On Being Intimidated, But Not Complacent

I looked up the Riverwood Presbyterian website yesterday to see when VBS was scheduled for the year, afraid that I had missed it. I spent the next thirty minutes making exclamations to Michael about the content of their site. Did you know that Riverwood Presbyterian in Tuscaloosa publishes it's own magazine quarterly? I downloaded a copy of the most current issue last night. I haven't had a lot of time to examine it. They have a blog too, and I did get to read a little bit of that. What astonishes me is the way they are actively engaging the culture from an actual protestant Christian world view. Their book club has read Fear and Trembling by Soren Kierkegaard this year, which I read in isolation over the course of nine months. How nice would it have been to know that there were people in town who were reading the same thing who I could talk to about it? Really nice. Although I look at some of their stuff and become intimidated. Last year I was amazed by the contents of their book table, which was located in back of the sanctuary. It contained poetry, theology, and The Complete Short Stories of Flannery O'Connor, which certainly caught my attention, she being one of the Catholic authors I admire. In my prejudice I hardly expected a Presbyterian church, that I have reason to believe is orthodox in their theology (and I consider this a good thing), to take seriously a Catholic author. I've become so accustomed to the snide anti-Catholic remarks of certain protestant pastors. Their book club actually read Walker Percy's The Second Coming earlier this year, a book that has been sitting on my bookshelf ready to be read since last summer.

I feel simultaneously thrilled and threatened. Threatened because I have fears that my intellect and ability are a fraud. If I'm going to be transparent about anything, I may as well be transparent about that. That is my greatest insecurity, that the one thing that seems to come naturally to me, the one thing I potentially do well is an unfortunate delusion, and that I can never hold my own against other intelligent and thoughtful people. Which language smacks of competition, you may notice. It's possible that anyone reading this may think I'm all intellectual and highbrow because I used the word post-structuralist in a comment to a previous post. I have in the past received indication that others are intimidated by what they think I know, or the way I think. My message to you is don't be. If you think I know things, it's only because I am very, very interested. If you think I think a lot, it's only because I do, because I can't help myself, but that doesn't attest to the quality of my thoughts. I have not yet reached a point of being comfortable with myself, the way that God created me to be which is all individual and difficult. Difficult for me. I do not wish to be difficult for you. I shouldn't be intimidated by the abilities of others, but I may as well share with you that I am. So many of us are, I think, and many feel isolated because of it. My challenge to you this morning is not to assume that someone who intimidates you in one way or another doesn't need your presence or your conversation. Most people I think just need someone to talk to, to care and to care for. Anyone have experience that attests to this?

Why Is It That We Sometimes Have Trouble With The Simplest Things?

My husband tells me that I should probably try to post something on here five days a week instead of seven. I balked at this at first because I am trying to form a habit, but he makes a good point when he says that I'm likely to burn myself out if I try to post something every day of the week. When I did this before I would post everything I had written immediately, and got burned out after ten months.

This week I have found it very difficult to write. I have draft after draft after draft saved (in blogging terms, not in essay terms) but nothing that I am ready to finish, so instead of having the comfort of several days covered in advance, as well as many options, I've been under the gun since Saturday. Funny thing that I can't get anything ready in advance, but then each morning I manage to slap something together to post before 8 or 9 o'clock in the morning. I've had the same struggle with the personal budget I've been supposed to be working on since Sunday before last. I did a lot of advance work. Tons of advance work, actually, so that dong the plan was going to be simple, but for some reason I haven't been able to get it done. I wonder if it is like with some of the card games that Michael and I like to play, where you can't make your rummy contract the first time you try for it, but the next time it comes quickly and easily? Maybe this week the budget will come easily. Maybe next week the writing will come easily again. Here's hoping.

It wouldn't be the first time that I've looked at something in the morning (a document, a form, a recipe) and not been able to understand it, only to look it in the afternoon, and find it to be perfectly clear.

Transformation: From Metaphor to Meaning

Whenever Don or Lori Chaffer come out with a new album I am sure to get a copy, even if I have to wait a while to get it. And then I have to wait a while to GET IT, in the sense of figuring out what the album is about. I listen to it over and over and then one day, all of a sudden, something clicks into place and I realize what some phrase that has troubled me is communicating. Sometimes this can be a very literal process. Consider these lyrics from Far Off Shapes recorded on An Unfinished Tale, Volume 1: Beauty and written down from memory:

Frank the bear was a prominent citizen
in my home town,
but no one really liked having him around.
It's not that Frank wasn't friendly
or a patron of the arts,
or that Frank wasn't kind when he went to the auto parts store
to buy some parts.
But Frank would eat someone every once in a while
and no one could forgive his bloody smile...

