11.17.2012
11.16.2012
Love
We've still been running the air-conditioner off and on, but suddenly it is heater weather. A simple flip of the switch, however, revealed that this means that it is going to be on and off jacket weather inside our house until the repairman comes out to fix the heater.
Texas, unlike California, actually has seasons, and this time of year, you can experience all four of them in the space of a week.
"Mama! You have ant bites, too?!"
Texas also has ants. Ants seem to be particularly fascinating to young blue-eyed boys, and Texas ants are the biting kind. Kai-kai, September, and Isaiah have always tended to stay clear of them, but Willie is enraptured with their swarming patterns, just like Nathan was at his age.
Stroking me sympathetically, Willie took a closer look at my arm.
"Oh, those aren't ant bites... you're just cold!"
He whipped his jacket off, and offered it to me. I thanked him for the sweet gesture, and told him that perhaps he could go fetch me my own jacket off the banister.
He immediately went scurrying off, and the moment he was back, and my jacket was safely in my hands, he picked up his own little black and red puffer.
"There. Now I'm going to put my coat back on. Because I'm freezing."
Texas, unlike California, actually has seasons, and this time of year, you can experience all four of them in the space of a week.
"Mama! You have ant bites, too?!"
Texas also has ants. Ants seem to be particularly fascinating to young blue-eyed boys, and Texas ants are the biting kind. Kai-kai, September, and Isaiah have always tended to stay clear of them, but Willie is enraptured with their swarming patterns, just like Nathan was at his age.
Stroking me sympathetically, Willie took a closer look at my arm.
"Oh, those aren't ant bites... you're just cold!"
He whipped his jacket off, and offered it to me. I thanked him for the sweet gesture, and told him that perhaps he could go fetch me my own jacket off the banister.
He immediately went scurrying off, and the moment he was back, and my jacket was safely in my hands, he picked up his own little black and red puffer.
"There. Now I'm going to put my coat back on. Because I'm freezing."
11.15.2012
Song
It's the sort of day where you savor your mug of hot tea, as much for the warmth as for anything else. Where you never bother to get out of your pajamas, but you do scrub the kitchen floor--or at least part of it--and it feels so good, if only in contrast to your stuffy nose and your thickly pounding head. The sort of day when your little boy grins at you with those melty-chocolate eyes, and somehow you feel the wonder all the more for being sick.
Or maybe it's just that like a snake swallowing its tail, all those voices of silence have choked themselves off. They've dried up and blown away in the crisp November wind, and I feel so light and glad.
I can just taste the redemption that might be, that could be, and whatever stories there will be, I rejoice that it is offered.
Do they know? Do they know?
Those words have suffocated us all for so long, speaker and hearer alike, but now those words have crumbled into ashes. At the sound of the breaking pots, they've turned on themselves in the torchlight, and those words of darkness can never again drown out the words of light.
Do they know? Do they know?
They will say what they will say, and live the story of their choosing. I hope they come stand in the beautiful wind with arms wide open, and watch the ashes blow away, as far as the east is from the west. But whatever words they choose to live, my heart overflows with gladness at the story that's been offered.
And as for me, I will play checkers with my daughter, pour another cup of tea, and sing the song of the redeemed.
Or maybe it's just that like a snake swallowing its tail, all those voices of silence have choked themselves off. They've dried up and blown away in the crisp November wind, and I feel so light and glad.
I can just taste the redemption that might be, that could be, and whatever stories there will be, I rejoice that it is offered.
Do they know? Do they know?
Those words have suffocated us all for so long, speaker and hearer alike, but now those words have crumbled into ashes. At the sound of the breaking pots, they've turned on themselves in the torchlight, and those words of darkness can never again drown out the words of light.
Do they know? Do they know?
They will say what they will say, and live the story of their choosing. I hope they come stand in the beautiful wind with arms wide open, and watch the ashes blow away, as far as the east is from the west. But whatever words they choose to live, my heart overflows with gladness at the story that's been offered.
And as for me, I will play checkers with my daughter, pour another cup of tea, and sing the song of the redeemed.
1.31.2011
My Sons.
I'm proud of 'em, and I get mamma-bear mad when folks have low expectations of 'em.
And then I take it as an opportunity to clarify my philosophy of education. In sonnet form, of course.
http://thereforeiambic.blogspot.com/2011/01/these-fine-strong-sons-of-mine-it-is.html
And then I take it as an opportunity to clarify my philosophy of education. In sonnet form, of course.
http://thereforeiambic.blogspot.com/2011/01/these-fine-strong-sons-of-mine-it-is.html
1.20.2011
Plumb Line
One of the best things about having lots of kids is that you get to hear yourself reflected back--my interactions with them get played back over and over again in the way they talk to each other, and so I get to find out how I really sound.
And so it was that I was doubly pleased the other day, when I heard September speaking to Will with such gentle, loving firmness.
"Willie, I'll let you play with my football, but not in the bathroom, because I don't want you to flush it down the toilet. You shouldn't flush things down the toilet that don't belong to you."
And so it was that I was doubly pleased the other day, when I heard September speaking to Will with such gentle, loving firmness.
