Shivering Leaves

Our air conditioners are drying on the front porch.  Their corresponding windows, vacant and screenless, exhibit a surprising clarity on this drizzly day.  Brown- and yellow-tinged leaves shiver on their gray branches, whose lichen-kissed bark drips droplets along with the quilt of rainclouds overhead.  Beside a drenched brown log and autumn-touched bush, a bench invites me to sit and contemplate life - a tempting offer if it were not quite so wet.

Just a few days ago, dry dust whirled here and there as the sun baked everything in sight.  Now, pools of water stand in low-lying areas and the air itself seems to sigh refreshingly.  Such extremes in so short a time!  It is commonplace for our life, too, and I hazard to say for yours as well, my friend.

So, take a moment and imagine yourself somewhere that rejuvenates you.  Close your eyes if you have to or take a deep breath and let the tension in your shoulders slip away.  Perhaps we're on a rocky ledge overlooking rolls of mountains and a little lake nestled among the vales.  The first sunrays shoot up in the horizon and reflect across the lake's surface.  Or perhaps we're watching waves splash white foam on the beach.  Water, smooth as silk, touches our toes and then quickly recedes.  Or perhaps we're on a Greek island, licking tiramisu icecream in a cone and clutching a crinkly brown bag of meaty pistachios for the ferry ride back to the mainland where we'll roam through winding streets and savor the delight of stumbling upon ancient remains sprinkled about Athens.  Or where would you be?  What imagining restores your soul when you are tired or lonely or in need of a break?

Hidden Squash

For four days, Joseph has chanted, "Macaroni and cheese, please."  So, I finally made his favorite for lunch - macaroni and cheese.  Toss out the blue box; I use a from-scratch recipe.  Perhaps it sounds gross, but Joseph's macaroni and cheese is loaded with hidden yummies that are also nutritious for him.  Pureed yellow squash cooks into the cheese sauce, while I drain the semolina pasta wheels in a colindar.  Then, fluffing tuna with a fork, I stir that in along with those wheels.  The macaroni and cheese dish bakes for twenty minutes, cools, and sits upon a plate waiting for Joseph.

"Mmm... that's good!" Joseph says, with a noodle sticking out of his mouth and cheese smeared across his chin.

If I had served yellow squash and tuna on the side, he would not have touched it.  What my toddler doesn't know will not hurt him!  (Yes, Jenny, I know you're cringing and gagging over the tuna part, but at least it's hidden!)

It reminds me of taking medicine as a child.  Or sucking on a lush lemon.  Or chopping a strong-scented onion and feeling like its juice is pouring from your eyes.  Or slicing a paper cut across your fingertip when shuffling through papers.  Or sizzling your skin on a hot dish when you forget those trusty hotpads.  Or pounding a hammer on your thumb, which was out of the way a moment ago.  Or smacking an elbow so hard your fingers tingle all day.  Or...  Perhaps I've relayed enough painful experiences.

Albeit difficult, it is rewarding when we look for the positives in any situation.  Even when nursing wounds and a prideful heart ashamed, it is better not to dwell upon how silly we feel.  Have you recently felt the head-rising rush that accompanies an awkward situation?  How did you turn your blush into a flush of laughter?

Bare Toes

Gray sweatpants, with dark blue side stripes, and a sweater jacket alternating thick stripes of mint green, tan, white, and brown cover Ezra's brown jumper.  Tiny red and orange stripes amidst the brown peer out from under the jacket, whose hood hangs loosely about my baby's face.  Little toes dangle.  Russell lovingly places cozy-looking Ezra into the backpack carrier.  My husband is so gentle with the boys, but he is a terrible dresser!  At least, I think to myself, he will be warm.  And, with a quick kiss, my boys are out the door.

For a few sweet moments, I am not bouncing a baby on my lap until my arms ache, sopping up spills from the floor, piggy-backing my toddler while my bones protest, enduring the cries associated with teething and disciplining, scraping lunch off chair legs and walls, picking up dropped toys, smelling fresh spit-up on a newly changed pair of pants or shirt.  And yet, in the silence, I dwell upon soft feet and hands, lavendar-smelling hair recently washed, quick smiles and wide eyes, ready laughs and made-up songs, pattable bottoms and bellies waiting for a raspberry.  Even though I cherish the minute amount of time I have alone, I find myself missing the joys of parenthood and anticipating the many unsavored ones to come.

There are so many times in life when we want a little peace from what we have, only to find that we want nothing more than to have it back again.  What in your life exhibits such a mutable dichotomy, friend?

Startled Awake

Being a mother has heightened my ability to suddenly wake up in the night.  Certain sounds - a muffled cry from the crib, a rustling roll from our toddler's room, a loud creak centering from who knows where - seem to switch my eyes from closed to open so quickly that I feel a little dazed.  Often when that occurs, I have not a chance of getting back to sleep.

My baby has an ability to sleep almost anywhere and in nearly every position.  However, there are times when he, too, is startled awake.  One moment, Ezra is asleep on some soft surface; the next, a little head pops up and large eyes seek out the offending noise-maker.  Usually the offending noise-maker is Joseph, my two-year-old.  Perhaps he's "do-do-do-ing" in his own song while marching and waving something shakeable.  Other times, he's whizzing past the play pen, foot-falls slapping the wood laminate like little thunder claps.  And often, he pushes a loud truck or train by the baby's head and chances to emit a whistle or honk at just the wrong time.