I got the CD either for Christmas or my birthday, so I've had it at least four months if not more. For the longest time I have puzzled over why a bear lives in his home town. This is probably influenced by the fact that a line later in the song (is it a bridge?) says "One thing follows another. That's what mother said. If snake kills mongoose's brother, snake will turn up dead." Oh how I wish I could find a clip so I could play it for you. Songs should be heard or sung, not read. But it would have to be a legal copy and I haven't figured out how to do that.

Anyway, I'm listening to the CD one day while cleaning up the kitchen, and I suddenly realize that "the bear" is Frank's nickname, and the reason people don't like him is because he has these occasional and highly destructive bursts of temper. He's a nice enough guy generally speaking, but when he blows up, he blows up big time. Look, I'm familiar with metaphor. I see and use it all the time, but for some reason my very literal mind couldn't see beyond the words to what was actually there."Bloody smile" called up a particular image that I couldn't see around, and I find this fascinating. It's amazing and humbling each time I observe something about how the mind works. And meaning? The ideas about how meaning is created and transmitted are too huge and complex for me to even contemplate most days. It's one of those things that I am interested in learning more about.

A Question of Memory

Parker is watching a Sonic the Hedgehog DVD from the public library. I was in the other room doing something else when suddenly I was thinking instead about Steve Urkle from the television sit-com Family Matters. Sonic the Hedgehog sounds like Steven Urkle when he uses a certain inflection of the voice. I have another memory. I say to Michael, "Did Jaleel White do one of the voices on Sonic the Hedgehog?" He doesn't remember. Maybe he's never seen Sonic the Hedgehog as a cartoon before. Maybe no one ever brought the subject up before. While I'm in the shower I remember knowing this factoid (as my husband calls them) once upon a time. Jaleel White did do one of the voices on Sonic the Hedgehog. I'm certain my brother is the one who told me. I look it up on IMDB, and of course White's name is the first to come up in the credits, probably because he voices three of the characters.

Why is this interesting? Because it brings up one of those pesky questions about memory. Is my remembrance of a fact about Jaleel White an actual memory, or did my brain just make it up? When I guy I knew in high school reminds me that he went somewhere else for his Junior and Senior years, I don't remember it at first. Only later does the memory spring on me full force. Yes, I do remember that. Yes, that is the way it happened. One of the philosophers I've read about recently, I don't remember which one, claimed that all knowledge was a matter of memory. The teacher's job was simply to cause his students to remember the knowledge that had been obscured. Was it Plato or Socrates? I'm certain that one of my friends must know without even having to look it up. I don't think that knowledge really does work this way, but it is an interesting idea to play with. Someone ought to write a sci-fi story with this as its theme. Probably someone already has. If anyone reading this has read such a story please let me know.

Hauntings, Naggings, Worries

I was struck last night by a fear of blogging. I'm not sure I really do want to put my thoughts out there for everyone to see. Maybe it isn't a good idea after all. But you know there's often fear involved in doing things you ought. These thoughts would seem to be only tenuously connected, but whenever I think about fear I think of I John 4:18: There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love (NASB). I have some questions about this verse, but that, again, will be a subject for another day.

Thoughts on Quiet Time and Reading the Scriptures

I love the idea of discipline (and orgnaization too, for that matter). I have an idealized notion of what it would be like to go about my day with purpose and deliberation. The weakness of the flesh and of the will, mine in particular, disturbs me. You may think I am speaking metaphorically, but I'm not. I have sympathy for weakenss; I have little sympathy for my own, and that my friends is another form that weakness takes.

I like authority too. C.S. Lewis writes that there are only two ways we come to know things, or rather two ways we gather facts about which to reason, either through authority, e.g."the report of other minds," or through experience. Both modes of fact gathering have their problems, for instance I have trouble knowing which authorities have authority, but that's a whole 'nother set of complications.