"Willie, I'll let you play with my football, but not in the bathroom, because I don't want you to flush it down the toilet. You shouldn't flush things down the toilet that don't belong to you."
1.17.2011
Clutter
I’ve been reading the newspaper this afternoon—a rare indulgence. Newspapers are terribly messy and clutterful, and so I tend to get most of my news from the internet. With all the temptingly distracting hyperlinks, I suppose that the internet produces even more mental clutter, but at least it all stays contained in my head, rather than getting scattered about the house.
Of course, mental clutter is even more crazy-making than paper-clutter… until in finds its way out onto paper. It works just the same way as with the house—the more stuff you let in, the more of your life you have to spend organizing it all. There’s a richness in simplicity, and I’m trying to rid my life of extraneous junk. At the very least, I’m trying to count the cost for everything I bring into my life—not just the initial investment, but also the cumulative cost of constantly having to put it away, over and over again. It’s all too easy for the meaningless to crowd out the meaningful, for words to multiply, and dreams to crowd out their fulfillment.
Of the writing of books there is no end, but once they’ve been scattered all around the floor for the umpteenth time, they need to get put back into place so I can stop tripping on them. Yesterday, when I was trying to pick up the week’s accumulation of clutter, I found myself instead following my husband around while he cleaned, and chattering incessantly. I was explaining to him about why I really needed to write more, so that I wouldn’t drive him up the wall by talking his ear off quite so much. I stopped short as soon as I picked up on the irony, but he assured me that I wasn’t actually annoying him. He doesn’t mind when I talk about writing. It’s just when I talk about… certain things. He couldn’t remember what.
This afternoon, our beautiful, newly tidy room was strewn about with comics and economics and the weekly “Around the Area” column on local murderings and gristly accidents. I read aloud all the particularly infuriating snippets from editorial after editorial, and Andrew finally remembered what it is that always bugs him. Ah, yes. Politics. He can’t stand it when I talk about politics.
We’re pretty much on the same page, and though our views have evolved through the years, they’ve been changing in lockstep. But our attention spans are different, and Andrew is forever drawing me out of the endless round and round of the now, back to the slow, meticulous study of history that makes sense out of it all.
And of course, when I sat down to write, I had the intention of drawing some profound point out of all this.
It was terribly profound and wonderful, but it seems to be buried in a big pile with several pages of newspaper, some dirty dishes, and some unfolded laundry.
Of course, mental clutter is even more crazy-making than paper-clutter… until in finds its way out onto paper. It works just the same way as with the house—the more stuff you let in, the more of your life you have to spend organizing it all. There’s a richness in simplicity, and I’m trying to rid my life of extraneous junk. At the very least, I’m trying to count the cost for everything I bring into my life—not just the initial investment, but also the cumulative cost of constantly having to put it away, over and over again. It’s all too easy for the meaningless to crowd out the meaningful, for words to multiply, and dreams to crowd out their fulfillment.
Of the writing of books there is no end, but once they’ve been scattered all around the floor for the umpteenth time, they need to get put back into place so I can stop tripping on them. Yesterday, when I was trying to pick up the week’s accumulation of clutter, I found myself instead following my husband around while he cleaned, and chattering incessantly. I was explaining to him about why I really needed to write more, so that I wouldn’t drive him up the wall by talking his ear off quite so much. I stopped short as soon as I picked up on the irony, but he assured me that I wasn’t actually annoying him. He doesn’t mind when I talk about writing. It’s just when I talk about… certain things. He couldn’t remember what.
This afternoon, our beautiful, newly tidy room was strewn about with comics and economics and the weekly “Around the Area” column on local murderings and gristly accidents. I read aloud all the particularly infuriating snippets from editorial after editorial, and Andrew finally remembered what it is that always bugs him. Ah, yes. Politics. He can’t stand it when I talk about politics.
We’re pretty much on the same page, and though our views have evolved through the years, they’ve been changing in lockstep. But our attention spans are different, and Andrew is forever drawing me out of the endless round and round of the now, back to the slow, meticulous study of history that makes sense out of it all.
And of course, when I sat down to write, I had the intention of drawing some profound point out of all this.
It was terribly profound and wonderful, but it seems to be buried in a big pile with several pages of newspaper, some dirty dishes, and some unfolded laundry.
4.10.2010
Poetry Blog, Take II
Okay, so I don't think, therefore I mess up the launching of my new blog, and then go get a puppy, and never make it onto the internet for a few weeks.
Here it is, for reals: thereforeiambic.blogspot.com
I'm starting out slow--expect weekly Saturday posts for now.
First up, a resurrection poem.
Because Christ is risen!
Hallelujah!
Oh, and in case you're wondering, she's a little white furball of a mini schnoodle, her name is Terpsichore, and although she's very cute, everything they've ever said about housebreaking small dogs is true.
Here it is, for reals: thereforeiambic.blogspot.com
I'm starting out slow--expect weekly Saturday posts for now.
First up, a resurrection poem.
Because Christ is risen!
Hallelujah!
Oh, and in case you're wondering, she's a little white furball of a mini schnoodle, her name is Terpsichore, and although she's very cute, everything they've ever said about housebreaking small dogs is true.
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