I've been silent on here for quite sometime. With the advent of Lent, it seems appropriate to keep it so, except that I am driving myself (husband, sister, friends and anyone else who I can get to listen to me) crazy with my fretting over the naming of our child. So I thought I should break the silence, and blog a bit to quench the crazy in me!
When we found out a few weeks back that we are expecting a girl, I was completely and utterly shocked. "Exactly how sure is 'pretty sure'?" I asked Ben upon departing from the sonographer. "Sure enough to type 'It's a girl!' onto the sonograph paper" said Ben, crushing my tiny little glimmer of hope that sheer maternal will could defy anatomical science; I was sure it was a boy.
To clarify, I'm not disappointed, just freaked out. I mean, I always pictured myself raising a herd of boys. When Eden was born, I thought she was going to be my token girl. But to my surprise, in our gene pool, the females just keep coming! I'm genuinely concerned about what I am going to do with all that estrogen and drama from here on out.
Boys are simple souls with simple needs; they love their mama and like to shoot bad guys. Girls on the other hand, are fragile and complicated. Don't get me wrong, I love my girls. I'm just intimidated about rearing three of them. It's not disappointment, it's plain fear.
Earlier in the pregnancy (when I was carrying our pre-named boy, Ezra Benjamin), I was drawn to an early 12th century icon of the Annunciation, a depiction of Mary's exchange with Gabriel. I have been comforted by this image since then, the icon seemingly bearing this pregnancy along with me as it rests at our prayer corner.
Yesterday was the Feast of the Annunciation, so I was able to hear the story afresh, read aloud from the book of Luke last night at liturgy:
26Now in the sixth month, the archangel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee, named Nazareth, 27to a virgin pledged to be married to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin's name was Mary. 28Having come in, the angel said to her, "Rejoice, you highly favored one! The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women!" 29But when she saw him, she was greatly troubled at the saying, and considered what kind of salutation this might be. 30The angel said to her, "Don’t be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. 31Behold, you will conceive in your womb, and bring forth a son, and will call his name ‘Jesus.’ 32He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father, David, 33and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever. There will be no end to his Kingdom." 34Mary said to the angel, "How can this be, seeing I am a virgin?" 35The angel answered her, "The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore also the holy one who is born from you will be called the Son of God. 36Behold, Elizabeth, your relative, also has conceived a son in her old age; and this is the sixth month with her who was called barren. 37For everything spoken by God is possible." 38Mary said, "Behold, the handmaid of the Lord; be it to me according to your word." The angel departed from her.
While we may not have been granted the gender we desired, who am I to claim I know what's best for my life, for my family? Oh to have the faith of Mary to say let it be as You have said
. . .and Oh to have a word from an angel of the Lord about a name!
Which leads me to the true predicament I am in right now. Okay, so I still have some time, but nonetheless I feel pressed to establish and then settle into a name for this child. Anyone who knows me well knows I love names. One of my favorite blogs is www.youcantcallitit.com because I love to have an excuse to think about names, even when I'm not personally responsible for naming someone. It's fun.
Or at least it was until now.
We didn't set out with the grand plan of having alliterative names (Emmanuel, Eden, & Evangeline). We certainly didn't set out with the intention of naming all our children within a Christian theme, or giving all of them middle names that signify both a saint and a family member (James, Elisabeth & Ruth, respectively). It all evolved very organically, until we are now surprised to be sricken with these specific naming parameters, which are majorly hindering our ability to pick a name.
Out of sheer exhaustion, my husband waved the white flag yesterday, saying "Name the child whatever you want!" My open-endedness is driving his hyper-closed-endedness into insanity. So a decision simply must be made. I can't keep floating names forever, or else my ever-anchored hubby is going to sign-off on a name like Holy Lunatic with great elation and relief just to end the revolving conversation and save me from floating off into the vast naming ocean alone.
Thanks be to God, last night at liturgy a name came to me. (This may be as close as I am going to get to angelic proclamation). Perhaps it had been there all along without me even knowing it: Gabriella.
