it occurs to me that i worry too much about blogging and commitment.  it's just a creative outlet, after all...like knitting or  painting, or hula dancing (before you ask:  no.)    

so i'd like to do this thing a bit differently...for myself, if you know what i mean. 

the long sentences and serious bits of writing are snugged between black journal pages, wintering away in the quiet, and that feels right.

i just want a place for pretty things and memories.

here,  i think.

pretty bits and memories, all the things i cannot say but hate to lose. 

i'm going to slip back in here quietly and leave myself little surprises; be creative, unedited, unworried.

that feels right too. 

email is on the sidebar if you want to connect. 

subscribe to the new journal through the sidebar link.

"The last of the asters have long since gone; so have the witch-hazels. All is quiet about the hives. The bees have formed into their warm winter clusters upon the combs, and except "when come the calm, mild days," they will fly no more until March or April. I will contract their entrances,--put on their storm-doors. And now there is little else that I can do but put on my own.

The whole of my out-of-doors is a great hive, stored and sealed for the winter, its swarming life close-clustered, and covering in its centre, as coals in the ashes, the warm life-fires of summer.I stand along the edge of the hillside here and look down the length of its frozen slope. The brown leaves have drifted into the entrances, as if every burrow were forsaken; sand and sticks have washed in, too, littering and choking the doorways.

There is no sign of life. A stranger would find it hard to believe that my whole drove of forty-six ground hogs (woodchucks) are gently snoring at the bottoms of these old uninteresting holes. Yet here they are, and quite out of danger, sleeping the sleep of the furry, the fat, and the forgetful."    ~ Dallas Lore Sharp

For nearly three years I have tapped my thoughts and life out here on this screen; good years, full of good things.  I only wanted to write; I never imagined I'd find friends too; never imagined how I would grow and be stretched to take on new things.  I am profoundly grateful.

But the seasons are changing here.  Like the animals that populate our little forest hill, I feel the pull to wrap up, burrow down, close the windows.   

I can't say whether I will be back or not.  I had thought to just blog sporadically, when the time allowed, but I have come to realize that was just me hanging on to something the Lord was telling me to lay down in its winter bed.  It's time to be done.

So now, 

I will pull shut the doors,

turn down the lights,

and go quietly into this new season.

You are so loved and appreciated my friends.

Thank you for accepting me, for caring about my life, for sharing your lives with me.

I send love,

Tonia 

This is the beginning of what I hope will be a series of occasional letters to moms with special needs kids.  I am particularly writing from my own experience of raising a child with FASD.   The things I talk about may not apply to most of you, but there are many, many families who have opened their doors and adopted or fostered kids and found it to be a daunting and terrifying task.  These letters are for them. 

Dear friend,

From where I sit tonight I can see the wind stealing the leaves from the old maple on the pasture.  It produces a bittersweet feeling in me; for although their dance with the sky is beautiful, I know the stark, empty arms of winter are coming soon.   It seems strange that just as the coldest weather arrives, God strips nature of its wrappings. 

God does things differently.  From the vantage point of terra firma, His ways seem twisted up and backward.   He takes fools and entrusts them with the mysteries of ages;  takes the charred remains of failure and rebellion and hands back beauty.  He hides His treasure in the broken, despised and rejected. 

That child God gave you is also a treasure; wrapped in insecurity, rebellion and failure, stunted abilities, deceit and depression, humiliation and exhaustion and aggression:  God's treasure.

I know the doctors, therapists, teachers, neighbors, all have their opinions and pronouncements.   You've heard, "There's nothing we can do..."  plenty of times.  Worst of all is the nagging voice in the back of your own head that is starting to believe them.  Fear and a growing realization that "there IS nothing we can do..." is eating away what's left of those rosy dreams of open arms and a home that is a refuge for the hurting. 

We're going to have to put those aside now.  That's right, shove them to some back room and slam the door; we'll deal with those later.  Right now we need to hear His voice:

For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.    Jer. 29:11

It was all planned.  Right from the beginning, that child was meant for you and you for him - and the plans are for good.  

Can you dare to believe that?  

That's our prayer for now...a beginning.   A new day where we believe that this was not some terrible mistake, not a plan gone awry, not a dead end that we will never recover from.  

We will ask to believe that God wants this life for us.  We will ask for the faith to look our children in the eyes and tell them that there is hope and promise and good things for them in their futures.

Today let's pray that we can begin the day with hope and love.  

