Table for two

I am having a day with my girl.  I love her--whole heart kind of love.  When I draw her into my arms I can smell that wild earthy scent that belongs only her and feel a warmth that runs through me like hot coco on a cold autumn morning.  Those moments melt me. 

Holding onto those moments must be what gets me through the power struggles, temper tantrums, and times of defeat.  My petite fleur is a strong willed, intense, singled minded, determined, passionate, free spirited being.  Creative.  Dramatic.  Talented.  She makes me question my parenting ability, worry about my blood pressure, and tests my patients daily.  There are days that I have to take deep breaths, a lot, in order to prepare myself for anything she throws my way. 

She is a lot like me.  My brother reminds me of this often, with laughter.  She is.  A lot.  Like me.  Today, we are feeding each others souls and feeding them well.  As the Indigo Girls station on Pandora sings to our spirts the glitter glue flows freely and her mood is light and airy.  We are having the best day ever.  I entered this day with the only expectation of being with her and letting her do.  I forget that her soul needs to be feed well, too.  The busy pace is not good for either of us.  Messy stickiness is our drug.  Being allowed to create is what fits us best.  Someday, we will not struggle against each other, but balance and complement.  This day together is bring us closer.

A need to write

When I was younger I kept a diary.  It wasn't an everyday thing and most of my entries were about so and so and this and that and so on and so forth.  When I have gone back and looked through my written memories, I noticed that my longest ones were when I needed to express my feelings (normally frustration).  At some point, I gave up the written record of my personal thoughts and reflections.  I'm not sure why--life gets in the way sort of thing, I imagine. 

I love writing, always have.  I remember sitting on the steps of my parents house with notebook and pencil in hand and trying to come up with wonderful stories--asking my parents how to spell this word and trying to find a different word for another word (how wonderful a computer truly is).  I have stacks of those notebooks that I to this day can not part with (I really should try to type up those stories--for laughter's sake if nothing else.) 

Even though I am terrible at spelling and make up the rules and words and all kinds of things that would make all the Mrs. & Mr.'s of my education cringe, I write on.  In my writing mind, I forget it all and just let the words rush (or trickle) from my brain to finger tips.  Sometimes I am please with the quick result, other times I have to work and fuss and tweak before I am seeing perfection.  Perfection.  That is the things that always seems to stand in my way.  I envy people who can just do something and be satisfied with their first result.  Me, I have to work and work and work until the words don't always match the story that I see.  Sometime I should just "publish" my raw materials and throw perfection to the wind--my stomach is balling up in knots a little just saying that, that must mean I need to push myself to try--I'll at least spell check before hitting the big orange publish button.  (where did all that come from)

The beauty of writing from my mind is I get it out.  I have been feeling pent up lately--and maybe it's because I carry all these thoughts around and never getting them out.  So why not share them here with others so that my thoughts are just not mine alone (don't worry I wont punish you with all my thoughts)  Because I need to write and blogging can be food for my soul.

BTW--this is mostly a raw writing.  Mostly.

Feeding my Soul

Squash, black beans, onions and bell peppers--this is soul feeding food for me

                           
I'm a care giver, by profession, as mother and wife, as a friend and every person in between.  Somewhere in the shuffle of feeding, lending a helping hand, transporting, and loving, I forget to do one very important thing:  Take care of me.  I don't make time to do things that feed my body, mind & soul.

 I'm not sure if I do this because there just never seems to be enough (time, energy, care) after giving to other or if it's because I'm better at giving than receiving?  It could have something to do with the fact that I feel selfish putting my needs before the needs of other, no matter how many times my husband tells me "If you don't take care you, who will take care of us?"  I just feel guilty when I make myself the priority.  I need to get over that.  Now!

So now I need to figure out what I need in order to feed myself well.  I'm not just talking food here.  In order to be alive, awake, alert & enthusiastic what elements are required?  What is the magic potion that will put a spring back into my step, the shine in my hair and song to my laughter?.  How will I create more hours in my already busy day? 

It is time to ask the hard questions,  what brings me joy?  what do I love?  what do I need? Do I find joy in the smiles of those I love or is it found when I feel their arms wrapped around me.  Is it feeling nature kiss my cheeks as I move my body to the beat of my heartsong or is it having dirt covered toes that I love?  Do I need to be challenging myself and eating foods that speak to me in a sound that only I can hear when I'm really in tune with my true self? 