And what do you know, we could call her Ella (or Ellie) for short, so she'd be sure to fit in with all those E's! Although it isn't a name that initially caught my eye, what makes it beautiful to me is that it was the name my father wanted to name me. He loved this name. Additionally, naming my daughter after an archangel gives me comfort - narrowing the seeming divide between the here and now and the there and then. As St. Seraphim of Sarov explains, "The goal of our life is to return to the bosom of our Heavenly Father, in order that we, the men of this earth, may become as the angels, who are guided by the Holy Spirit." But regardless of who we end up with come June (after all, the sonographer was only "pretty sure"!), may we be ever thankful for the life He miraculously conceives, and ever ready to accept God's will and let Him have His way in us.
"May it be to me according to Your Word."
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Last Breath
Tonight, a long time friend of 17 years died. She was only 30, my exact age. She died of the same rare and agressive cancer that killed my father. The notification went out via Facebook, so details are slim. I wonder how her last few days, hours, breaths on earth were. I wonder what her parting words were, or if she was able to speak at all.
I have an all too real remembrance of what dying and death look like. Amidst the great final struggle for breath, the last gesture my father pursued was to raise up a hand-carved wooden cross toward heaven. The last thing my dad said to me, the very last time he spoke, he said "You are so beautiful." I cherish those words like precious myrrh soothing the sorrow of my soul.
It pains me to think that, 90 days later, while I was watching PBS movie theatre classic, while my biggest concern was making the perfect batch of stove-top popcorn, while prayer was far from my lips, Shohrae was dying. It is jarring to be so absorbed in the shallowness of one's own surreal existence, and then be flung back into the one all defining reality; that ready or not, death comes to us all. I know this truth, I know it well, and yet how quickly I forget. It is no discriminator of persons. It does not come at a convenient time. Young, old, all die.
What will i be caught doing or saying when that great and sacred hour visits me?
There is a prayer that I pray almost every day. Today, it couldn't be prayed with more fervor:
. . .O God, my God, I plead with You for many and great things; do not disregard me. Do not cast me away from Your presence because of my presumption and boldness, but by the power of Your love lead me in the path of Your will. Grant me to love You as You have commanded, with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind, and with all my strength; with my whole being. For You alone are the holy protection and all powerful defender of my life, and to You I ascribe glory and offer this prayer. Grant me to know Your truth before I depart this life. Maintain my life in this world until I may offer You true repentance. Do not take me away in the midst of my days, but when You are pleased to bring my life to an end, forewarn me of my death so that I may prepare my soul to come before You. Be with me then, O Lord, on my great and sacred day, and grant me the joy of Your salvation. Cleanse me from manifest and secret sins, from all iniquity hidden in me, and give me a right answer before Your judgement seat. Amen.
-- Prayer at Daybreak of Elder Sophrony
I have an all too real remembrance of what dying and death look like. Amidst the great final struggle for breath, the last gesture my father pursued was to raise up a hand-carved wooden cross toward heaven. The last thing my dad said to me, the very last time he spoke, he said "You are so beautiful." I cherish those words like precious myrrh soothing the sorrow of my soul.
It pains me to think that, 90 days later, while I was watching PBS movie theatre classic, while my biggest concern was making the perfect batch of stove-top popcorn, while prayer was far from my lips, Shohrae was dying. It is jarring to be so absorbed in the shallowness of one's own surreal existence, and then be flung back into the one all defining reality; that ready or not, death comes to us all. I know this truth, I know it well, and yet how quickly I forget. It is no discriminator of persons. It does not come at a convenient time. Young, old, all die.
What will i be caught doing or saying when that great and sacred hour visits me?