Let's greet him or her at breakfast with a smile that says, "I am so glad to see you!"   Keep the feelings of dread locked in that room for five minutes and give our children the gift of being welcomed and wanted and believed in.   If your child is like mine, they won't even acknowledge the gift.  That's okay.  Give it anyway.   We'll exercise our faith and it will get stronger.

God does things differently  - but that is only from our perspective.  The barrenness of the maple tree in winter is not a cruel joke.   It is nature's way of protecting the tree from the killing frost; closing its doors and windows to keep the heat inside and the tree alive.  

We can trust Him that He knows what He is doing...even when it seems the winds are blowing every bit of beauty from our lives.   Hold on.  Keep trusting.  He knows what He is doing.

Daring to believe with you,

Tonia     

Perfect after a full day of cheering soccer players from the sidelines....

Marge's Chicken Pot Pie

from the Mitford Cookbook.

Unbelievably good and comforting. 

My son has been outdoing himself with his photos lately, and this is a particularly gorgeous time of year out here in paradise, so I thought I'd give you a wee glimpse around our home in autumn.

Golden offerings from the maples to decorate the paths...

the most beloved tree of all:  good for perching and poetry,  hiding and dreaming.... 

 the view from the perch...

or look the other way and you might catch the girls napping....

Out the front window and across the road is a little treasure....

it's tucked away down in a ravine, but this creek sang to us on the night we first came to see the house.  Mark and I stood on the deck in the cold October night two years ago, heard its cheerful voice and knew we had to hear it again and again.   At night I leave the window open so I can fall asleep to the sound.

 Such a beautiful time of year...

 makes me want to sing around the house,

drink hot cider,

do a little knitting,

kiss my sweetie.

Have a lovely weekend of your own. 

(A special thanks to N14 for his terrific camera work.) 

 One more step in learning to take care of ourselves:  I put together a make-shift cold frame this year.  

In Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Barbara Kingsolver talks about how cut off we are from the types of basic skills we need to live.  Our food is grown in anonymous places and trucked to us waxed and sprayed and plasticked.  Growing your own food  - until the last century or so, one of the fundamental necessities for staying alive - is often considered "too hard", "too dirty", and the provenance of the eccentric or the quaint.

At the same time, there is a new commercialization and "cute-ifying" of farming and home-related skills that is equally as detrimental in my opinion,  to our learning to care for ourselves.   You see these "cutesy" farms and gardens in all the magazines and home shows:  architect designed chicken houses; luxury-animal farms, such as alpacas, each animal costing thousands of dollars and producing only hair;  4,000 square foot farm houses to hold 2.5 kids and a golden retriever - and a wine cellar.   One magazine ran a story on building raised garden beds that involved finding old growth timbers and decorative slate before you could start planting that heirloom lettuce.  Please find a custom metal worker to make adorable signs for each bed, reading "le jardin" or "herbs."

That kind of thinking has tied me up for a long time.   With little money to spend on designer garden beds, how will I ever grow spinach?   

We laugh, but I'll bet there are a whole lot of people for whom that thinking sounds familiar.  Skills like frugality, gardening, sewing, making do and using what is in your hand are completely foreign to many of us.   

This year, I'm trying to learn.  I figure the best way is to just get in there and get dirty - with the rule that I have to use what is here, or only what will cost very, very little.   

My cold frame is made out of hay bales, dirt dug out from an area of the pasture, compost, and our bathroom shower door (from the unusable bathroom.)   I planted spinach and lettuces and I am going to try and start some seeds in pots so I can have an ongoing crop this winter.  I don't know how to grow seeds indoors.  I'm just going to try - and I'm not buying this either.   

(Hay Bale cold frame plans here.)   

Baby spinach, tucked in their winter beds, mulched with hay to keep the cats from digging them up.  The shower door will go on as the weather gets colder. 

computer trouble.

picture trouble.

keyboard keeps skiping letters.

house a mes.

sigh.

try again tomorow.

 if I dont brek the keyboard frst.

*grin* 

I'm trying to mend my evil ways. 

OK, I' m not that bad - compared to some people I' m practically a saint!  I dutifully box up the leftover casserole for Mark's lunch the next day; I try to use the whole bag of potatoes before they turn green and sprout; the milk is always gone before it has soured.

It's those other things...the little bits of this and that hiding away in lonely refrigerator corners and behind cereal boxes that I have assiduously neglected.