The development and following of discipline is difficult as well, mostly because I can not seem to do it. This may be true of the spiritual disciplines especially. Right now I am struggling with what it means to have a quiet time, and not only because quiet times are so very difficult to come by. Maybe it is as they say it is with writing--the key is simply to show up. Sounds simple enough, but how easy is it really to show up? After many years of disappointment and failure, I decided again to read through the Bible in a year. Some of you know that I first tried doing this in highschool, even though I was convinced that I had read most of it at various and sundry times, but I never managed to make it work using the prescribed methods. You know those reading schedules they used to give you at youth group or in Sunday School or Church? I'd begin sometime in January or February, and try to catch up, and maybe even think for a few days that I cold do it, but I was never able to actually stick with such a plan.

Last year when I made the decision, I thought I'd go about it differently. I knew this time that a lot of the material was hard for me to understand, so I decided to read the entire thing, not worrying about understanding it, but getting the exposure so my brain could continue to work on it when I wasn't reading. That way may next pass would be a little easier. Have you ever had that experience, where maybe you read something you didn't understand but when you went back over it the meaning was a little bit clearer? Or when you read it aloud to someone else you suddenly got the author's voice and knew a little more of what he was talking about? I wanted this time to use familiarity to my advantage.

I knew that I'd had a hard time following a schedule, so I took a princple I had liked from one of those plans, and applied it in my own way. I had noticed a preference for those plans that combined readings from two different books of the Bible each day. That way I could get through four chapters with less frustration with those books like Numbers that might get a little tedious with all those names and counting. This was also based on something I had noticed in my other reading. I have often gotten tired (and maybe even a little bored) while reading a longer chapter but found myself re-energized at chapter's end. I'd start a new chapter and get excited about reading all over again. Therefore I would read a couple of chapters in Nehemiah and then switch to Genesis or something in the gospels. I know it wouldn't work for everyone, but it worked out very well for me.

I also relieved some pressure in another way. I wanted to read the entire thing, and my goal was to read it every night, but I decided that if I wanted to take a break for a week at a time that would be fine, so long as I came back to it after several days. If we were referring to a particular book in Sunday School, I would go ahead and read it as quickly as possible. On Saturday's I often read more chapters, sometimes ten or more as time allowed.

In this way I read the entire (Protestant) Bible in the New King James version, and reread The New Testament in the Contemporary English Version in the course of the year. I didn't take a lot of time with it, and I admit that I sometimes dozed through the Psalms, my mind wandering, but the point was I got through it.

This year as I read my goal is to be mindful of what I am reading. I have no particular time frame in mind, all I really care about is paying attention to what the words say. I have been inconsistent in this reading, it is true. I take notes if I am moved to. I ask my questions on paper, but I don't necessarily try to answer those questions. Again, it is an exercise in paying attention, and an exercise in taking notes, another discipine I have struggled with over the years. Some mornings I don't write down a single thing.

I don't know if this reading is devotional. It certainly isn't study. Both kinds of reading matter. Those of you who have disciplined yourselves might not consider it a discipline, and some mornings it doesn't feel like quiet time, but it is valuable to me.

I wonder if any of you would be willing to share what "quiet time" means to you. Maybe you would share a little bit of journey. Maybe you could talk about it all day and night but would never take the time to write it down. Because writing anything down takes a tremendous amount of time and mental energy, I find. Most days I wouldn't even broach the topic in my own mind. I have another question, but the time of quiet in the house was over long ago, and I can no longer formulate it. Noise pollution, I told Michael, makes it very hard to write, to which he agreed. It isn't pollution, really. It is the sound of life. But it is all the same distracting.

There's a Reason They Make You Write It Down

One of my university instructors in interior design once told us that she considered the exam one last opportunity to expose us to the material. This was in History of Interior Design. I've been thinking about that the last couple of days as I've blogged, because writing about ideas is, hypothetically speaking, a useful way of coming to terms with them. I say hypothetically because I have a surprisingly hard time forcing myself to do it. Dave Ramsey describes what happens when you write things down in his book Financial Peace, which was the precursor to Financial Peace Revisited. I assume that he retains these two paragraphs in the updated version:

Have you ever had a problem that you thought you needed the input of someone else to answer? And when you began to tell that person the whole situation you were able to answer the question for yourself? You found yourself answering your own question, leaving the other person wondering why you asked.