There is a prayer that I pray almost every day. Today, it couldn't be prayed with more fervor:
. . .O God, my God, I plead with You for many and great things; do not disregard me. Do not cast me away from Your presence because of my presumption and boldness, but by the power of Your love lead me in the path of Your will. Grant me to love You as You have commanded, with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind, and with all my strength; with my whole being. For You alone are the holy protection and all powerful defender of my life, and to You I ascribe glory and offer this prayer. Grant me to know Your truth before I depart this life. Maintain my life in this world until I may offer You true repentance. Do not take me away in the midst of my days, but when You are pleased to bring my life to an end, forewarn me of my death so that I may prepare my soul to come before You. Be with me then, O Lord, on my great and sacred day, and grant me the joy of Your salvation. Cleanse me from manifest and secret sins, from all iniquity hidden in me, and give me a right answer before Your judgement seat. Amen.
-- Prayer at Daybreak of Elder Sophrony
books for boys
I have two recommendations I must share. The first is a collection of "world folktales for strong boys." It is an essential collection for every son, father, teacher, and lover of stories. We just can't get enough of
"Mightier than the Sword" told by Jane Yolen.
The second is for the parents of such strong boys, called "The Purpose of Boys" by Michael Gurian. This book is a fabulous read for anyone struggling to raise boys in this generation.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
finances for a five year old
If only we taught our children finances so suscinctly. Even Dave Ramsey can't top this type of teaching. At Emmanuel's prompting, I'll be starting my potato garden soon!
Excerpt from Farmer Boy , third book of the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder:
"Father," Almanzo said, "would you - would you give me - a nickel?"
"What for?"
Almanzo looked down at his moccasins and muttered:
"Frank had a nickel. He bought pink lemonade."
. . .
Father looked at him a long time. Then he took out his wallet and opened it, and slowly he took out a round, big silver half-dollar. He asked:
"Almanzo, do you know what this is?"
"Half a dollar," Almanzo answered
"Yes. But do you know what half a dollar is?"
Almanzo didn't know it was anything but half a dollar.
"It's work, son," Father said. "That's what money is; it's hard work."
Mr. Paddock chuckled. "The boy's too young, Wilder," he said, "you can't make a youngster understand that."
"Almanzo's smarter than you think," said Father.
. . .
"You know how to raise potatoes, Almanzo?"
"Yes." Almanzo said
"Say you have a seed potato in the spring, what do you do with it?"
"You cut it up," Almanzo said.
"Go on, son."
"Then you harrow - first you manure the field, and plow it. Then you harrow, and mark the ground. And plant the potatoes, and plow them, and hoe them. You plow and hoe them twice . . .Then you dig them and put them down cellar."
"Yes. Then you pick them over all winter; you throw out all the little ones and the rotten ones. Come spring, you load them up and haul them here to Malone, and you sell them. And if you get a good price son, how much do you get to show for all that work? How much do you get for half a bushel of potatoes?"
"Half a dollar," Almanzo said.
"Yes," said Father. "That's what's in the half-dollar, Almanzo. The work that raised half a bushel of potatoes is in it."
Almanzo looked at the round piece of money that Father held up. It looked small, compared with all that work.
"You can have it, Almanzo," Father said. Almanzo could hardly believe his ears. Father gave him the heavy half-dollar.
"I'ts yours," said Father. "You could buy a sucking pig with it, if you want to. You could raise it, and it would raise a litter of pigs, worth four or five dollars a piece. Or you can trade that half-dollar for lemonade, and drink it up. You do as you want. It's your money."
Almanzo forgot to say thank you. He held the half-dollar a minute, then he put his hand in his pocket and went back to the boys by the lemonade stand.
. . .
The boys wouldn't believe it till he showed them. Then they crowded around, waiting for him to spend it. He showed it to them all, and put it back in his pocket.
"I'm going to look around," he said, "and buy me a good little sucking pig."
I finish reading this chapter aloud to the family on the couch tonight. Ben turns to me and says, "Lois, I think we are buying too much pink lemonade. We need more sucking pigs."
Delayed gratification.
It's a good lesson for all of us, not just the young'ns.
Excerpt from Farmer Boy , third book of the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder:
"Father," Almanzo said, "would you - would you give me - a nickel?"
"What for?"
Almanzo looked down at his moccasins and muttered:
"Frank had a nickel. He bought pink lemonade."
. . .
Father looked at him a long time. Then he took out his wallet and opened it, and slowly he took out a round, big silver half-dollar. He asked:
"Almanzo, do you know what this is?"
