessel for the Christ-child, she really isn't much more than a silent witness to the acts of her son. But the verse....makes her so....real.

"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." (Luke 2:19)

These words make me pause every time I read them, but especially during this time of year. What am I missing in the life of my child? What am I neglecting to treasure as I rush around to get through the day? This time of year, especially this verse read in the same breath as the Christmas story, reminds me to linger, to slow down, to listen, to treasure and to ponder the joys and wonder of my child because before long, all I will have are these few moments, treasured in my heart and my memories.

Peaceful

The last few days have been filled with joy and peace. Some days, I find my mothering groove so much easier than other; the last few days, this parenting thing has flowed naturally.

Today was a simple day. We played in the morning together and in the afternoon, we went to the library, park and grocery store. We made muffins at night, breaking the eggs and stirring the batter together. She lined the muffin tin with papers, counting up to twelve and helped spoon the batter (taking little licks along the way). We read Madeleine books and laughed as Miss Clavel ran fast and faster before I tucked her in bed with a kiss.

I love days like today, when peace flows around. I have patience and hold my temper, which is something I don't always do well.

Mothering is such a tremendous joy and a terrifying job. Small sticky hands hold mine, big eyes look up at me full of trust and love and I know that somehow, I will fail her because all parents fail their children somehow, someway because we are only human. I can only hope that I do right by my child to the best of my ability. I hope that I can lead her and teach her how to be a kind person, a compassionate person, a person who knows that she is worthy of love and respect.

If I Was Stronger Than I

Five years ago, I began a healing process from an experience that forever has altered the course of my life, both emotionally and physically. Although it has been five years and I have found peace, my soul still searches for sunshine and forgiveness on this day.

Last year, on this day, another life-changing experience occurred. I am still struggling with the ramifications of another's betrayal, still working to trust, to forgive even when I know I don't deserve to ask for it. I don't know if I will come out of this experience intact as a person whole.

How does one piece this puzzle back together? How do you move forward if you aren't even certain that moving forward is what should happen? How does one even decide to contemplate making a choice?

If I was stronger then I'd decide to make that choice. But instead, I'm stalled out like a car on the side of the freeway, just sitting on the exit ramp, holding a discourse alone in my head.

My Own Goodness

Originally, the whole idea of writing out my worst faults and thoughts about myself was to provide a foil for my goodness. I was going to write a list of all the things about me that are good and wonderful and, ultimately walk away celebrating who I am and where I am going.

Except this day, this week, this month, this year it seems I'm having a hard time saying those positive attributes about myself. Not that I'm dwelling on my negatives or don't realize my own goodness, just that speaking what I think is worthy about myself out loud suddenly makes me feel very self-conscious. And uncomfortable.

Ironic, of course, because I'm generally not a self-conscious person. In fact, I would say I tend towards brashness and overconfidence (again, to a fault), not modesty.

Or perhaps I'm learning that I don't need to speak my goodness out loud. I know those things. I don't need to hear them, I don't need to write them because I am them. I am the good as well as the bad. Everyone is, really. We have to have the bad with the good to make up the ying and the yang, the two sides of the coin, the comedy and the tragedy. I can't be one without the other. Together, they make me whole.

I've been reflecting on my list of failings over the last week. I realized, as I read and reread them, that many of these have been my failings for years. They are nothing new. And most of them probably aren't going to change much. I can turn over a new leaf, try harder to be a better person, give up my vices (and I try I will), but the reality is I am who I am. I've spent nearly 30 years becoming this individual and it's unlikely that the next 30 years is going to yield dramatic change to the basic person I am.

So where to from here? How do I reconcile my failings and faults, know they may not change, but continue to strive to be the person whom I wish to be, a person who is better/kinder/stronger/smarter than I am right now?

Perhaps I just do it. I be the better person, choose the harder path and hope that with each passing day, I'll grow, change, stretch into the woman I know I am.

My Own Failings

I belittle others.
I am easily distracted.
I railroad conversations.
I cheat.
I don't care enough about those around me.
I am selfish.
I lie instead of telling the truth.
I have inflated self-esteem.
I turn a blind eye to what I could help.
I steal what does not belong to me.
I have intentionally hurt those whom I love.
I lose patience quickly.
I act like 24 even though I am closer to 34.
I drink too much..
I smoke and lie about it.
I work too much.
I am arrogant.
I make poor decisions.
I am not grateful enough for my blessings.

Seeing my flaws laid out in black and white is rather shocking. Like anyone, I don't like to look at my failures in the harsh light. Can I change these, this list of who I am? Can I become a better person? Or are these failings ingrained in who I am and as much a part of me as my brown eyes and wavy hair? Things I can change, but the truth is there, always underlying, simply suppressed for the time being, the way my brown eyes can become blue with colored contacts and my hair straight with a brush and dryer.

It's not a pleasant thought, that we don't really become better people, that human failure haunts all of us until we die.

But possibly, being honest about one's flaws means being honest about one's humanness. And being honest about humanness raises an awareness of ourselves to work towards being better, to suppressing our innate flaws, to straightening our hair in hopes of fooling everyone around us. Except ourselves.

Lucky, Lucky Me

On my drive into work this morning, I was chitchatting with a good friend many miles away. She is about to embark on a major life change and I was lucky enough to be sharing both her abounding joy and smidgen of fear.

I started thinking about my own transitions in life. We've lived in PHX now for well over a year and I'm rounding my one-year anniversary of my job. My life has become routine and settled after years of transition. In three years, we moved twice, got married, had a child.

