Songs . . . and Other Beautiful Things

I've been listening, over and over . . . and over to songs that . . . what is it that they do? They . . . I don't know . . . they keep me in a constant flux between joy and sorrow. No. Not sorrow. That's not right. But, they do make me feel like I have tendon-like chords running up and down all along the full length of my rib cage – like some tight, thick harp strings – and that someone is reaching in, grabbing onto them and pulling with all of their might.

It would have sounded prettier, perhaps, to have just relied on the already-safely-tested metaphor of “heart strings”, but it feels like this straining runs across my entire chest . . . and my heart, biologically speaking, wasn't quite big enough to explain properly how much pulling seems to be going on inside of me – how much of me is being pulled.

I’m sure plenty of it is caused by the way the music rises and falls, the way it swells, whispers, or suddenly grows loud. And, I know nostalgia has more than it’s fair sway in what is going on here.

But listening to these songs seems to fill me with some longing that I don’t have the words for; and I find myself more keenly aware of the contrast between beauty and goodness and light; . . . and this fallen, tangled and messy world.

I’m so glad it’s here: so glad there are glorious things, and innocent and pure things here. . . . But I feel somehow pained that they must exist amidst difficulty and darkness. It is that same feeling I’ve often had before that I can only really describe as “homesickness”. I love the complete familiarity of the beautiful here – in songs, and words, . . . and people. But . . . oh how I want to keep the darkness far far separate from ever touching those things.

Still. As I said, I love that those spots of perfect brightness do exist – do shine out their brightness amidst all the struggle of mortality. I feel myself gathering those things into my soul – holding them fiercely – wanting to keep, and remember, and stop anything from dimming.

(Speaking of beautiful: the fact that this song has showed up on my Facebook feed roughly one-hundred-billion times the past few days, has done nothing to overdo it’s loveliness for me. It’s so pretty. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELjgFKACcdQ – When you listen to it, do you feel a little bit of what I have so falteringly tried to get down here?)

Misc. Misc. Misc.

The weather here has been so unseasonably lovely. It's like 50 something-or-other today! I love it because it's . . . well . . . warm, but I don't love it because it's . . . just . . . so . . . unChristmas-like and I can't help but feeling . . .

Wo. Wait. Stop, Nancy. Stop.

Shoot. I just realized I was talking about weather. (Said with my head shrinking awkwardly into my uplifted shoulders.) This always happens. I start missing writing, and, in desperation for something to say – something to satisfy the blank-screen emptiness – I leap right into the weather.

We may as well all be on a first date. And . . . it's clearly not going well. “So . . . it's sure been . . .warm for December.”

“Yah. Really warm.” Uncomfortable silence. “Do you like . . . snow . . . and stuff?”

Shudder. And also sigh. I just want to spill out something thought provoking. Or funny. Or insightful. Or interesting. Because I feel like those things are there – thoughtful and interesting – coursing through me, bouncing around in my head and hitting off the sides like some sort of a pinball game. But . . . sometimes they just won't . . . I don't know . . . coalesce. They won't materialize into writeable words.

Blast.

Perhaps they just need a little more time to steam before they are ready to condense. (Ooh . . . metaphor though that was, it does kind of feel that way. Nicely done, self.)

Ah well. A photo dump from the cell phone then.

My boring plan of simply throwing away the pumpkins that still remained around here from Halloween and Thanksgiving was upped to “way more fun” by Mike's addition of baseball bats and also . . . axes. (Yipes.)

And . . . miscellaneous stuff. *When I blow dry my hair, Anders often demands I turn the dryer on him. *Look how mad Goldie is at Abe for spraying whip-cream into his mouth during our “hot cocoa party”. *Daisy's warm clothes/camping chair pic was taken moments before leaving to the local-ish Christmas parade . . . and was almost all for naught as we discovered, just before leaving, that our dog had run off. Luckily, dog was found, and we made our way through the traffic and crowds – thanks to Mike's excellent driving, parking and overall navigating skills – just in time for the parade to start.)

I love our magnet board. It is an easy way for me to switch out displayed pictures on a regular basis. Also, at four months, Summer's hands still can't touch over her head. That always makes me chuckle.

The girls had some of their cousins over for cookie-making and crafting. I love so much that Daisy and Goldie are old enough to create “fun” of this nature with pretty much no effort on my end. They did everything from making the dough, to figuring out the craft, to organizing the order in which kids would take turns to “cookie-cut”.

Daisy, of her own accord, convinced Penny to let her give her piano lessons a few months ago. While it hasn't been incredibly consistent, I have been amazed at how much Penny has learned from a few “lessons” with her older sister. When it came time for Daisy's Christmas piano recital, her teacher said that Penny would be welcome to perform at it as well. And then . . . we went to Old Navy and Michael's. (Shrug.)

Penny and Anders studying their Pokemon. Thank goodness. And Anders playing with our set of Book of Mormon figures. I always have mixed feelings about kids playing with “scripture characters”. I've mentioned before how I once chanced upon several of our nativity figures – all loaded in the Barbie Corvette and headed for Smith and Edwards Country Store. Oh the potential for sacrilege . . .

Anywho, happy Christmassy-time-of-year to you all! I keep hearing about everyone having their shopping all done and their presents all wrapped, and, it's too much to bear – hearing those things. We haven't even started – on Christmas or the two birthdays we'll celebrate next week. I've simply had my hands too full hot-glueing all our broken Christmas decorations back together. Me and that hot glue gun? We're tight.