"Half a dollar," Almanzo answered
"Yes. But do you know what half a dollar is?"
Almanzo didn't know it was anything but half a dollar.
"It's work, son," Father said. "That's what money is; it's hard work."
Mr. Paddock chuckled. "The boy's too young, Wilder," he said, "you can't make a youngster understand that."
"Almanzo's smarter than you think," said Father.
. . .
"You know how to raise potatoes, Almanzo?"
"Yes." Almanzo said
"Say you have a seed potato in the spring, what do you do with it?"
"You cut it up," Almanzo said.
"Go on, son."
"Then you harrow - first you manure the field, and plow it. Then you harrow, and mark the ground. And plant the potatoes, and plow them, and hoe them. You plow and hoe them twice . . .Then you dig them and put them down cellar."
"Yes. Then you pick them over all winter; you throw out all the little ones and the rotten ones. Come spring, you load them up and haul them here to Malone, and you sell them. And if you get a good price son, how much do you get to show for all that work? How much do you get for half a bushel of potatoes?"
"Half a dollar," Almanzo said.
"Yes," said Father. "That's what's in the half-dollar, Almanzo. The work that raised half a bushel of potatoes is in it."
Almanzo looked at the round piece of money that Father held up. It looked small, compared with all that work.
"You can have it, Almanzo," Father said. Almanzo could hardly believe his ears. Father gave him the heavy half-dollar.
"I'ts yours," said Father. "You could buy a sucking pig with it, if you want to. You could raise it, and it would raise a litter of pigs, worth four or five dollars a piece. Or you can trade that half-dollar for lemonade, and drink it up. You do as you want. It's your money."
Almanzo forgot to say thank you. He held the half-dollar a minute, then he put his hand in his pocket and went back to the boys by the lemonade stand.
. . .
The boys wouldn't believe it till he showed them. Then they crowded around, waiting for him to spend it. He showed it to them all, and put it back in his pocket.
"I'm going to look around," he said, "and buy me a good little sucking pig."
I finish reading this chapter aloud to the family on the couch tonight. Ben turns to me and says, "Lois, I think we are buying too much pink lemonade. We need more sucking pigs."
Delayed gratification.
It's a good lesson for all of us, not just the young'ns.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
funny things are everywhere
I entered the kitchen last night to find Emmanuel's toothbrush curiously suctioned to the microwave. What could they be plotting? I love my freespirited, whimsicle children!
Thursday, January 13, 2011
river of life
Last Thursday(Jan. 6)I took the children to the Great Blessing of the Waters, and afterwards bottled some holy water for home use. When I feel weak, or sick, or in need of strength, I will sip some, and remember...
Theophany is better known as Epiphany in the West. The Orthodox feast is called Theophany because at the baptism of Christ the Holy Trinity appeared clearly to mankind for the first time -- the Father's voice is heard from Heaven, the Son of God is incarnate and standing physically in the Jordan, and the Holy Spirit descends on Him in the form of a dove.
This feast was particularly significant to me this year. I have been rather silent on this space about the most significant loss in my life thus far - the falling asleep of my father. It is hard to package a whole life influence into one or two blog entries. I haven't known what to say or even what to feel. Public life has seemingly gone on as normal. But secretly, I have read the prayers for the dead for him. I have commemorated him at church. And I have visited dad's graveside every month since he was promoted to glory.
There is still no permanent marker there. The mulch and tossed earth hem in the place we lowered the coffin into the earth; his grave is humbly crowned by a patchwork of grassy squares. It is a strange thought to think part of him's just right there under the surface, not far below my feet, and yet his soul is worlds away, high above me.
My dad once wrote a choral piece called "River of Life," which has often been requested to be sung at funerals, though we did not sing it at his. The words to the chorus are the ones my mother wants etched in his gravestone.