This happens to us for a reason. The scattered information in your brain has to be categorized, summarized, and organized very quickly to verbalize it. This clarification of information, which has occurred for the sake of communication, clears your mind and allows you to answer your own question (206).

This is why your teachers, if you are a student, require you to write essays and short answers in the course of your school work. Because if you're made to write about it, you're made to organize and integrate it, making the information, the idea, the concept, yours. Once it's yours, I think the theory is that you're going to do something useful or creative with it. And if you aren't made by your teachers to write it out, their expectation based in the pedagogy may be that you aren't going to do it on your own. I'm a prime example of someone who won't write it out on their own, a problem that takes me by surprise every time.

Canada: You Got Me Thinking About It, and Now I Don't Know What to Think

An old friend of mine from college recently posted a link to this video on facebook. He's doing one of those song a day things, and this one was supposed to be a song that makes you laugh. I think this is the same one he posted:

Canada, oh Canada, I don't know much about you but I've been thinking about you lately. First there was a conversation. "We don't think much about Canada in this country," he said. Now, did he mean that when "Americans" talk about the continent of North America they often forget that Canada even exists, thus thus forgetting that we "Americans" aren't the only "Americans" in the country? We do live in the United States of America after all. Or did he mean that we who live in the United States tend to ignore them as a political interest, failing to notice much if anything that goes on there? It's true, I realize. I don't know much about the country.

Here's what I do associate with Canada. My Dad traveled there recently, which is probably why the subject came up in the first place. One of my favorite comedies, The Whole Nine Yards, was partially set and was filmed there. Watch out, there's nudity. Speaking of films, the new Doctor Who was produced as a collaboration between BBC Whales and the Canadian Broadcasting Company for a couple of seasons. Last but not least one of my favorite novelists, Robertson Davies, was born and raised there and was at one time the Master of Massey College at the University of Toronto.

Another thing, we were aware of Canada in college, if only because of Five Iron Frenzy, and the maple leaves we used to see chalked up all over the Quad at The University of Alabama. Occasionally we would see cryptic messages that the Canadians were planning to take over the country. Looking back, I don't know whether this was only a really bad joke, or if it were some sort of propaganda over which our neighbors to the North would be really offended. Though I do have some positive associations, I still know little to nothing about the country. Which is probably a shame. Thing is, I really don't know. Maybe next time I meet someone from Canada, which happens occasionally in a college town, I'll remember to take the time to ask.

A Story about a Silly Mistake

I made one of those marvelously humbling mistakes on today. I locked my friend's keys into her car. Not my keys into my car. Her keys into her car.

Here's what happened.

Her son says to me, "Will you help me with this door?" I try the passenger door and it won't open. I open the driver's door to see if the side door is locked, meanwhile noticing her keys on the driver's seat. I try the locking mechanism in the wrong direction. As he explains to me that he just remembered the passenger door doesn't open like it's supposed to, I let go of the door and it closes. A moment too late I realize my mistake.

I was fairly devastated. She told me not to worry about it. I can't help it. I do, though maybe worry isn't the right word for what I do. The worst thing about it all though is that I suspect I'm doing something wrong in not doing what she asks when she asks me not to worry about it.

I Wish I Could Remember What I Thought I Wanted to Say

Should I publish every thought that comes into my head? There's little danger of that happening. For instance on Saturday morning, while in the shower of course, I had four or five ideas for blog posts. When I got out of the shower someone else was using my computer to do his own blogging. Parker was drawing a birthday cake for his bear's pretend birthday, and planning games for the party. Isaac waited around long enough to beg me for a bite of my bagel. In the meantime I completely forgot two of my ideas, and could remember only the opening line of any of the others. I do retain these lines, sung by Fleming McWilliams:

"I wish I had a wire hooked to my brain, so I could send you a letter this way. By the time I pick up the pen, I never say what I should have said. I don't like to write and I don't like the phone...."

I tried to pull out the CD so I could listen to it, but then I remembered that Jim has it, so I listened to the first half of the Magnolia Soundtrack instead, because I love Aimee Mann, her sound, her lyrics, her voice. I usually stop the CD before it gets to "Goodbye Stranger" by Supertramp.

