this old dog

So I'm back from the show. I'm back from the dancing and the smiling and the trying to make small talk. It's been one of those days in which I didn't get anything I asked for ... but several things I actually needed ... and so I'm thinking about gratitude.

For these things I give thanks ...

I didn't get the answer I expected when I asked it, but later I got a hug, and a secret grin against my ear, that meant the world and heaven and the deep root of my heart to me.

The dress cost more than I could ever afford, but she wanted it, and I am foolish ... besides, she did look beautiful.

I'm grown up enough now to know that, when I compare myself to others it's not actually about belittling myself but about recognising the standards and values I admire, and appreciating those who can hold to them better than I.

And I know this is a long journey of small steps. It can not be otherwise if you live in the world. Everywhere, people are slouching and climbing on furniture and talking all through a performance. I must battle on the constant field. I must be stronger and more determined than I have been.

I stayed awake through the whole thing - liking the idea of a ballet, but alas not having the refinement previous night's sleep necessary to appreciate an hour and a half of it.

I learned what I needed to know about the friendship of a woman who could not make it clear herself. And I didn't mind. That's one less piece of socialising I have to do.

Understanding that it's more about tea sets and old black and white movies set in Spain than anything real ... priceless.

Knowing truly where I'd rather be.

not grimacing, just gazing

Most members of our extended family possess something known as The [Family Name] Face. (We also have the Family Name Feet, The Family Name Nose, and the Family Name need for sunglasses even on rainy days.)

The Face is not necessarily unattractive. But when in repose it looks severe, or miserable, or in some cases downright thunderous. I myself have been known to frighten friends simply by gazing sleepily into the middle distance. My mother can make people cry with a casual glance. My aunt has learned to smile and laugh constantly (alas, yes, constantly) as a defence against being asked, "what on earth is wrong?" by horrified onlookers.

It seems this unfortunate characteristic of The Face is also reflected somewhat in my writing. More than once this week, kind readers have mentioned that I've seemed sad. I am infact really quite content, it's just my [Family Name] Face at work.




We've had a busy month, and the next few weeks promise to be just as interesting. I love the activity, fun, and friendship we have been experiencing. But I also love the wistful hills, the mysterious half-promises of a sullen sky, and even the moments of my own private sadness - over nothing in particular, just a little sad you know? - and then happiness again.

Even the beautiful Christmas season is made especially wonderful to me by its layer of personal hauntings.

It's in the deep colour of these more melancholy things that I tend to find my preferred poetry. I'm more a Cymbeline person than a Midsummer Night's Dream one.

But happy. If I may dare to say so (and I give many thanks indeed where they belong.)

And so grateful to have such lovely friends.

What about you? What impression do you give without meaning? I know, for example, that Mariposa and Dawn give the impression from their stance and their lovely words of being graceful gentle spirits. Lissa Wiley is surely generous and impish (as I can tell from the twinkle in her eye and her blithe, coffee-spitting jokes). I might of course be completely wrong! But I envy them the impression they give me, I who just have a Face.

Do you ever get told anything about yourself that you know to be not entirely true?

at the end of the day

I wish I could show you the moon. It's such a big soft thing, half-buried beneath the ashes of a sky that was an hour ago all fire and smoke. If my heart was a moon it would be this one.

But you know how cameras can be. You'll just have to dream it.

Rose performed in a play for the first time tonight. I was utterly in knots for her, but she did beautifully, and so met another of her sweet life goals. I felt so proud of her for a thousand reasons, the main one being that she is my Rose.

Not a single butterfly. And sitting on the stage beforehand chatting with a boy ... one of the nicest things about this age, that boys and girls start to treat each other as fellow humans ... And helping a friend into her costume.

And afterwards, chatting with her friends while I chatted with mine.

(Friends. For now. Who knows for how long. But just now is enough, and so very very good.)

It was a luminous evening.

I feel as if God is like that old gold moon behind the clouds, shining, shining. Even when all I can see are clouds. Even when my blood veers and I don't know why.

And whether I wait or not, there eventually comes a gracious wind, the clouds unravel ... sometimes a little, sometimes completely ... and there is the moon.

Shining.

And my life shines.

Or perhaps it's more true to say I see the shine again.

a line or two from the chronicles

I sit in the tiny library Rose and I made for ourselves yesterday, quiet within the pale leading edge of morning. It was one of those nights - you know? Too much dreaming, and then not enough sleeping. A dog needing to go out at 2am. And so I sit here, gathering strength for the day.

Rose is going to be performing in her first play. Will her teacher insist on a French accent after all? Will the other children remember their lines? Will butterflies brush away Rose's own memory for words here and there?

Just another pinnacle moment of childhood. This homeschooler has not missed out.

And as for me - I am rehearsing my own lines for her waking time, so that she knows, the moment she steps out of her room, how welcome she is.