For some reason, whenever we get to the last slice of bread (+ 2 heels), I carefully wrap the bread bag around it like a little prize and throw it in the far back of the cupboard.  Then I check it weekly to see if it is moldy yet.  When it's moldy, I throw it away.   This makes perfect sense because one should never, ever throw out good bread.  Only moldy bread.

Likewise, I always save the last stalk of pale green celery, carefully attached to its grimy, bulbous end.   Then I go buy another bunch of delightfully bright and crunchy celery and use it with glee.   Soon I have two wan stalks and their fat, white behinds taking up room in the produce drawer, drooping with neglect, despairing of ever seeing the inside of the salad bowl.  But I never throw them away.  That's perfectly good food right there.  It could be used for something.

*hangs head*

I know.  It's bad.  First it was art supplies...now you know the truth about the fridge.

But this last month I've been working on that.  I have forced myself to quit writing "celery" on the list until there is no. more. celery.   I turned my bread heels backwards and made pb&j.  The kids didn't even notice!  (You didn't think *I* ate the heels, did you?)  I started a list of all the bits and bobs and started planning meals around them!   Yes.  I did.

I know you are dying to hear the details. 

On the list:

~ 8 egg whites  - becomes Meringue Cookies.

~ 1/4 bottle of V8 juice and

2 cups tomato juice (strained from cans of tomatoes when making salsa)  - becomes Tomato Soup.

~ frozen quiche dough

1/2 carton of ricotta cheese

1 stalk of broccoli

1 green pepper

1/2 jar of artichoke hearts  - becomes Quiche.

~ 1/2 cup of leftover salsa  - added to Rice with Cheese and Tomatoes.

~ 3 freezer burnt steaks (already cooked, leftover from a summer bbq)  - becomes All Day Beef Stew.

~ 3 pork chops  - becomes Pork Tacos with Black Beans.* 

~ 1 smoked ham hock  - added to Lentil Soup for a little flavor. 

~ 1 bag of forgotten frozen chocolate chip cookies, crushed in the bottom of the freezer  - becomes Pie Crust.     

*(I just cook the pork chops with some chili powder, cumin and garlic salt and slice them thin.  Add to regular tacos.)

Proverbs 31 woman.  Right here, ladies. 

*wink*

~Since leftover management is a highly under-appreciated skill,  feel free to brag in the comment box.  I understand.  What have you rescued from the back of the fridge lately? 

Learning happens all the time; even on the quiet weeks, even when your arm is in a sling.

Dad left instructions on how to check the car fluids, so they did.   Something about the snapshot makes me smile...those young men, MY young men, learning together, being responsible, being together.

We are back at the books in earnest this week.  My plans are working out nicely.  (Victory!!) 

 This quote from Edith Schaeffer is on my mind - another good one to file away and remember:

Common sense Christian living takes place in an atmosphere where prayer is as natural as breathing, as necessary as oxygen, as real as talking to your favorite person with whom there is no strain, as sensible as reaching into the bag of flour for the proper supplies for making bread.  To live without prayer being woven into every part of every day is stupid, foolish, senseless, or is an evidence that your belief in the existence of the Creator, who has said we are to call upon Him, is an unsure belief.            ~ Common Sense Christian Living

Always, He picks up the pieces I drop.  Always, He remembers the details.

Lord, may we not be senseless or unbelieving...teach us more of how to pray. 

autumn morning sky...the view from the pasture.

"When illness hits we should remember that this period of time is part of the whole of life.  This is not just a non-time to be shoved aside, but a portion of time that counts.  It is part of the well person's life, as well as part of the sick person's life.  .... There is an importance attached to the use of the whole span of time which means that creativity, imagination, work, appropriate contribution, blending of talents, and pitching in to do whatever needs to be done, applies to periods of sickness as well as periods of health....  We are to recognize that to waste this time is as much a loss as wasting a time we might think of as the height of productivity...."  Edith Schaeffer

Thank you Mrs.  Schaeffer for reminding me that life happens....that broken wrists, days of travel to doctor's appointments, surgery, recovery and weary bodies are all part of the normal patterns of lives being lived.

The past week we have tried to stick to the things that matter most to us, and let the other things slide;  no guilt or to-do lists allowed.  Instead we aim for a relatively clean house, healthy food and time to nurture patients without stress, learning and growing and relating.

Pare back the school lists:  do some math, read some books, tell me about it.  (And give myself a pass on keeping up with the week's reading.)

Household chores are narrowed to keeping the main traffic areas clean:  the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen.