As a Matter of Fact I'm Not Trying to Eavesdrop on Your Special Project

Michael usually gives me several hours to myself once a week, and during that time I often go to the public library to be alone and to read. As often as possible I sit down under a tree, or at the picnic table, but I find that after a little while this seating arrangement starts to give me a backache and I am forced to make my way inside. The problem with going inside the library to read is 1) you can't take your mug of water in with you because there are no food or drinks allowed, and 2) it's so darn noisy in there. I mean it.

I've tried sitting in various locations. Yes, it is a library, and yes, it is fairly quiet. But the Tuscaloosa Public Library, much like my own house, is small enough that there are few places you can go within that aren't adjacent to some noisy interactive area, be it the reference desk where patrons confer with librarians stationed there to assist them, or the balcony that looks out on front door and checkout counter where they have to speak to you, or the tables with their uncomfortable chairs. I suppose I could hideout in the non-fiction stacks, but that hardly seems appealing. The problem is that the library is quiet enough that it is impossible (for me at least) to avoid eavesdropping on other people's conversations, whether they are interesting or not, and typically they aren't all that interesting. And typically I really am trying to read, and this requires concentration.  I'd take a noisy place over the public library if I could, but where else can I find more desirable books than I can ever read combined with a lack of pressure to purchase anything? College days are long over.

Finally on Saturday I found a quiet place to read. It was the history room which contained the sign, "This room is for quiet reading only." I wondered if I were actually allowed to go in there. The Reader's Advisory librarian was sitting right there where I could have asked her, but I never could quite catch her eye and I thus decided I'd take my chance on being kicked out of the room at some later time. Occasionally I believe there are activities and meetings that take up said room, but from now on I'll probably try to make my way there at every opportunity, now that I know where to find a quiet place to read at the public library.

An Autobiography of Association

Friday night Michael and I watched the movie The Skeleton Key starring Kate Hudson, who I may say looks so much like her mother in that movie. And somehow she (Kate) actually looks younger now than she did then. Is that possible? Does it run in the family? She has very pretty hair in this movie as well.

Back to my story. Friday night we watched The Skeleton Key and after it was over Michael asked me, now why did you want to watch this movie? I'll tell you why.

Because Thursday afternoon while the children were napping I watched Disney's The Princess and the Frog, which I had never seen before. I typically wouldn't be all that interested in watching a Disney movie, not on my own, but I watched The Princess and the Frog based on the comments I had heard from some of my friends who found the movie too scary to show their children. It's true that there are evil spirits lurking around in the film, as well as blatant hoodoo references. I know that there are a lot of parents out there who are disturbed by the magical content of many of the Disney films and prefer not to show them to their children, and I certainly respect their opinion. But I also observe that the only difference between this film and Disney's typical enchanting fare is that in this case the magic is given its proper shape and form. When Ursula calls upon the powers of the deep to steal Ariel's voice from her, she's messing with the same spirits that Dr. Facilier does in this film, only here they are called by a truer name. For some reason that makes me feel a little better. I don't know whether it should.

It is also true that Tiana is the loveliest Disney Princess that I think I've ever seen.

The Princess and the Frog is set in New Orleans and features some smokin' New Orleans Jazz, which is another thing that attracted me to the film. I like pretty much any music that features horns, and doesn't shy away from some of the more discordant elements. This set me off on a search for some good ole' Harry Connick, Jr. recordings that I don't happen to have on hand: "Blue Light Red Light," produced in 1991; "She," from 1994; and "Star Turtle," produced in 1996.

We used to have "Blue Light Red Light" on cassette tape. I remember listening to it, Michael and I, on our way to Huntsville at some time early in our marriage. I think it took a little while to grow on me. Our copy of "She" disappeared around the time we moved into our current home. I've looked for it periodically, but never found it. I hope that it didn't get jammed up in the CD player that broke all those years ago. "She" was one of the early albums that Michael and I were able to agree upon. We both thought it was pretty cool. "Star Turtle" I am unfamiliar with. I sampled a couple of tracks on grooveshark today (at a friends recommendation--he recommended the website, not the album) and they were odd. It seemed like a bit of a combination of the other two albums I mention here. They were odd, but I think I liked them. I think I do.

What does this have to do with The Skeleton Key? Little more than another musical reference, and the fact that both films feature hoodoo has a story element. Oh, did I forget that they are both set in the area surrounding New Orleans?