The hardest part is providing myself these joy makers, passion filled need.  Will I be more present to notice and feel the love that brings me joy.  Will I make the time to spend with nature and bury my toes in deep so I can hear my heartsong?  What will I do to challenge myself?  What food speak to me in a healthful way?  Who is up for this challenge?  Me?.

My Dad

Here are some memories of the man I grew up with.  I called him Dad.

There is a man who lives in my memory wearing long sleeves and long pants in the sweltering heat of Wisconsin summer just so he can pick blackcaps before the bear get a chance.  He stows his bounty in a little coffee can holder he fashioned himself.  He returns home and makes a blackcap something (was it sauce? jam? syrup?) to put up and store on metal shelves in the basement.  He's a man who's known for growing plump ripe tomatoes and bushes of beans.  He's been on wild gooseberry chases and the occasional 'cooned corn adventure.

This man can make something from nothing better than anyone I know.  He uses scraps of this and bits of that to make wood stoves, rope makers, snowshoes, Christmas mantels and ice fishing houses.   He views objects differently than the rest of the world.  Dreaming up plans and making them reality.  He has been green long before green became the new black. Perhaps growing up in a logging family with 6 boys and 6 girls forces a man to be resourceful.  Necessity is the mother of invention. 

Rolling a sleeping bag tight and a tent tighter--it will fit in its bag if you do it right-- climbing hills with a pack on my back just for fun, making foil meals (cooked both indoors and out) and loving the feel of earth as my pillow are skills that he passed down to me.  He also taught me to be loyal and proud and honest, and trustworthy and reverent.  He did not teach me how to read a compass.

Standing up for myself.  Believing in myself.  Honoring myself.  Love.  Dedication.  Doing onto others as I would have them do onto me.  Helping when someone is in need.  No strings attached.  These were things I learned from watching this man.

He has hands of steal, a voice like thunder,  and a heart of soft flannel.  He wears black socks with old cut-offs, has salt-n-pepper hair (hold the pepper) and laughter in his eyes.  Calm.  Brave.  Stern.  A survivor with chicken cooking on the grill. 

Cutting wood in the summer time to keep us in shorts during the winter months. Hand split logs pushed down a self built wood shoot.   Stacked nice and tight.  The sound of metal on metal as one more log is added for the night.
A comedian, laughing so hard  at his own jokes that you have no idea what he is talking about.  A teller of anecdote about the one that got away, snipe hunts, of fish that were this big and snapping turtle soup.  Tales of men with names like Spoon,  and Ol' Grandpa and many other names I can not recall.  Changes in volume and tone always present to illustrate different characters.  Gestures bringing the story to life.   A performer.  A dancer in his own mind--generously passing sly moves down to one of his offspring's offspring (thank goodness the girl gets her dance skills from me).

Fetcher of  salty french fries and raspberry shakes when I have a scratchy throat.  Fixer of car mirrors when the garage decides to take them off.  Oil changer.  Gas can getter.  Protector.  Kisses and hugs good night.
Grease stained fingernails.  The smell of car parts.  A black plastic comb in his pocket for combing hair forward after taking off his hard had.  Green work shirts and pants.  Black metal hing topped lunch box with salt and pepper shaker for hard boiled eggs. The ever present scent of sandwich cookies. Leaving in a little car, a red truck with a white stripe, a little yellow truck returning all covered in saw dust.

There are so many more memories that I earned while growing up in the presence of this man.  I can never thank him enough for giving me a strong foundation to grow on.  I can never thank him enough for being instrumental in helping me become who I am today.  I'm hoping that a simple "Thanks Dad" says enough.

Dedicated to Roger Gene Larson

Let's make some more memories, Dad.



Time-Out

Taking time for myself is something I cherish.  I try to be good at it.  I know that if I don't do selfish little acts then my energy level is not there for everyone else who needs me.  Sometimes I forget.  I don't hide myself away well enough and other demands take my attention away from the time I need to recharge.  When I don't give myself this devoted me time, I start to feel out of control and off balance.  I whine.  I cry.  I feel tired and no good.  I should really put myself in a time-out when this happens.