A little more time for baking and making favorite recipes; filling the house with warm, yummy smells and the promise of treats.

Lots of candle light, recorded books, card games and just being together in the same room.

Early to bed, wake up a little later.

Good memories, rest, comfort and peace to help ease the pain of broken bones and broken schedules. 

In the CD player:  

Peter and the Shadow Thieves (read by Jim Dale - FABULOUS.  Great for preteens, older kids.)

Eating with tea:  Frosted Pumpkin Drop Cookies 

I love using cultured buttermilk in my baking; it makes everything delectably moist and tender.   An old trick for "making" buttermilk when you have run out is to add a tablespoon of lemon juice or vinegar to a cup of milk and let it stand for 5 minutes.    With a little more foresight, you can make your own real buttermilk at home. 

Pour 1/4 - 1/2 cup cultured buttermilk into a clean quart-sized glass jar or bottle.  ( I do this as soon as I bring a quart of buttermilk home from the store, that way I won't forget.  The bottle in the picture is an old Bragg's vinegar bottle.)

Fill the rest of the jar with ordinary milk.  Put the cap on and leave it on the counter for a day, or until the milk becomes thicker and coats the side of the bottle.  Refrigerate. 

Voila! 

More details here. 

Thanks to the kind parent who snaps photos of everyone's kids,  I have a picture of N14 playing with the high school team.    
 

Note to self:  Always bring a camera to the very first game of the season and take your pictures then.  You never know when your dear boy might have a collision in a game and fall on his wrist snapping both bones, thereby ending his freshman soccer season prematurely...with no pictures taken.

I am on nursing duty this week:  ice, Vicodin, ice, elevate, ice, Vicodin, etc.

~I'm also formulating a plan to be organized with my blogging.  Plans, order, organization and schedules are very important to my temperament.  Follow-thru is optional.  This week, all is rosy because we are in the planning phase.  I may print out some charts or something.  

~I also have a wonderful Sunday night plan.  Tonight's plan involves being up early enough tomorrow to go outside and get an hour's worth of yard work done before breakfast.  And I will do this every day.  Rain or shine.  Oh yes. 

THAT, my friends is how I manage to keep this place in tip-top shape.  *ahem*

~I have other plans, but I don't want to overwhelm you with my super-momness.

 On a side note, I read this a while back and couldn't even breathe, I was laughing so hard.   Perhaps you won't find it quite so funny.  But then, perhaps you were not the awkwardly desperate 7th grade girl with the feathered bangs and big pink glasses and buck teeth who fell on the only patch of ice in a three-mile radius just as the 9th graders were coming out to lunch.  

You weren't?

Oh right.  That was me.

I lay on that wet little patch of blacktop while the crowd parted around me.  I couldn't move at all because of the shooting pain in my left arm, so I just curled up a little and tried to disappear.  The ninth graders kept coming.  A couple of the guys looked down and said, "What are you doing down there?"   I smiled winningly and giggled.  (You never knew when a ninth grader might suddenly fall hopelessly in love with you, so you always had to try and be prepared.)  Those particular boys didn't appear to fall in love with me right then, so they moved on.

All the 9th graders moved on.

There I was on the patch.  With my aching arm.

After awhile a girl in one of my classes saw me and helped me to the nurse's office.  My dad came.  We went to the doctor and I got a sling.

The next day I came back to school and waited outside history class ready to regale one and all with my thrilling yet sad story.   I stood closer to a group of guys I knew and posed with my sling side toward them.   They ignored me.  One of the boys, talking excitedly, threw his arm back and hit me in the face.  My big, pink glasses went flying off and skittered down the tile hall a long, long way.  

I stood there blinking; with my arm in the sling.  

The bell rang and my class went inside.  I got on my hand and knees and started patting the ground for my glasses. 

Go ahead.  Take a moment to picture that. 

Squint.  Scoot.  Shuffle.  pat, pat, pat.  Squint. Scoot. Shuffle.  pat, pat, pat.

I found them, way down the hall under some old desks.  It took awhile, and once I put on the glasses I sat on the cold tile floor and cried a little. 

Eventually I went in to class and it was fine, and now I can tell that story and laugh.  And I can laugh at Brant Hansen's story because it feels so true; especially this line, from the end of his post:

Dave Barry says:   Whoever you were in middle school?  -- that's who you are now, in your mind.  For those who care:  It may help to note that Brant is still wrestling a folding chair.

