Thoughts from today's hospital visit

So much of life is a gift.

My mother is in the ICU with a septic infection. It has been a scary few days, and I am beginning to experience new levels of tired. I am starting to pray specifically that my adrenal glands will live through this season of life; they are being tested to the limit. My apologies to those beloved glands.

Mom is healing, slowly, although tonight she seemed a bit off. Her numbers are better, but I had a weird feeling when I was with her. I hope to see more improvement in blood pressure numbers and a lessening number of meds. dripping into her well-stabbed left arm when I visit in the morning.

Someday I will bore you for paragraphs about the medical care we have in our community. We had the famous gold rush years in the 1840s...but that is nothing compared to the dedication and love of the physicians in our town. I am stunned and grateful and I am quite certain my mother would not be here today if not for their service to us.

For now I must sleep...hopefully for a really long time...but I leave you with these beautiful words from Wendell Berry:

Out his window this morning
he saw nine ducks in flight,
and a hawk dive at his mate
in delight.
The day stands apart
from the calendar. There is a will
that receives it as enough.
He is given a fragment of time
in this fragment of the world.
He likes it pretty well.

From Poem #13 in Window Poems

.

I like it pretty well, too, this fragment of the world on which I live and breathe and have my being. I've read this book, cover to cover, in the hospital waiting room, and it is soothing, melodic, homespun comfort. Just what the doctor ordered.

Autumn reading challenge

I may change this to my school year reading challenge, as I have no idea how many hours a week I will have for heavy reading. When life gets crazy, when hospital visits or constant transportation needs arise, I tend to fall back on the list of mystery stories, P.G. Wodehouse and other old favorites. Only time will tell.

Wendell Berry


The Wild Birds
Two More Stories of the Port William Membership
The Long-Legged House
Window Poems
Wendell Berry Life and Work; Edited by Jason Peters
Bringing It to the Table: On Farming and Food



Enslaved by Ducks by Bob Tarte
Katherine by Anya Seton
Rachel Ray by Anthony Trollope
Dante's Inferno
* From Achilles to Christ: Why Christians Should Read the Pagan Classics Louis Markos
* Ironies of Faith: The Laughter at the Heart of Christian Literature Anthony Esolen
* The Office of Assertion: An Art of Rhetoric for Academic Essay by Scott Crider

And continuing to work my way through


Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die by Heath and Heath
Christ in the Psalms by Patrick Henry Reardon

* These were inspired by my dear friend at A Quotidian Life.



And a thought to inspire and encourage you as you think of your reading list for the coming season:

"A good book does reward you for trying to read it. The best books reward you most of all. The reward, of course, is of two kinds. First, there is the improvement in our reading skill that occurs when you successfully tackle a good, difficult work. Second - and this in the long run is much more important - a good book can teach you about the world and about yourself. You learn more than how to read better; you also learn more about life. You become wiser. Not just more knowledgeable - books that provide nothing but information can produce that result. But wiser, in the sense that you are more deeply aware of the great and enduring truths of human life."

Mortimer J. Adler in How To Read A Book

The stuff joins the girl in Oregon

Friday morning found me on the road to Eugene, Oregon with my traveling buddy. The angled blur in the picture is appropriate; I have felt on a blurry tilt since we learned that our car would not be out of the shop in time for our trip north. Fortunately we have a generous friend who lent us his truck. We were, are and always will be grateful to him. Forever and ever, Amen.

The traveling buddy was the DJ and the "poke Mom and keep her between the lines" guy. He did a fine job. Coffee, sugar and Andrew Kern's brilliance in CD numero uno from CiRCE's 2009 conference were excellent additions to the repertoire. Andrew was so compelling in his discussion of the nature of things that Rex asked if we could listen to it again. What's a mother to do but say "YES!"

We got in town and made a phone call, learning that Madelaine was just walking back to the school from her first Latin tutoring job. We looked up the street and could see a lovely California girl waiting at the stoplight. It was just the graceful vision I was longing for. And a hug I had waited impatiently for. (...for which I was longing? for which I had waited impatiently? Sigh. Never mind.)

Job Number One was to unload the truck. When we walked into her room, it couldn't help but cross our minds....where would this stuff go?????? It is a SMALL room, affectionately referred to as a cell by those who love all things monastic. How to explain "small"? Well, if you added another twin bed, the room would be 100% full. Does that help you "see" it? There are, however, three windows on the far wall, overlooking the courtyard and backyard of the college. The fresh air and filtered sunlight of those windows open things up and give a feeling of more space. I love this room. Perriwinkle walls, white trim, clever shelf space and under bed storage...it is perfect. And once the bike was stored downstairs, and everything was put away in the drawers and closets, even the beloved harp was at home in room #8.