I think we all could benefit from Time-Outs. Grown-up Style.  I'm not talking about getting all liqueured up and crazy (although sometimes that is a nice time out too)  I just mean doing those things that are just for us.  Whether it be reading, running, baking, brewing, gardening, cleaning (some people actually enjoy this???) or any other "ing" you enjoy doing.  It doesn't have to be long.  Just time that you spend on you for you and you alone.  Not for the benefit of anyone else. 

Sometimes I trick myself into thinking that I'm making time for myself when I'm doing something for others.  I enjoy the process of certain activites so it doesn't feel like I'm doing a chore I dislike, but I do not get the same feeling as when I carve out time that is just for Stace.

Spending time with friends and family(anything away from my daily grind) is recharging and I enjoy that very much--but I'm the type of person who needs to just shut down and not be needed.  I am working on not feeling guilty for hiding away and doing my "ing".  Maybe a time-out is needed right now. 

Do any of you others feel like you should be in a time-out too?  Have you been doing to much for others and you can not figure out why you just feel a little off.  It's time to take care of you.

The beauty of a mother.

The kind words that many of you offered up after reading Airing my {clean} Laundry inspired me to create a follow up. 


A lot of the time, thoughts begin as little seeds within my head.  I spend time nurturing them, getting them ready for the world outside.  They grow strong during the time of gentle love.  I water them and feed them riches.  Other times, the words tumble into my fingers and become something I never could have imagined.  I'll let you decide which this one is: 

The day that the Laundry blog was born, one of the places I was carried away to had black and white tiled kitchen floors, there was a  huge blackboards at the end of the stairs and the smell of dairy farm lingered--rich creamy heady fresh from the bulk tank.  Although I was quiet young when I played on the tree swing, jumped in piles of leaves, raced down the stairs, left my mark in chalk and gathered as family to give thanks in this particular house, I remember it.  Little snippets of love.  This was a house filled with generations of laundry airing women.  When I wrote that blog, I did not intend to pay homage to my mother, I was truly just reflecting on stories I had heard over the years from women who lived them.  Women who helped form who I am today.

The views of many help me see how this piece could be about my mother.  My mother was simple.  Nothing fancy.  She didn't wear make-up, have her nails done or wear the latest fashions.  She did not always say the right things and she did not always do the right things, either.  She was not perfect.  She was simply perfect.  Simply my mother.

She loved her family. She loved her friends.  She loved her work.  Her heart and soul were generous--some say made of gold.  She was loved by many.  Her temper was hot.  Her care for others grew to large.  She forgot herself.  She left too soon.

The beauty of a mother is not held in their abilities or their faults.  The beauty of a mother is deeper.  Its in the way she does things every day. Thanklessly.  Cook, clean, repeat.  Every action is watched.  One day those actions are picked up by those around her.  Sometimes changed.  They grow for next the generation to cultivate.  Sometimes forgotten.  Coming back when the time is right.

I was 27 years old when she left this world.  I was ripe with child.  My time with her was too short.  I still had a lot of skills to gain from her. Simple brilliance afforded her to leave knowing I was strong enough to find the women would take care of me.  The women who could help me learn and relearn those lessons she was not able to teach.  The beauty of a mother is that no matter how long they grace your life, whether a full rich life time or a quick moment, they give more than you know.  Knowledge that sticks with you, in those cobwebby spaces in your mind.

No matter how long they have been gone, be it two weeks, 10 years (has it almost been ten years already? nope, it's almost 11) or an adult lifetime, they are always your mother.  Always the person who cared for you when you were sick, the one who said "I love you" when you have screamed the opposite, the person who thought about you before themselves.  The one was willing to go without so you could go on.  The one that is always and forever proud, even when you are not trying to win it.

{and then there is Dad, but that's a whole other blog}

In memory of

Judith Ann (Herricks) Larson

August 6, 1945 to July 19, 2001

Airing my (clean) Laundry

The age-old house keeping method of hanging clothing on the line always has a huge impact on my thinking thoughts.  My reason for purchasing a umbrella style clothes line for my back yard was the same as all of my homemade, from scratch, back-to-basic ideas:   To be a little greener while saving a buck.  I did not realize that with every wooden pin I squeezed open, I would be stepping back in time.