The End.

Of Bonnets, Notes, and Thanksgivings Past and Present

Remember that one time? When I put Summer in a bonnet . . .


and sent her skipping through the woods to grandmother’s house with a basket of goodies?

Look at her. She’s definitely skipping. And just about to pause her bright little journey long enough to do some flower picking. Old wolfy. He doesn’t stand a chance. She’s going to charm his socks off.

Also, this totally fridge-worthy note from one of my children to another (I was only given permission to post this if names were not included):

I just can’t get over the awesomeness of an apology . . . that nobody knows you’ve made.

Speaking of notes. This. Left from Abe informing me that he had left to scouts while I was at the grocery store with the other kids – and letting me know what he’d done while I was away.

Psh. Well. Did you even bother to do the dishes, son?

Terrible child.

Also, here we are having our annual feast-before-the-feast feast.

I’m calling it annual. I think I’m even going to call it traditional. Yes. Our traditional “Feast Before the Feast” feast. I like throwing all those “feasts” in one sentence, and, we have, in fact, done this two years running. Maybe three. So . . . traditional and annual enough. A pre-Thanksgiving feast with just our little family. (Though, if I want this “feast” to be taken seriously, it is probably time to break out the china and put the food items in nicer dishes than the pans they were cooked in.)

For some reason, as I cleaned up the above meal, my mind drifted to thoughts of one of my favorite Thanksgivings: I was 20 -- thousands of miles from any family -- nearing the end of my nearly-four-month study abroad experience in Israel. Strange that a very homebody and easily-subject-to-homesickness girl could have one of her very favorite holiday experiences -- so far from family; but . . . we had recently finished our study of the Old Testament and moved onto a study of the New Testament. In doing so, we left our “home” in Jerusalem to spend three weeks at a little kibbutz on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.

We were in Galilee.

Studying the life of our Savior.

Did you read that correctly? I was in Galilee studying the life of my Savior!

And, we would be returning to our beloved families in a few short weeks – just in time for Christmas.

And, the people I was with -- these people who had been complete strangers at the start of this experience -- were now the same people I had walked, countless times, in and out of Damascus gate with. They were the people I had traversed the walls of The Old City with; stuck small prayers in The Wailing Wall with; and crept reverently, heads draped, through the early-morning, ultra-orthodox streats of Mea She’arim with to buy a loaf of shabbat bread. They were the ones I’d sung hymns at The Garden Tomb with; and slung stones with in the Valley of Elah.

And here we were – gathered excitedly -- clasping our hands, cheering and clapping over our hosts’ proud attempt to give us a proper American holiday. (Complete with backwards hanging flags and sparklers poking out of such severely undercooked turkeys -- bless our hosts’ good intentions -- that half of our group spent the next day throwing up. Hahah.) Truly though. That evening was one of those rare times of utter and complete, contented happiness.

And . . . well . . . that’s it. Rather abrupt of me, I know. Still, that is all for now. So . . . Happy Thanksgiving! Later skaters!

Season’s First Snowfall

Tuesday afternoon I managed to sneak away for a short run. The weather was chill. The sky a bit dull. Still, it was pleasant enough. As I approached the water-barrel fountain where I always pause, I noticed a small yellow-bellied bird perched and drinking. He was such a bright little sight amidst all the now bare trees and gray air that I wanted him to stay – stay and share the fountain with me; but, by instinct, the moment he saw me, he flitted off to a nearby tree branch. Once there, however, he paused – watching and hesitant – as if he too was curious about me (despite the warnings his mother must surely have given him concerning my kind). He studied me a minute longer, but seemed to be fighting against a strong pull calling him elsewhere. Eventually the call became greater than his curiosity and off he went.

A mile further down the road I came across an entire field full of crows. (How did I not just take the opportunity to use “murder of crows” there? What an opportunity lost!) They were bustling and busy. Planning and serious. Unlike my little yellow-bellied friend, they had neither the time nor the interest to notice me.

What all of this “call to be elsewhere” and “serious planning” was about became evident by the next morning when freezing temperatures and blustery winds sailed in – followed only a day later by the season’s first snowfall.

(Although, I suppose, the weekly news forecast might have played it’s part in giving me that “change is in the air” feeling. . . .)

It was mostly magic – as first snowfalls always must be. And, for most of the day, I did quite well with constant demands to open doors and let kids out, and open doors and let kids right back in, and take off boots and mop up the floor, and put boots back on, and finagle fingers into each slot in their gloves and mittens – over and over. But, in the end, Anders was pretty much heading out pantless – with rainboots, a t-shirt, and mittens; and then crying . . . when I eventually put a stop to it all.

Last night Summer had another horrible night’s sleep – and I had another horrible night’s sleep; and, in the sleep-deprived chaos of getting baby happy and everyone off to school, I somehow failed to notice Jesse was wearing no shoes (though heaven knows how he failed to notice as he plodded down our snow-covered front lawn to our neighbor’s waiting car in only socks).

Now, however, Summer is napping and Anders has yet to awaken and I have turned on Peter Breinholt’s version of Gartan Mother’s Lullaby (which is so tied up with Christmas and nights of rocking my newborns that it makes me nearly weep for the goodness of life); and I am reminded that this is life: trouble and joy all side-by-side and often holding hands – first snow magic, sleep deprivation, kids forgetting shoes and crying in embarrassment that can’t properly be consoled because school bells will be ringing, beautiful music; but, at least right now -- while babies are sleeping and this song is playing -- that seems all right.