I am reminding myself, speak softly, slow down, look people in the eye. Grace can't settle on me, or anyone around me, if I'm in a constant spin. Why do I rush anyway? Don't I already despair of how fast time goes by?

My little girl with pink ribbons in her pigtails ... my baby with the huge black eyes ... my dream I thought would never happen ... is going to be up on a stage. She's almost as tall as her teacher. Almost as tall as me.

Slow down, I tell myself. Every moment is what you wished it to be.



ps, I hope you like the new look for Christmas.

an advent to sigh over

Our advent this year really reflects the sort of people we are. I'm a little embarrassed sharing this, as it is not particularly charming! Other people have such nice advents ...

My organisational skills are very poor. It's always been a problem for me, and is the thing I worry about most in regards to Rose's education. I'm sorry to say this past year of unschooling* has definitely seen a neglect of organisational skills, culminating in a mad panic last night to finish a Christmas present before it had to be posted today. We both went to bed exhausted and unhappy, and once again I growled at myself for wasting an opportunity for beauty, childhood fun, and joy.

My inherent laziness and Rose's inherent dreaminess combine to make us almost entirely whimsical. I am so bad, I have to have my events calendar on my computer desktop, as I can no longer be relied upon to open a diary and look down at the page.

Consequently, although I had many beautiful dreams for our advent this year (and some from our past years have been beautiful indeed) it ended up being a case of buying some mixed lollies, pouring them in a glass, and cutting up strips of painted paper at the last minute this morning to write prayers on. I did manage to tie a ribbon around the glass. Woo hoo!




It was my vague idea to buy lengths of white ribbon, have Rose write daily wishes upon them, then hang them on our fence. I didn't get around to buying the ribbon, despite actually standing infront of shelves of ribbon in the weekend. And rain is forecast for the whole week. So we simply cut into strips some old wet-on-wet painted paper we had around, and they will be placed amongst our Christmas tree branches. It's probably a nicer idea, as it balances the tree with festivity and the true spirit of the season. (It would have been nicer had they been tied on with finger-knitted strands or something, but do you think I could find my hole punch?)

The wishes turned into prayers after I read this post at Cottage Blessings in enough time to pull up my maternal socks. And as we will be travelling into the city this week, I hope to get the chance to visit my favourite church, where we can say some special prayers to begin the season properly. I can tell you one of mine: getting my head and heart back into order!

As for beginning advent today, on Monday, November 30th, a date which means absolutely nothing at all in spiritual terms (unless you think it fitting we begin on the date of St Andrew, who is a Christian representative of Andros, who in turn is an aspect of Dionysus, the pagan god of wildness and licentiousness!) it just goes to show we are random-thinking, unanchored creatures. We started today because I planned to start tomorrow but that is going to be very busy.

I hope your advent, however you design it, for whatever religion you celebrate it, is beautiful indeed.


* we are striving to re-establish a calm and secure lesson schedule into our days once more. Unschooling is brilliant in so many ways, and has been the only sensible course during these busy last couple of months, but it does not address certain of our inherent flaws. The proof has really been in the pudding this year. Rose has an educational goal for herself, and I want to organise a curriculum to help her meet it.

starving

I have been unworded lately. Images suffuse my life: of colour, of happiness. I want to be right here. And so the elsewhere offers me no temptation.




But I am tired, and getting worse. It may be me, strange half-human that I am, or it may be the thing that rides me, but one of us - which one often seems indistinct - needs words like food. Without regular sustenance, we fail to thrive. And then the darkness starts to rise.

I try to find words for a story, but can not even begin. I tell my daughter something and the sentence falls apart. Get some milk from the ... the washing machine ... the box ... arggh ... The fridge, Mother? she kindly supplies, while I try not to cry.

The path from my brain to my mouth is a wilderness somewhere out there, and if I stay home too long, snug with my images, my warmth and love, I become quite mute.




And so I slow down, speak more softly, for if I can not offer good words I can offer a meaningful and gentle quiet.

Poems and weblog posts are like stepping stones, taking me out to the wild place, giving me somewhere to stand while I dig for adjectives, nouns. But in the wordlessness I lose courage, as if it is punctuation, or the lines beneath my writing. Every word surfacing becomes so precious, vulnerable, delicate, I am loathe to expose it.

I know I am digging in the wrong direction. I will not find good healthy words interred. They are kisses. Kisses come out of the sky.

Gifts from my smiling, beautiful daemon.*

If I do not want to run away altogether with him right now ... unless I can take my daughter, my dog, my bird in his golden cage, my daughter's favourite friends, my sick grandmother, and all my advent supplies with us ... if not, I should try at least to arrange a daily tryst.

Because without him, I am not myself.



* not demon; the 'a' makes all the difference.

a map like veins, like dreams on old wrinkled paper

There is a light in my daughter like a distant star that answers, across all the mountains and dark oceans of the world, my own porchlight. We send each other our secret shine. We send smiles like code.