The muscle memory of the women before me assist as I clumsily hang sheets on the taught and saggy lines of their lives. The visions of babies on skirt hems and flour sack dresses dancing in the breeze play through my head as I bend and stretch. The smell of sunshine captured delivers chicken pot pies to dinner tables dressed in linen cloths.  There is a sting of just pickled beets lingering in the air whiles jars of jams & jellies ping on counter tops. Bread baking in cook stove, Apple Brown Betty waited for the ladies of Circle and cheese melting in pots of fashionable colors on coffee tables in dens of new homes in developments. Mayonaise Sandwhiches.

Clipping sock after sock I slowly drift to an era when television sets had dials, games were played on boards, and corded phones with party lines sat on little tables in the family room.

Stretching shirts along the line thoughts of a roll top desk with paper and pen waiting to be folded and sent to Mary just to let her know that all is fine and the picnic was pleasant. The men are in from the  the fields. Glass bottles of Coke-a-Cola on a sunny afternoon.   Tires rolling on gravel as someone pulls in the driveway just to say "hi" while baby sleeps contently on a tired new mothers lap.

Hanging up blue jeans calls to mind the dish-pan hands that scrub with watching eyes through the window spy tree swings and climbing scab-kneed children from the window. Mud pies baking in the sun and not a bottle of hand sanitizer in sight. Cops and Robbers played with toy guns. Cowboys and Indians. Indian paintbrushes, dandelions, black eye-Susan's & buttercups meadows. Catch me if you can.

As I remove each wooden helper, I think about vinegar and baking soda and how these are the things that once were common agents used to clean home until something "better" came along. I think about how aprons were sewn for purpose not just style. I recall chickens roaming around farm yards and eggs were collected, beef was raised and slaughtered and no one was though of as superior for doing so.

While I'm folding clothes and placing them into the basket, I picture gardens of sun basking tomatoes, pole climbing beans, green carrot tops, tall cornstalks and ripe berries of every kind. Brown grocery bags hold boxes of Bisquick, Spam, smoked oysters and something called Hamburger helper. Milk came in glass bottles or warm from the barn and was served at every meal.  Lime Jello Molds with carrots and celery suspended in time. Bake sales with home baked goods.

I think about the fact that before stay-at-home moms there was just Mother. There were PTA's that were called PTA and Sock hops dances and one-piece gym suits and one-room school house where a single teacher managed an entire school. Door-to-Door salesmen sold everything from chocolates to vacuums. Nothing was open on Sundays. There were tough times. Lean times. War times and sons coming home. Pride, honor and despair. Children growing. Children going. Families gather and swell. Love. Dancing. Laughter rings again.

Believe it or not, there are so many other images that flitter through my head while hanging the fabrics of our life. I think about my own childhood and how I never understood why my mother spent the time and energy to hang our underwear for all the world to see when we had a perfectly good dryer right next to the washer. Surely it was just to embarrass me.  I did not enjoy the feeling of stiff towels and shirts. I swore I would never have a clothes line when I grew up.

I grew up and I do.  I get it. Now. I understand. Now.  When I see my children run towards my freshly laundered items, with their grubby hands racing to hide in the center of our umbrella of vanity, it becomes clear,  we do things because they are things we are meant to do. The calm-ness that overcomes me is worth the effort of lugging heavy wet clothes up the stairs and out into the backyard. This is my thing that I am meant to do. It does not make me more enviormently aware or old fashioned or richer or poorer or better than anyone else. It connects me to the things and times and the people that I need to feel even if I was not there to remember. What do you need to remember?

All this from hanging material stitched together to form something other than what it began as.

Oh, you Fancy

Trailer provided by Video Detective

This is a clip from a show called Best Friends Forever. I love this little girls, I'm sorry this 9 1/2 year old 'tude. Sass. It's best when it's not your own child. I don't know if anyone else got a chance to catch this show. To me it is funny. It's how my friends and I are. There for each other.

No matter how far away or how often I see them my true friends are there to get me through the tough stuff, the happy times, the times where I am at my best and my worst, when I'm super funny and when I do things that are just laughable.