There is a river of life
Flowing from God's own throne
Crystal and clear and pure
From God and God alone
I thought of this, as I stood witness to the blessing of these sacred waters, mystically feeling a sense of communion with my father, as he also partakes of the living waters, and I hear this passage read aloud:
Isaiah 35
The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the lily. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon; they shall see the glory of the LORD, and the excellency of our God. Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees. Say to them that are of a fearful heart, "Be strong, fear not. Behold, your God will come with vengeance, even God with a recompense; He will come and save you." Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing; for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert. And the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water; in the habitation of dragons, where each lay, shall be grass with reeds and rushes. And a highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness. The unclean shall not pass over it, but it shall be for those; the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon; it shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
The last few days of my dad's life, I remember reading aloud this very passage. How he groaned in longing. During this time, I had a burning desire to ask if he wished to be baptised (as Salvationists do not practice this sacriment). It was an intense time, and so I never had the opportunity. Occasionally I think back with regret and wish I had just asked. But then I remember all the tears shed, poured out in prayer over his bedside.
And I realize. We did baptise him.
Theophany is better known as Epiphany in the West. The Orthodox feast is called Theophany because at the baptism of Christ the Holy Trinity appeared clearly to mankind for the first time -- the Father's voice is heard from Heaven, the Son of God is incarnate and standing physically in the Jordan, and the Holy Spirit descends on Him in the form of a dove.
This feast was particularly significant to me this year. I have been rather silent on this space about the most significant loss in my life thus far - the falling asleep of my father. It is hard to package a whole life influence into one or two blog entries. I haven't known what to say or even what to feel. Public life has seemingly gone on as normal. But secretly, I have read the prayers for the dead for him. I have commemorated him at church. And I have visited dad's graveside every month since he was promoted to glory.
There is still no permanent marker there. The mulch and tossed earth hem in the place we lowered the coffin into the earth; his grave is humbly crowned by a patchwork of grassy squares. It is a strange thought to think part of him's just right there under the surface, not far below my feet, and yet his soul is worlds away, high above me.
My dad once wrote a choral piece called "River of Life," which has often been requested to be sung at funerals, though we did not sing it at his. The words to the chorus are the ones my mother wants etched in his gravestone.
There is a river of life
Flowing from God's own throne
Crystal and clear and pure
From God and God alone
I thought of this, as I stood witness to the blessing of these sacred waters, mystically feeling a sense of communion with my father, as he also partakes of the living waters, and I hear this passage read aloud:
Isaiah 35
The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the lily. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon; they shall see the glory of the LORD, and the excellency of our God. Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees. Say to them that are of a fearful heart, "Be strong, fear not. Behold, your God will come with vengeance, even God with a recompense; He will come and save you." Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing; for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert. And the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water; in the habitation of dragons, where each lay, shall be grass with reeds and rushes. And a highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness. The unclean shall not pass over it, but it shall be for those; the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon; it shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
The last few days of my dad's life, I remember reading aloud this very passage. How he groaned in longing. During this time, I had a burning desire to ask if he wished to be baptised (as Salvationists do not practice this sacriment). It was an intense time, and so I never had the opportunity. Occasionally I think back with regret and wish I had just asked. But then I remember all the tears shed, poured out in prayer over his bedside.
And I realize. We did baptise him.
Monday, January 10, 2011
home-centered education
I'm still tottering on the fence of this great divide between institution- and family-centered education. Truthfully, I have more accurately fallen over the family- side of the fence, and am clawing at the wood to see if there is a safe and reasonable way back over to the other side. Surprisingly enough, after a year of standing on the fence convincing my husband how much greener the grass is, we're now both over here, and have discovered that, though lush, it's also very muddy, and the upkeep is much more frequent. I'm not naturally good at tending things. I mean, I don't have plants or pets for a reason. But for whatever reason, it seems God has given me and hubby these ideas with roots that just keep growing.
I think the difference between me and the ideal home-schooling mother is that I don't feel naturally gifted in the home, nor do I feel well-suited to this life. I do, however, have a compelling desire to do the right thing by my children. I wont do it begrudgingly, but it might not be pretty and it wont be perfect. I'm okay with this . . .most days.