My mother owned a record of The Dixie Cups (I'm  not certain it was this one. I don't remember having the cover), which I began listening to in highschool. We picked up an old record player somewhere, and for a short time I was able to rig it to use a needle that didn't exactly fit. (It also had an eight track on it on which we were able to play the single eight track that I owned, something by Barry Manilow. Something with "I Write the Songs" and "Bandstand Boogie" on it maybe? My mother and I learned how to sing "Chapel of Love" together by listening to this record, which we then performed one time only during a school program. I don't know whether she remembers that. Anyway, the last song on the album was "Iko Iko," which was terrifically fun to sing even if the lyrics made me a little uncomfortable. If you've seen The Skeleton Key you'll remember how "Iko Iko" figures in the film.

The Skeleton Key is where I learned the difference between voodoo and hoodoo. I leave you to look that one up for yourself. I don't have any intention of messing with either. Watching these two films, however, as hollywoodized as I'm sure they are, reminded me that I have a minor obsession with black culture, which I'll discuss later. 

And that is how we wound up watching The Skeleton Key on a Friday night. Because of The Princess and the Frog on a Thursday afternoon, because of the music, and because of a friend of mine who turned it off. The very thought of each of these films made me want to pull out the Louisiana cookbook Michael's grandparents gave us as a wedding gift over ten years ago. It's full of food that I will likely never cook, but it's fun to look at occasionally all the same.

Incidentally, my search for Harry Connick Jr's music let me to listened to Patty Griffin on a Saturday afternoon, but that's a whole 'nother chain of detail.

Words and Pictures

I read a lot, and I'd like to find a way to turn that reading into a productive activity. A couple of weeks ago I started writing up my notes and the impressions that hit me as I read, but that didn't last very long. Yesterday I kept thinking about the fact that I don't remember how to write a book review, that is if I ever knew how to write one. I've been trying. I've been writing reviews on Living Social for a while now, but I'm not satisfied with the quality of their content. I have a really hard time summarizing what I read, a hard time incorporating an author's thought into my own in any form other than speech, and that speech is fleeting. I've whined for a while now how about the ineffectuality of reading that doesn't stain the memory for more than a few days or weeks. What good does my reading do me if I can't use it?

I used to be very good at using it. I used to think I knew exactly what these guys were talking about and my memory seemed to have no weaknesses. That was when I was young, and I always, I mean always had a response, had something to say.

You'll notice that I'm not exactly up with the technology. There's got to be an easy way to load pictures of the books I'm reading so you can see them, and not merely read about them. I started looking around for such a thing the other day, but very quickly became discouraged. I typically have five or six books that I'm reading at any given time. So tell me, if you know, what would you use and how does it work?

Early morning at the Foxes

It was six thirty when I finally let them out of their room this morning, Isaac having woken in the very same minute that I did and having subsequently woken his brother. It hasn't been a fun two hours. You may laugh at me, or accuse me of irreverence, but on mornings like this I tend to shake my fist at God and say, "Why don't You care? Doesn't it matter to You that I need my quiet time in the morning. Don't You care that my children need sleep, and I need to escape my obligations for a while and just be still? Don't You think I need a walk, need silence in my life, need the presence of mind that will let me be something more than a lazy slug come 2:00 this afternoon?" I tend to be very honest with Him, you see, and I don't think He really minds. I try to be very honest with myself as well, and spare myself nothing. That one's harder because it is impossible for me to fight fair, when I'm fighting myself. Can you relate? Does anyone out there know what it's like? Frederick Buechner seems to, and Philip Yancey, at least those are the guys I've been reading lately.

Now the children are all breakfasted. Isaac is trying to tell me something about Mickey Mouse and Parker is trying to persuade me to watch him play the Nintendo DS. I don't wake my husband because I don't see any reason why he should be made to get up at 5:00 in the morning just because I choose to. The day has started.

This means, unfortunately, that I may not have the mental energy to insist the children do anything else today. It means another day will pass in which I won't see my way clear to become anything. It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know? I don't know how to get out of this negative cycle.

Hope. There is definitely hope. Don't you for a moment think otherwise. Someday I know I'm going to figure this thing out. Someday there will--be--balance. As difficult as these children can be, they are beautiful, utterly beautiful children. God does care that I'm tired. I know that He does. And it's okay that life is hard. I just don't see any reason to pretend that it isn't. I can't fool Him, and I don't see any reason to try to fool you.