Gutenberg College is a small Great Books school located in the shadow of the University of Oregon campus in Eugene. It gives you all the benefits and lunacy of a university town, even though Gutenberg is so small. We enjoyed walking through the U of O campus to the meditteranean cafe for breakfast, meandering through the very cool cemetery just across the street, and getting in the spirit of game day for the Oregon Fighting Ducks (yes, fighting ducks.) As Madelaine says, after a few days in town, especially when one of those is game day, you start to view the yellow curbs and green grass as statements of school spirit. I made the mistake of wearing the color of the Utes, the dreaded opponent. Not a popular choice in town, but the cafe was still willing to serve us. I am grateful.

One of the freshmen at Gutenberg is a girl whose mother is on an email loop I recently joined. I loved meeting this family and we enjoyed going out for Mexican food together. How could we resist a place that has a sign like the one above? It did not disappoint.

The introductory tea for the incoming freshmen and parents was very informative. We talked all together for a bit, and then the parents went off on their own to talk with the provost about the life of a Gutenberg student. It is an intense community experience because of the size of the school and the nature of the curriculum, and the school does their best to prepare everyone for that. I am looking forward to seeing how it all fits for our particular Gutenberg freshman.

The time passed too quickly since we had to do inconvenient things like sleep. We did manage to watch Cranford on a rainy afternoon, finishing up late at night. It gave us a chance to feel like we were at home, doing normal things, rather than preparing for our Big Goodbye.

Eventually, though, the inevitable happened. We hugged, we cried, we waved as we drove up the hill. And then we stopped waving after we disappeared over the crest, leaving a girl in a white skirt on the sidewalk, poised for all that is to come.

The great joy now is to read the emails coming from Oregon. This is the real reason we teach our students to write well...so that we are comforted when they leave home. *smile* Her vivid descriptions have all of us laughing, sighing, sniffling. Writing well is a way to be a huge blessing to those at home. The key now is for us to be the same blessing to her.

Be well, dear girl. And don't forget to eat! And get enough sleep! And look both ways when you cross the street! And laugh every day!

And know your mother loves you very much.

See you soon!

From the mother of many sons

"You can't sit around enjoying Braveheart and then expect your son to sit demurely at your feet seeking words of wisdom."

Read the rest here: Socratic Son Rearing at Ordo Amoris

This week's gratitude

Rain-related gratitude (after a Monday of rain)....

267. Flowers were watered.
268. The air smelled clean, earthy, perfect.
269. Raindrops were falling in the pre-dawn dark, the perfect waking music.
270. Everything looked so green against the steel-gray sky.
271. Flannel sheets and flannel jammies make it cozy to wake up (and harder to actually get out of bed.)

Friends make gratitude easy....

272. Dale who fixed our van door.
273. Doug who came over to watch movies.
274. Heather who sends funny cards and sweet emails and has a birthday today.
275. Kate whose heart is in D.C. this week.
276. - 291. The hardworking friends who gave time to the Eagle project this weekend.
292. and 293. Ladies who are willing to be the village it takes to raise an Eagle Scout.
294. - 296. Speech and debate club partners in crime, there to share in the joy and the insanity.

Daughter getting settled into her new town gratitude....

297. The beloved tutor and family who met her at the train station.
298. The two Latin students she has lined up.
299. The friends who moved far away and are now close by.
300. Email, chatting, texting, cell phones and Facebook for bridging the miles in comforting ways.

Sometimes gratitude feels like a difficult choice, but I am never disappointed in the result of listing out all the good. It changes my perspective and wakes me up to the facts that go beyond/behind/above the more dismal reality of broken cars and dirty bathrooms, of arguments and worries.




Not posted on Monday, but part of the community nonetheless.

CiRCE for the rest of us

Every year I dream and scheme about getting to the CiRCE Conference. The money is never there, the time is always elusive, and I remain a wannabe.

And so I content myself with my newly arrived set of 2009 Conference CDs.

The binder of inspiration arrived at the perfect time, as I am heading to this destination on Friday, eager to see my girl. Many hours there, many hours back, and I have thirty sessions from which to choose. That will help speed the hours along as we hurry to see her, and I am confident it will provide distraction, if not comfort, for the drive home.