 Yes, and so often, while the rest of the world moves on, I am still crawling blind down the middle school hall, searching for sight.

~ Someone suggested I should update my About page, so I spent some time doing that last week.  As you can tell from the pictures, eventually Mr. Right came along, and I was ready.  *smile*  He would have been a Junior when I was lying on that ice patch all those years ago.  Take that, 9th grade boys. 

A little about me.

roadside dahlias - 5 bucks.  leave your dollars in the jar and drive home smiling.

 I know I've been gone for too long with no word...the hours here are full and I find it increasingly difficult to carve out the time to sequester myself away with the computer.

I tiptoed back into this world earlier in the week and peeked around at what everyone was doing and saying.  I found beautiful, refreshing, encouraging words in many places.  (You all are a spectacular bunch, you know that?)   I also found the same old tired finger-pointing and dismay over "the state of the church" or "those people who call themselves Christians."   Blech. 

Last month at the little country church I heard some of the older crowd complaining to the preacher that we weren't singing enough hymns to suit them.  I felt the familiar dread crawl around in my middle; fights over worship can be terrible.   I was so discouraged during the ride home that week...so afraid that we were walking into another church with in-fighting and "sides" to choose.

But the next week there was a hymnal at my seat when I arrived for services.  The worship leader led us in some praise music, then we finished up with hymns.   I cried inside through the whole thing.

See how easy that was?  "Prefer one another in love..."   

I know, I know....we're all sure that we know the Right way...there is Tradition and the church Fathers....there is the Holy Scripture, of course...and there is Decency and Order, Virtue and Truth.  It's perfectly clear how this should all be done.  And it's completely obvious where those other guys have gone wrong.  (Let me tell you about it; you should be aware!) 

Or I could just shut up and go get the hymnals.

 It made me think of this piece I'd written a year ago when I was confronting these same feelings.   Other people seem so sure that they know the rules, the order, the direction and exactly how life should go.  I don't.  I am taking my page from John, who, being the disciple Jesus loved, had this to say at the end of his long life:

Don't sin.

Obey Jesus,  and

"Beloved, let us love one another." 

That's enough to keep us all busy for a very long time.

DUST

When my great-great grandmother arrived in her new home state, she stepped off the west-bound train into four inches of powdery dust, as fine as flour.  I remember that dirt from my visits to the family homestead.  Silky and soft, it sifted its way into every crevice, coated every surface.

The dust of the road I'm walking is heavier, like sand.  When my foot scuffs the surface a golden haze lifts up and settles quickly back down, coloring my shoes.  It's hot, and there are no guideposts on the road.  I feel edgy.

 I imagine the sun was simmering in the sky the day they brought the woman to Jesus.  I wonder if she walked defiantly between them or if she showed her fear, cowering and resisting as they pulled her through the streets.  The dust must have billowed around their scuffling; it clings to sweat-drenched skin like a blanket.  She must have known what was coming.

In my mind I see the moment when they reach Him, the upright citizens and the soiled woman trembling in their midst.  Scripture tells us He was teaching in the Temple, but my image of Him is wrapped in stillness.  As His eyes take in the scene there is a moment when the clamor fades and it's just her standing before Him.   I look back at the outraged men and wonder if the crawling dread began in that profound silence:  the awareness that their own hands were not so clean.

He bends to write in the dirt.

It's a matter of minutes before the last accuser has slunk away and I can see her trembling has slowed.  She is standing close to Him, waiting, ready, like a cat, to dart.

He speaks: "From now on sin no more."

And just like that she is gone. 

I imagine her running, the air brushing her skin, the dust slipping from her like sand through a glass.  When she finally rested, she must have shook with the knowledge of how close....how close!  she had come to death. 

 I stop to stretch my legs and squint into the sun, looking for some sort of marker.  Nothing but dirt and weeds.  To the west of me, through the waves of heat,  I can make out another road, lined on either side by chain-link fence.  All along it, a line of travellers marches confidently forward.  For a moment I think about racing through the dirt and scaling the chain-link to join them, but the fence is too inviting, too easy.    I chafe the back of my neck in frustration at their tidy caravan.   My teeth feel gritty.  My throat is dry.  Ahead of me is barren road, as far as I can see.  This is the way He sent me, and it is hard.

My mind drifts and I wonder if she walked this road before me - if her footsteps left tracks in the  dust.

"Go and sin no more."   That was the last trail sign.

I dust off my shoes and go.

originally posted August 2006