That is all.

Who Needs an Alarm Clock When There's a Bird Sanctuary Less Than a Mile Away?

I wake up at 5:00 every morning. I take my temperature for reasons I won't go into, though many of you already know, or can guess, why I do it. Somehow one or other of my children manage to wake up soon thereafter. Three weeks ago it wasn't nearly this bad. Three weeks ago, if I remember correctly both children slept in until 6:30 or even 7:00. Then things changed and not for the better. This doesn't drive me crazy like it once might have. Mostly now it only makes me sad because I know that I need that time for quiet in the mornings, and I know that I'm not going to get it. The only way I can get it is to turn the boys over to Michael and then go outside to sit in the sun, which in fact does make me happy. Unfortunately I don't do this very often because I don't see why he should have to get up at 5:00 or 5:30 in the morning merely because I choose to.

I didn't realize I was being prophetic many months ago when I said that I could not get up before my children.

I get up early in the morning because sleeping in tends to ruin my day. I do it because, as an introvert, and as a thinker/studier (and I promise you I really and truly can't help it) I require lots of time to myself. I also do it because I'm tired of not being able to sleep at night.

We've tried several tactics to help the children sleep longer. I've put blankets over their windows and taped them to the wall with masking tape so that the morning sun won't invade their room so early. I've used chip clips to secure one of them to the curtain rod, which makes me laugh. I'll get blackout shades for their room once I've finally made up my mind to spend the money. The shades will work a lot better I suspect than a blanket drawn back with a third (and slightly broken) chip clip.

We started putting the children to bed a little early. We did this because Parker was developing dark circles under his eyes and because Isaac was beginning to skip his afternoon nap as often as not. It seems to have helped with nap time (at least I think it has) but mornings haven't gotten any better. I'll continue the experiment at least a few more days to see if that result changes.

Two nights ago we put a fan in their room, a fan that will blow all night, and in the morning mask the sound of the birds, who begin their song around 5:00 as I am getting up. So far Parker has slept a little later, but not Isaac. This morning I was able to persuade them to at least stay in their room until a more reasonable hour, but there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth--on their part mostly, not so much on mine.

The experiment continues.

A Welcome from Outer Space

Yes, it has been a while. So kind of you to notice.

Tonight I sit here, waiting for my husband to come home from setting up the baptistry at church for the baptisms that will be taking place on Sunday, and wondering how the heck we're going to get in all of the hours we were supposed to spend alone together this week. We've been busy. We've been working. We're trying to take charge, at least a little bit, of the new thing that has become our life together. There has been a lot of transitioning over the past eight to nine months. I have yet to understand my place in it all. We've been praying; we've been asking God about it. I can only speak for myself, but I've been instructed again and again to wait, and that's exactly what I have been doing.

Backing up a bit, I'll provide the context for this one-sided conversation I'm trying to have with you tonight. Approximately nine months ago my husband, Michael, went into business for himself. We are Fox Enterprises Limited and we, in the person of Michael Fox, are available to help you with many of your web-based needs. Someday I'll get him to compose a comprehensive list of all the services he provides so that when questioned I'll be able to fool myself into having confidence in the answer I give. These days if you ask me what my brother does for a living I'll say "I don't know exactly." Ask me what my father-in-law does, I'll give the same answer. Ask me what my sister's future plans are, I'll say "I'm not really sure." Is it any wonder I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing either?

Basically Michael and I are on our own and responsible for creating our own momentum. It's been an interesting adjustment. He now works out of our basement most of the day, which means we get some helpful tax deductions come April 15th, and he's available to take the children for me at a moments notice, a privilege I try not to claim too terribly often. It means long hours, but it also means more games with the potential to find a niche because his creativity is free to flow. My husband is also a game designer. Designing games is his passion. He's begun developing two new games in just these past couple of weeks, two games which we've been able to work on play testing together. It is a scary time, because it is in interesting time, but it is a very hopeful time as well. We just have to wait and work and pray. And I have to somehow learn the discipline that will allow me to write and post regularly to this blog, "A Constructive Eclecticism."

In the meantime, Michael has come home from church, and doesn't have to go back on Saturday morning as he had previously planned, significantly increasing the possibility that we will in fact have time alone together during the remainder of the week.