The CSA box meets the blogosphere

Figs are so picturesque, but I was needing a recipe. And look what I found:

(Recipe printed with the permission of Corey from Tongue in Cheek )

Fig Jam

2 pounds of very ripe figs cut in fourths,

1 1/2 pounds of sugar,

Put the figs in a large heavy pan, add the sugar on top of them,

Cover the pan and let it alone for 24 hours.

Most of the sugar will have melted, turn the heat on very low,

Bring the fig-sugar mixture to a boil, stirring often, turn the heat lower,

When the fig-sugar mixture ripples off the spoon the jam is done,

Grill two handfuls of sliced almonds,

Then add the grilled sliced almonds to the jam, stir until well mixed.

Add the boiling mixture to sterile jars and can.

A playlist for his sister

White Dove Fly High Casting Crowns
Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus Casting Crowns (no link but highly recommended)
Somewhere in the Middle Casting Crowns
She’s Leaving Home The Beatles
Yellow Submarine The Beatles
Twenty Years Augustana
Love Above the Golden State
Marching Bands of Manhatten Death Cab for Cutie
Grapevine Fires Death Cab for Cutie
Life in Technocolor II Coldplay
Viva La Vida Coldplay
Waiting Cake
Seat Next to You Bon Jovi
Come Go With You Beach Boys
A Day Late Anberlin
Breathe Anberlin

The soundtrack for the night of departure has become the perfect music for a rainy Monday.

The Eagle Scout project is completed

Last night and today were gloriously beautiful.

Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow made its way up and down the path at the observatory.

Loaded, unloaded, smoothed and ready...the path is complete.




Every ten minutes the beauty changed.

Beautiful became more beautiful.

But these hard-working friends were the best view of all.

The project is completed, the binder and board of review are ahead. Sixteen days until the 18th birthday, so time is of the essence.

Thank you notes for the financial support many of you gave toward this project will be in the mail as soon as the binder is done. The generosity of friends and strangers during the last few weeks has been an overwhelming example of grace and generosity to us. You guys are amazing.

The summer reading challenge is done

Wendell Berry:
Andy Catlett
A World Lost
Nathan Coulter
The Memory of Old Jack

I loved each and every one of these books. There is something of love and loss and the importance of daily life in them that made them the perfect accompaniment for my many days of hospital bedside waiting.

A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table Mollie Wizenberg
Living in a Foreign Language: A Memoir of Food, Wine and Love in Italy Michael Tucker
The Kitchen Diaries: A Year in the Kitchen with Nigel Slater

These books all made me hungry for real food, food that still has bits of the earth from which it was yanked, fresh, colorful, delicious food. I have frozen a whole boatload of entrees for our busy week-night meals, but I intend to do some fresh, fun cooking on the weekends. I also loved that these writers were not afraid to throw themselves into their writing and their cooking and their eating. There is a fullness of life ambiance in all three books that I adore.

Christ in the Psalms by Patrick Henry Reardon

This has become an almost-daily devotional; it takes time to percolate, and I won't be finished with it for a long time.

Father Arseny: Priest, Prisoner, Spiritual Father
The Journals of Alexander Schmemann
The lives of two remarkable men. Inspiring.

The Idiot F. Dostoevsky was cancelled in favor of The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky
I think I need to take a course on the short story genre. I finished this confused (which is probably not a commentary on the book, if you know what I mean.)


The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs Alexander McCall Smith
Portuguese Irregular Verbs Alexander McCall Smith

Good laughs.

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir Bill Bryson

Not my cuppa.

The Summer of the Great-Grandmother
Two-Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage
Meet the Austins

Two re-reads and a new series. Love L'Engle. Love her.

I am collecting my pile for an autumnal reading challenge - a stack of new Wendell Berry titles, some rather heady stuff from a friend's reading list, and a funny book about animals. I shall list them soon.

September 11th

Train station good-bye

Chain smokers lined the platform last night, grabbing for one last puff before the Coast Starlight train departed for all ports north. We were the bundle of twitching, sniffing people off to the side, completely confused by all the emotions and the rush of the final moments.

It all started with a few hours of last-minute packing, though. We took the Good Cop/Bad Cop approach to it all. She defended the addition of this book, that tea kettle, the extra pair of shoes. I was the ruthless, decisive reminder that her loving mother and brother would be following her in eight days. "Choose ONE!" "ONE? ONE? Mom!" Yes, Bad Cop Mom was serious. And it is a good thing, too, because the suitcase was still way too heavy, and we had to haul it up and put it on the rack in the train rather than check it.