My friends are a rare collection of beautiful "Fancy" women. Though they may not always have their nails done, their hair done or it all did, to me they are Fancy (even in those over sized sweat pants). I love you all(you know who you are) if you think I may be talking to you, I am, and I thank you for being part of my life.

I guess I should also give a shout out to all my fancy men friends too. Oh, you fancy. you fancy like that.

Let's Pretend

Let's pretend. That is how changes occurred in play when I was a kid. Let's pretend that we live in London, France. Let's pretend I work for an ad agency (what 80's sitcom was my nfluence here). I know, let's pretend that I'm a mom and I have 8 children. No, Wait, let's pretend that no one needs to speak the launguage of cancer, or diabeties, or autisum, or even alpers Syndrome. Let's pretend those things are not real. Let's pretend that no one dies young--that we all live a ripe full life filled with love beyond measure, riches that have no limit, and the wisdom to take advantage of every moment given to us. Let's pretend. I know let's pretend that there is nothing but peace in this world. And acceptance. And tolerance. Understanding. Stillness. and glitter--there is always room for glitter.

2012 Word and Goals

In years past, I have included the definition to the word I have chosen. This year I will provide a link so you can read all the wonderful and many ways of defining my word if you choose to do so. I will, however give you the meaning to why I went with this word. Here it is:

pres·ent  /ˈprɛzənt/
adjective
1. being, existing, or occurring at this time or now; current

There it is, my 2012 word. (here's the link http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/present)

Growing up, 2012 seemed like the future and so very far away. Today it is the present. But that is not why I picked it. All of the many meanings to this word are lovely--and I know in some way or another, they will all be a part of my life over the course of the next 366 days.

What I want to focus on more fully is being present. I want to slow down my thinking thoughts that always seem to be filling my head so full that it sometimes causes me paralysis. It's the down side of my creativity--my mind is always thinking of the next project, idea, the next thing, so much so that I miss out on what is going on around me sometimes.

I have a 10 year old. I don't know how that happened. Before even more years pass by and I have another 10 year old, I want to take the time to hear them, to see them, to hug them--I want to be present before it is too late. So what if the meals are not planned for the upcoming month.

Prepared, but Present.


I was reading though my goals from last year (just reflecting and taking inventory--to prepare for the present) I missed a lot of them. But the great thing is, I get a chance in the present to try again. So what will these goals of mine be for 2012? I don't know if I want them to be called goals this year, I think I would rather them be just things I do. So this is what I want to do this year:

1. Finish projects before starting something new. This even includes making my children/husband wait until I finish folding that last towel before I help the find (insert lost item that only a mother/wife can find here). If they have to wait for me to complete what I am doing at the moment, so be it. That does not mean that I will make the people who depend upon me to wait until I finish all my work. I will not make people go hungry just so I can add another picture to my Pintrest completion board. No. But I will make them wait until I at least have the needle put away safely. I'm pretty good at juggling, but that needs to stop--things don't get done when I have 12 things in the air. Unless you can call chaos a thing. Chaos happens a lot when I try to do more than I should.

2. Enjoy the process of getting ready for and the participation of the Eau Claire 1/2 Marathon. This will be my third time participating. Last year I did not train. It took me longer to complete and I was in pain which proves that I should have finished about an hour later than I did. I did not enjoy it. I injured myself. I was not even going to do it this year. I have to prove to myself that I can do it better and keep the momentum going long after I cross the finish line. The course is just to beautiful to miss. I guess it's just part of who I am now.

3. Lessen Clutter. I don't want to go over board here and say get rid of clutter completely, but I can have way less of it. I have a Kindle (and the internet), books can go after. Why do we have so many clothing items and craft things and double and triples of things we don't use that much in the first place. Why am I trying to become some things I never will become (such as a great jewelry maker). Who needs toys when you there are boxes are way more fun. Okay, Okay...we will still need things, but why so much? It's time for a change.

4. I have the normal things I want to do ever year...drink more water, be healthier, be richer, read from my ever growing list of books, but why bore you with the same old same old.

I ask that my past years words can come along for the ride this year. 2012--imagine the possibilities of what a simple and present life could be. Wassail.