Sometimes, one or the other of us will turn to look elsewhere, or go trekking to explore other islands of our self. And then it seems like we cast a shadow. But no, it is only the reflection of our dreams.

And sometimes I forget this. I feel alone in the dark. But then there will come softness, like a story about a snow queen, or a collection of forest creatures*, or a passing hug as we sail hither and yon. And I know it is good to be alone occasionally. Because then you have tales and treasures to share when you come home.




As for the other travellers. The various interesting or awful people I meet along the way. Some of them wave through the long damp wildflowers - fellow pilgrims in shabby hats and with old, unravelling shoes, who know a friendly salute is enough. I love them. I love their sudden smiles. I love to wonder where they're going next, and sometimes I'll walk along a while, although only shyly, and I usually have to hurry to keep up.

Others scatter brambles across my road. I hate it when they do that, but I understand. They have nothing else to give. It's the people who scatter soft perfumed roses, and then you walk, and you find the brambles under the petals - those people, they hurt me so with their disingenuousness, making me distrust all roses for a while, all promising lights in the shared night. But then someone kind will come along again, or else I'll find peace of heart on some private mountain within me. I'll choose not to follow the horrid people into their sad, barbed shadows.

It's always my choice. I try to remember that. I write it on my feet like shoes. And I go around and around these islands, hills, long sunburned roads.

Along the way, I gather stones.



* known in America as Calico Critters

practicing with my camera

nothing special, just a little glimpse, a little practice with my camera functions ...

Happy thanksgiving to all my American friends. I wish you many blessings.

liturgy on the road

The morning has arrayed itself gently around my house. The little birds, newly awake, are stretching their songs. My own bird, who was attacked last night near midnight, his cage crashing down and breaking - setting him free, much to his horror - is snug in another cage in the garage, cuddled up with his beloved bell. And I am hungry.

Not for food. That heart-hunger, you know? The one I discovered last year could be satisfied so completely by attending Mass. I do miss going to church and immersing myself in Catholic heritage. I miss walking in shyly and walking out crying.

So I have decided to start praying the Hours. But not the Hours. I am following a more individual schedule suited to one who is an outcast, a pilgrim, an eclectic trying to use Grace like glue to give her bitsy religion some strength, cohesion, value. I know I should say spirituality, of course, not religion, because the latter really denotes buildings and books. But it's an essential part of my hunger: I am a religious person. I want religion. I want symbols and stories and saints.

And so I am an outcast, a misfit, from the wild side too. It doesn't matter. There is always the heartland, the centre ground, where I can stand with the Father (Mother) and Son (Beloved) and know I (my small, peeling, wishing, striving soul) am always welcome.

Truthfully, I pray all the time. Well, not all the time. Although I love the idea of saying God's name with every outward breath, that is not a practical form of worship for a busy mother. But if you ever see me in the library, on the street, in a store, with my lips moving silently or my eyes going dark, you can be sure I am casting up love and thanks heartfully, just as often as the spaces of the day allow.

But the nobility of regular worship appeals to me.

cloudwalking & socialising

I've struggled with posting for the past couple of days. I don't know that I have much of value to say at the moment. I try to think of what would please my readers, and my brain fogs up!

And so I will just go on blathering away ...

We have been very busy this week. Lots of playing with lovely new friends. I feel such joy at this ... and so weary. I don't look forward to Rose becoming a teenager, because time is going fast enough as it is, and I will miss having a dear little one around - but I will not miss the whole effort at socialising, which I hope I can relinquish when she is 14 or 15.

I was blessed to spend this afternoon with two very gracious, sweet, and intelligent ladies who shared a really enjoyable conversation with me. I felt honoured. Many homeschooling women can be so strong-minded, focussed in their opinions, and courageous that I, being shy as I am, find it hard to give, to take, with them.

I find it hard to stand my own ground.

But this afternoon, with these ladies, who were not at all demanding of their perspective, it was ... comfortable. Those of you who have read Alice Gunther's weblog and book may understand when I say it was reminiscent of the generous, calm, and hospitable spirit she writes of in regards to homeschool socialisation.

I try to keep in my heart the value of being an hospitable conversationalist. I would hate to back anyone into a psychological corner, or make them feel like they had to change themselves just a little in order to please me. Perhaps this makes me appear wishy-washy, or a silly little mouse, I don't know. My wish is for people to come away from me feeling welcomed, accepted, and embraced. After all, why not? It is a very small good work, but I'm certain such things accumulate to help create God's loving purpose.

I try to drum this thinking into Rose's head also. I consider learning good manners and kindness to be a spiritual lesson - and the most important of all, since I believe we are here in this life to express the beauty and Love that is in God, of whom each of us is a small but essential spark. I do not think a person's destiny or purpose in life is to be a doctor, or opera star, or missionary. I believe it is simply to be, as much as possible, an expression of God. Each of us, of course, in our own unique way.

And now I have blathered too much, and your brain also has turned to fog.