But when your heart is pulling you to stay home, it is ever-so-tempting to put your entire room into a container and haul it along. Thus the need for the ruthless mother in the chair in the corner.

Finally packed, good-byes to ducks and Grandma said, the drive began down the moonlit roads. It reminded me of a drive we took a million years ago. In the car was our then-little girl who was in bed every night at seven o'clock, the daughter of rut-stuck parents who believed in the value of a good night's sleep for youngsters. That first night we drove out when it was dark, she was so excited that she could not stop talking. What a marvel to drive when it is DARK! This didn't feel quite so marvelous, though. This was the leaving part of the adventure, the good-bye that has been dreaded for months. The dark felt....dark.

And for the umpteenth time in her life, the next-younger child in the family came to the rescue. The brother who is wired so differently knew, once again, the right thing to do: he made a CD of music and played it as we drove along. The comfort of "Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus" by Casting Crowns, the roaring laughter while singing "Yellow Submarine", the van-shaking moves that accompanied "Life in Technicolor II"...it was the perfect soundtrack for the dark road to a bright future.

We truly bumbled our way through the train boarding process. The suitcase was too heavy, we didn't know where the train was, which seat was hers. While she hugged her siblings and cried her good-byes, I watched the face of an elderly gentleman who was settled in on a bench. His smile was kind, his eyes filled with compassion for the girl who held on to her brothers for dear life. The wobbly mom and dad climbed on board to hug one last time and to watch her golden hair disappear up the stairs.

We jumped tracks and ran until we found her face in her window. We did goofy things to pass the time while departure was delayed. We found her window in between the freight cars, and then...suddenly...her train was moving. The children raced her down the platform as far as they could, but then the train was gone. Gone to the greener parts north, to the uncertainty of those first days of college, and to the continuing certainty of God's loving presence.

And her family's undying affection and admiration.

Walk carefully, well loved one,
walk mindfully, well loved one,
walk fearlessly, well loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
be always coming home.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Where Go the Boats

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mind a-boating -
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

Poem found in this well-loved volume:


from the "worth the price of the book" introduction by Garrison Keillor:

At times life becomes almost impossible....But it can help to say words. Moaning helps. So does prayer. God hears prayer and restores the souls of the faithful.

Walking helps. Many people have pulled themselves up out of the pit by the simple expedient of rising to their feet, leaning slightly forward, and putting one foot ahead of the other.

Poems help. In Mrs. Fleischman's eleventh-grade English class, my assignment was to memorize Shakespeare's sonnet "When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes," and so I did, and having it in my head for forty years has brought me many moments of clarity, and also having Housman's "Loveliest of trees the cherry now," and "A Blessing" by James Wright, and "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver...They don't come to me in moments of hilarity, but often when feeling bereft or drowning in work or even just being late to an appointment, stuck in traffic, ranting at myself, Wright's two Indian ponies have come to me, their eyes full of kindness, Oliver's geese have honked, Shakespeare's lark at break of day from sullen earth arises, the heart is calmed, the gnashing stops, and one goes on.

And one goes on.

What more can I say?

Yesterday I turned fifty.

Today my mother begins chemotherapy.

Tomorrow my daughter leaves for her first year of college.

Happy things

Eggs. Big, fresh, duck eggs:

A new book, gifted by a dear friend:



Wendell Berry: Life and Work



A beautiful girl in the morning light, listening to the beginnings of her brother's Great Books IV class:

A week from tonight....

we'll be at the train station waving good-bye to our college-bound girl.

Waving good-bye.

Sigh.

Fortunately I will be following her nine days later, our van packed like Santa's sleigh, bringing the bulky essentials once her room for the year becomes available.

Where did the time go? Why did it go so quickly? Are we really entering into this new season of life?

Tonight I found comfort in this passage from one of my summer reads:

"I don't understand about anything," John said. "I don't understand about people dying, and I don't understand about families, about people being as close as we are, and then everybody growing up, and not having Rob a baby anymore, and having to go off and live completely different lives."

"But look how close Grandfather and I still are," Mother said.

John shook his head. "I know. But it isn't the same thing. It's not like when you were little."

"No," Mother said. "But if I'd never grown up and met Daddy and married him you wouldn't be here, or Vicky or Suzy or Rob, and we wouldn't be sitting up here on Hawk Mountain shivering and looking at the stars....."