I'm usually good about keeping Joseph quiet when Ezra sleeps, but sometimes it's a huge task.  At times like these, I often need a double dose of patience.  So often, I feel as if my bottle of patience is nearly empty.  But Ezra is quite patient.  Instead of crying at the startling, he often smiles or plops his head back down to doze and dream some more.  Or, he's so amazed at what his older brother is doing that he wants to join him in the chaos.

For me, listening to the sing-song voice of my toddler and seeing my baby's gum-gaping grin remind me of life's jumbled joys.  It's hard to contain excitement that is bubbling over.  Such joy necessitates sharing!  So, fellow adventurer, what joy bubbles over for you?  Even when you are startled awake, how have you turned the experience into something grand?

A Dry Wind

Brown grass crunches underfoot; a dry wind tumbles crinkling leaves across the yard; tired tree limbs groan from the lack of moisture.  Days like this give me a glimpse of life as an ooey gooey chocolate brownie with semi-sweet morsels hidden inside.  And such a day it is - inside a baker's oven.

No, I'm not baking today.  But even on days I do not bake for my family, I dream of delectable desserts to create and savor.  My husband would say that a person craves sweets during moments of distress, perhaps he's right.  My days are often sprinkled with a little stress here, a little strain there - perhaps as one plate slides under another and creates rippling mountains on the earth's crust, so too do my ideas often collide with my toddler's ideas and those of my baby.  With three very different needs to fill, a mommy can feel slightly chewed by the end of the day (and for me that is literal).

So, I look out my windows and watch the wind whistle across the parched ground.  And, sigh.  Then I remind myself that the cool rains will come.  I will one day see how the sacrifices I make to focus more on the needs of my children than on my own often selfish wants, really do make a difference.  I can use some of my talents now, sharpen new ones, and hold on to the others until they are needed.  Too often, I want the rain now; but a sweet drenching is a gift given during the time it is most needed.

And you, friend?  When have you felt sunburned by the world?  What balm would soothe your current disposition?

Lonely Little Luminary

Late last night, my sandal-shoes and I were treading down the blacktop with a foil-covered, cream-colored bowl of recently roasted pumpkin seeds.  Warm ceramic radiated in my hand and I sighed.  Then, a flash lit pink a distant cloud high above the mountain's sleeping form.  At first, I thought I was dreaming or that the day's busy-ness was getting to me.  But - alas! - another soundless sunburst bubbled into a brilliant blush and then deflated, disappearing almost as soon as it had formed.

Turning my head to scan for more thunderheads, a scintillating star grasped my suddenly vacant view.  My husband would probably tell me that it was a planet, not a star, since it shone so brightly.  Nevertheless, it's singularity struck me.  No other dazzling dots poked through the night's draped veil - save the happy moon.

As it often does on a moonlit walk, my mind wandered.  I strive for independence and often cringe when I need help with something.  But, my son Joseph reminds me that we are born with an inherent and very strong desire to help.  If I do not allow Joseph to help when he wants to, he is hurt and upset.  And so too with us adults.

If we assert ourselves and don't allow others to walk with us in this life, then we're going to be like that lovely, but lonely little luminary.  Likewise, we have to give what we want to get.  Unless we break down the barriers of doubt that linger in our souls like sucking leeches, unless we dare to share our scarred and bruisable hearts, unless we take the step that everyone around us dreads, we're going to continue spirally into ever-expanding singularities.  Personally, I have experienced enough singularities watching Star Trek Voyager!

And you, friend?  Is there an area in your life that needs pruning so that you can more fully experience life with family and friends?

Peeled Pumpkin

The last pumpkin of the season has been pierced, parched, peeled, and pureed.  Now it sits in neatly labeled cups in the freezer and awaits a glorious return as a chocolate-bottom pumpkin pie or cake doughnuts or spiced muffins.  All of it, that is, save four cups worth of that fluffy flesh.  Those four cups will make two pies, which I am about to make.

While I was squishing seeds away from the gooey meat in the hollow of the pumpkin, my glistening hands came upon one seed starting to sprout.  The thinly unfolding green shoot still clung to its sheath.  It reminded me of my sons.  When we take day trips to hiking trails or harvest festivals or favorite stores, my husband or I encase Joey's hand with our own.  His is neatly tucked in our palm, just as our eyes rove to protect him and Ezra from any potentially harmful encounters.  If we are hiking on a rocky trail, both boys are safely caravanned in backpacks; if we cross a busy road, we scoop them up in our arms and hold tightly; if we venture to a playground, we linger nearby in case their steps become uncertain.

I know we will not always be able to protect our children from the harms that float as dandelion fuzz about this world.  But by taking the time to prepare them, they will grow into something greater because of our love and care.  Young men with a heart for making positive impacts in the lives of others will benefit the world.

What are you doing, friend, that touches someone else's heart?  How can you use today to paint a smile on someone's face?