Today, was a good day in the mothering realm. It wasn't spectacular, but it gave me hope enough to grace my fall into the garden of home-education.
I awoke to my son gently kissing my cheek, saying "mommy, wake up, I have some holy water for you and our baby." My grown-up five year old had gotten a plastic cup, tiptoed to our prayer corner, and poured me (and in-utero Lyda) some blessed Theophany water we took home from church the other day. By lunchtime we'd said our morning family prayers; made our beds (something the kids are totally showing me up at doing!); I read aloud exerpts from Beowulf, Odysseus, and King Arthur; Eden vaccuumed the kitchen and hallway with her new vaccuum; Emmanuel made PBJ sandwiches for us; we ate together. After lunch, they had quiet time while Evangeline napped, and I read a few pages of "Way of a Pilgrim" in the quietness of my cozy bed. Meanwhile, E-man played with his marble ball track, and Edie put her dollies to bed. Next, they created snakes with playdough, and then we painted attentively in the kitchen together. Afterward, they cleaned the kitchen floor (with vinegar and baking soda)by "skiing" on sponges - they are very thorough, and love this job! After a bath, we then sat down together to watch a library movie Crocodile Hunter, while I preped for dinner, and tended to EvaRuth. When Ben came home, he lit a fire, and we had a picnic dinner in the livingroom, enjoying the warmth of the house.
The day was significant to me because, being productivity-driven, I can sometimes get overwhelmed with what's not done, instead of being present in the reality I have been given. Today, I was able to finish some necessary tasks while also teaching my children how to do it, or rather utilizing their proficient assistance. I was also able to slow down and enjoy them, taking the day as it came, without too much of a list getting in the way. Anyway, it was a good day at home.
It is strangely wonderful when my eyes let me see the most ordinary things as extraordinary. And even better when I begin to feel at home in the ordinary practice of being a mother. Maybe I'm not a natural, but I know I was born for this.
I think the difference between me and the ideal home-schooling mother is that I don't feel naturally gifted in the home, nor do I feel well-suited to this life. I do, however, have a compelling desire to do the right thing by my children. I wont do it begrudgingly, but it might not be pretty and it wont be perfect. I'm okay with this . . .most days.
Today, was a good day in the mothering realm. It wasn't spectacular, but it gave me hope enough to grace my fall into the garden of home-education.
I awoke to my son gently kissing my cheek, saying "mommy, wake up, I have some holy water for you and our baby." My grown-up five year old had gotten a plastic cup, tiptoed to our prayer corner, and poured me (and in-utero Lyda) some blessed Theophany water we took home from church the other day. By lunchtime we'd said our morning family prayers; made our beds (something the kids are totally showing me up at doing!); I read aloud exerpts from Beowulf, Odysseus, and King Arthur; Eden vaccuumed the kitchen and hallway with her new vaccuum; Emmanuel made PBJ sandwiches for us; we ate together. After lunch, they had quiet time while Evangeline napped, and I read a few pages of "Way of a Pilgrim" in the quietness of my cozy bed. Meanwhile, E-man played with his marble ball track, and Edie put her dollies to bed. Next, they created snakes with playdough, and then we painted attentively in the kitchen together. Afterward, they cleaned the kitchen floor (with vinegar and baking soda)by "skiing" on sponges - they are very thorough, and love this job! After a bath, we then sat down together to watch a library movie Crocodile Hunter, while I preped for dinner, and tended to EvaRuth. When Ben came home, he lit a fire, and we had a picnic dinner in the livingroom, enjoying the warmth of the house.
The day was significant to me because, being productivity-driven, I can sometimes get overwhelmed with what's not done, instead of being present in the reality I have been given. Today, I was able to finish some necessary tasks while also teaching my children how to do it, or rather utilizing their proficient assistance. I was also able to slow down and enjoy them, taking the day as it came, without too much of a list getting in the way. Anyway, it was a good day at home.
It is strangely wonderful when my eyes let me see the most ordinary things as extraordinary. And even better when I begin to feel at home in the ordinary practice of being a mother. Maybe I'm not a natural, but I know I was born for this.
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