We went home and then we just stood outside for a while. The moon was sailing high now, and the sky was clear above the black pines at the horizon ... I'd never seen such a startlingly brilliant night, the fields and mountains washed in a flood of light. The shadows of trees and sunflowers were sharply black and stretched long and thin across the lawn. It was so beautiful that for the moment the beauty was all that mattered; it wasn't important that there were things we would never understand.

Meet the Austins

While we were away visiting friends this weekend, we ate a fantastically delicious meal under the stars, accompanied by the quiet melody of the creek down below. Around the table were five of my favorite people, and we spent some time talking about our parenting experiences, some recent frustrations (underwear and computers...but it would be hard to explain), and, to be frank, complaining a bit. As we licked the thai chicken marinade from our fingers (wishing not to miss one smidge), the conversation quickly turned to the future. I think it all started with a joke, something about how we can train our grandchildren to leave items strewn in the walkway of the garage as a way of (finally) making our point. Don't worry -- it was a joke! The joke didn't last, though. Our fingers were not even clean before we realized that the future is coming fast enough; there is no need to wish it sooner. The house will soon be cleaner, the broken items will not break quite so often (they will still break because, Lord willing, I am a part of the future), but it will be so decidedly quiet. Q-u-i-e-t. And we got a bit misty-eyed at the thought.

All my mothering life I have determined that I would not wish the present day away. I know that each day has joys that tomorrow does not. Each day's troubles will be vacated in time for tomorrow's special brand of difficulty or confusion. Today is what I have.

And seven more days. To gather parts of home to make a new home up north, to sip tea/coffee and talk through plans, to listen to piano playing, to hear older and younger girls giggling together in the downstairs bedroom.

I plan to enjoy every single minute.

And I just might cry.

Because my heart is breaking a little tiny bit to know that life will never really be the same again.

One.Of.Those.Days.

Some days are gentle and wondrous and the list of gratitude rolls off the tongue like butter on a hot pancake. This is not that day.

My first thought this morning, before my eyes flew open, was that my thirteen-year-old's Classical Writing class was starting while I was with my older daughter at her doctor appointment. Things never go smoothly on the first day of online classes, and today was no exception to that. Trying to calm her on the phone was not sufficient, and I was a bit traumatized by my inability to be in two places at once.

When I finally arrived home to the hard-to-start-but-belatedly-happy class session, I got more news. As of today, my son has twenty-eight days to complete and turn in his Eagle Scout binder. His project has experienced some funding snafus and he learned of even one more today. If nothing else, an Eagle project offers opportunities for prayer.

What's a worried guy to do? Well, he is planning a fund raiser as fast as he can. We await the news that a location for a car wash has been secured. If all goes well, my fiftieth birthday will be spent selling coffee and scones and cinnamon rolls in the "cafe section" of the car wash parking lot. No worries, though. We have already planned to put off a formal celebration of the half-century mark until October. I cannot celebrate while Eagle Projects are looming on the horizon and daughters are departing for college. A heart can only take so much excitement, especially at my age (hahaha.)

And then there is the bathtub that is, once again, leaking through the ceiling to the pantry down below. I don't mind a little misting spray as I walk in the pantry; it's actually a nice feature on a hot day. But when it is leaking from the bathtub, rotting floor boards as it mists down? Not so nice. And my over-active imagination can envision the tub splintering through the ceiling and LANDING in the pantry...all while someone is using the tub. That would not be good, would it? Nope.

There's more to my not so dandy day, but it will need to stay cryptic. I made a commitment at the inception of this blog not to drag petty things across these pages. When I am upset I struggle to keep my vocabulary clean, and I probably end up sounding like a bitter and narrow-minded drama queen. That is not the person I am aiming for, by God's grace. I'll just keep it simple and say that I deleted some emails today and I am a better person for it.

On a day like today I have to take the time to remember: my house is not in danger of fire like so many others in California (just potentially falling bathtubs.) My husband has a job, unlike so many others around our country. We aren't hungry. We aren't lonely; we are surrounded by dear friends and family. We have a great life, and we serve a great God. Today is simply a low-bar comparison to the days when the sun shines like gold leaf on the trees across the valley, the smell of espresso is brewing in the kitchen, and the children are laughing happily as they read P.G. Wodehouse. We have plenty of those glowing, French roasty, laugh-filled days. And maybe tomorrow will be one.