But now, my life is relaxed. When a long-lost friend (or just someone across country) and we haven't spoken in a while, I love the fact that when I am asked if anything new is going on, my answer is, "Nope, holding to the status quo."

A year ago, my life was on the brink in a bad way, even though I didn't know it yet. But miraculously, somehow my life recovered and became better than ever. How did that happen? How did I get so lucky?

I can't really answer that. Sometimes, I find myself crossing my fingers, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering when the bottom will fall out again.

Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But all I can say is that right now, this very moment, I am satisfied with my life. I am lucky, lucky indeed.

Joy and Heartbreak

CEWG thinks she is a princess. Who am I to dispute, really?

This age is miraculous. She is uninhibited. She is joyous. She is filled with honey and with vinegar. She exudes confidence in everything she does. She knows she is the best dancer, the best singer, the best princess that has ever existed.

I wish I could bottle this joy. I wish that she could keep this love of herself forever. She has not learned to dislike herself yet, to wish that her hair was straight or her thighs thinner, to think she laughs too loudly or smiles too widely. She has not learned to criticize, just to adore and be proud that she can jump so high and dance so wildly.

How do I teach her to hold on to this part of herself? How do I teach her to love her body and her mind and her soul for all that she is? How do I show her that imperfections are not necessarily flaws that should be changed, but merely a part of the sum total of who she is and who she can be?

I try to show her by loving myself, by embracing my body how it is now, for all its imperfections which are not imperfections, really. My body grew another life, gave the light to that life, nourished that life for over two years. I am not only teacher, but also student, learning from my daughter to take pride in that body, to shower it with grace and love for doing all these wonderous things.

I want my daughter to hold on to her confidence forever. I want her built on a solid foundation of self-love and self-acceptance, so that inevitably, when someone calls her "fat" or "clumsy" or "ugly" she is not shaken and falls, but stands tall in herself and retorts, "No, I am better than that."

Revolution

(Warning: I'm about to get on my high horse and cliched, so be warned. Read at your own risk, dear reader.)

I read The Omnivore's Dilemma and I am duly horrified. Objectively, I knew much of the book's content. I've heard of docking chicken beaks and the cruelty of slaughtering beef on a slaughter line. I've always teetered on the edge of becoming a vegetarian because of my love for animals. (Ironic, of course, because I actually slaughtered my own chickens in Kenya.) But there is something about eating animals that I've always had a difficult time dealing with.

But there were plenty of things in the book that I didn't know. For example, it takes about 87 calories of energy to transport 1 calorie of food. I mean, that's crazy.

So The Doctor and I are attempting to revolutionize how we eat and drink in our small house in the desert. We're trying to buy local as best we can in Arizona. Farmer's markets, local stores, grass-fed, free range meats. I'm considering this my revolution, my food anarchy.

Styleless

Last night, I went to a coworker's home to see some photos from her recent trip to Asia (Hong Kong, China, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, in case you were interested). She made some appetizers consisting mostly of cheese (delish!) and uncorked a few bottles of wine. The photos were fantastic. I really enjoyed seeing and hearing her stories about rices paddies and buffalo shit.

But what I loved most of all was her condo. Her sense of interior design and style wowed me. Everything from the paint colors and placement to the wall hangings to the knick-knacks to the pillows and throws just complemented each other. It was bright, cheery, modern, bohemian, gorgeous. The style of the home was eclectic (e.g. NOT Pottery Barn, etc.), but it looked fantastic. So pulled together and lived in and I loved it.

For whatever reason, my sense of home design and style is terrible. (To be honest, my sense of personal style is kind of lacking, too. Clothes I can do, but accessories? Forget it.) It's not a family gene becauase Golden Brother has a fabulous sense of style (especially for a straight man) and his little studio apartment looks a thousand times better in shades of orange and green and modern art and contemporary furniture. Granted, Golden Brother studied art and architecture at university, so maybe it's a learned gene.

Whatever I lack, I lack in a big way. My house has prints hung up throughout, but they all look a little mismatched and oddly out of place. My furniture is a hodge-podge of stuff (and stained with child crap like food and paint and crayons).

I wish I had an innate sense of style. But for my house to look like anything other than thrown together and mishmashed, then I'll have to hire someone to come and pick out colors, furniture and wall hangings.

At least I can cook.

H-O-T Hot

This is the time of the year I despise living in Arizona. Everywhere else, it's the winding down of summer, the beginning of fall, the anticipation of school and a fresh start. A change of seasons.

Except in Arizona. Right now, it's only the middle of the summer; the heat will continue the sizzle for another few months as the air conditioner drones on outside my window, providing an incessant hum as backdrop to my nights.

I love the fall. I love the cooler mornings, the crispness in the air, the slow but steady change of the leaves from deep summer green to crackly orange and reds. I love apple picking and cider, pumpkin-picking and looking at new pink erasers.

I miss the change of seasons right now.

Rerouted

Clearly, I've quit doing a photo a day. My life has had a few speed bumps pop up over the last few weeks, the last of which ended up with me in the ER in VA Beach the day of my grandfather's funeral. Despite my smugness, apparently gallbladder problems do run in my family and hit all women right around the age of 30. I'm close enough to 30 for it to count and had a laparoscopic cholecystectomy (that would be a gallbladder removal surgery) on Friday.

So I'm home for a few days relaxing and healing. CEWG is at nursery school, the Doctor is sleeping off his night shift work and I'm watching bad reruns of afternoon television and generally enjoying being home.

8:11

Study in Clouds

8:10

8:9

8:8

RADM Edward W. Carter III

8:7

8:6

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8:4