Portrait in Linen

Had Stevie Nick’s Stand Back on repeat for three days now.  (That’s how it is with music these days.  Azure Ray when I’m feeling sorry for myself, Don Henley when I’m feeling needy, U2 when I’m feeling like standing at the top of a tower and wailing into the atmosphere….)  But…it’s Stevie.  Three days, count ‘em.

House is turned upside down, but kids don’t notice a thing, except sleeping arrangements are wacky.  Explanation:  “No one sleeps in their own bed around here.”  True (and grammatically incorrect), but not what I meant.  But they don’t know that.

House hums along as if nothing were amiss.  Home schooling gets done.  Housework gets done.  Dinner gets done.  Everything done except this awful mess, which has no connection to the words “foreseeable future.”

I might be accused of pessimism.  Not true, not true.  Quite the opposite.  I have faith until it’s six feet under rain-packed dirt.  And I’m patient.  And stubborn.

But I won’t do it alone.  One shoulder only.  It’s a strong shoulder.  It serves a multitude of purposes.  Good for tears, good for sharing weight distribution, cold when needed.  But the offer includes only one–no more, no less.

—

And I find I’m totally, utterly turned off by the color red.  Thought I might completely trash anything I have in that particular color.

—

And a new metaphor comes to mind…a strange rock formation in the desert.  What gives it a particular shape, with a gaping hole through the center, smoothed and parted feet along the bottom, a sloped head?  Wind, rain, rivers, storms….  Seems to keep its balanced stance, no matter how precarious.  May lean to an absurd angle, bend on a wild arc of contortion.  Can’t apologize for what’s missing, for the lack of symmetry.  More and more, it becomes.  Becoming.

Maybe, through the millennia, the torrents of time and surface fits will trace and graze stone under stone, until one day, the earth exhales a lazy whisper-breath that carries away the last grain of sand.  By then, there will be no one left who remembers shape or shadow.

I know it’s hard for him to put on a brave face.  Parents are capable of walking through fire to preserve their kids.  I know it’s hard for him because it’s excruciating for me.  Not when they’re making jokes that put us in stitches, and not when they’re basking in the glory of a triumphant performance.

It’s hard when they’re on stage, and the two of us stand together watching them, and I’m thinking of behind-the-scenes tragedy and how fragile is the scaffolding and how delicate is the balance.

It’s hard when we’re out in public, walking through the sea of faces, offering up “hellos” and “how-ya-doin’s” and I really don’t feel it at all.  I’m thinking of territorial residue that’s molding between the joints and cultivating a hazardous anger, unjustly resenting all the other women because they’re women and they represent the seed of this particular strain of strife.  Furious with myself because I know how unjustified it is to feel this way–I know better….

But that’s the nature of the pain: unfocused, indiscriminate, irrational.  And then I’m angry about that, too: yet another part of myself wrenched out of my hands, another aspect of my personality I can hold up to the cold, unforgiving light of self-criticism–because I’m imbalanced, I can’t get a-hold of myself, I let all of this infiltrate so that it’s not about him anymore, but about what I’m not, which is Enough.

Not fair.  Not fair.  I feel like the assassinated, but really, I’m a secondary casualty.

Like waking up one day to discover the bed you built with your hands has not been a bed at all, but a weak wooden sculpture fashioned from splinters and shards. The house you constructed around you with lumber you took from your own backyard is not a house at all, but a balanced arrangement of cards, stacked end to end, poised to topple with a frail exhale. And the land that bears your name is not your land; it belongs to something larger and stronger, insistent and darker, and swallowing, and it has no name at all.

So all you have is the skin on your back, the marks and scars, the muscle memory, the lines beneath in bone where fissure and fracture healed over the marrow. And antibodies float in your blood and will till you’re dead, to testify to all the infections you fought and suppressed. And now you’re immune; if you fall to the same affliction again, you will not succumb. You will not succumb. You will not succumb.

Recognize. I recognize this place, I’ve visited before. I’m visited again. It looks like a beginning, but feels like an end.

• M’s raise(s)
• joined Writers’ Guild of Acadiana
• niece born Friday
• discovered new evening routine
• completed first knitting project
• seeking God continually

I had no high hopes for the weekend, but if I had, they’d be dashed at the moment. He’s taking the girls to Hometown, and Rocky and I will have to stay here. We can’t all fit in the car safely.

This means they’ll be gone for Easter. I’ll be sending their baskets with them.

Still Knitting
Finished niece’s little cap ‘n’ booties set, and I knit it all by myself!!! I can’t believe I did it. I can follow directions! It truly is a cute set. I hope SIL likes them. Even if Niece can’t wear them (in the middle of April), she can keep them for decoration and/or posterity.

I’m so happy. I’ve learned a new skill that I can call upon for gifts and such. And only for the cost of yarn!

(Knitting also gives me much time to think about the recipient. I’d say these things are quite literally “made with Love,” as my thoughts and feelings pour into each stitch.

In Hawaiian culture, the people believe mana (power/energy–either good or bad) goes into anything handmade, so the recipient partakes of “good mana” or “bad mana“, depending on the crafter’s intentions.

I can in no wise compare mana with the Spirit, but I was reminded of the Hawaiian belief as I worked on the baby set. Hula was such a part of my heart, and I so embraced the people. Those things I learned will never leave me.)

I felt God with me as I worked in the night. I felt Him teaching my heart about genuine love and compassion, giving out of pure kindness, expecting nothing in return. And my humanness reminded me how very far I have to go before I realize genuine love and compassion in my own spirit.

Yay-Board-Games

We’re developing a passion for board games. It seems to be the nightly ritual, rather than a once-a-week family event. The favorite seems to be Mousetrap, with Connect Four in a close second.

We (at least three of us fearless) played Operation tonight. Prissy may have a future in medicine; she soundly whipped the rest of us.

Cleaning out the linen closet, we discovered at least three games we’ve never played before, so it’s exciting knowing we have some adventure ahead of us.

The newfound passion for board games spontaneously launched a family project. Over the past week, each kid has created his/her own board game, complete with spinners/dice, playing pieces, and cards.

Even Rocky got in on the fun. His creation is rather “hip” as the established themes go, and he has high hopes of marketing it to a big-name company. He’s put a lot of thought into the process, taking into consideration visual appeal, game play, relevance, etc. He’s stuck with it, working on it, developing it a little more each night.

We tested the “first draft” last night, and I have to say it was truly engaging. I think he may have something.

Of course I had to ruin it and bring up things “educational.” I asked, “What subjects do you think this project covers?”

Together, we agreed board game development encompasses Art, Social Science, Psychology, Composition, Logic, Economics, Business Management, Physics, and Math. He wasn’t exactly “happy” that I spoiled his wanton inspiration with dreaded “Application,” but I think he finally saw the light: in Homeschooling, a kid learns without even realizing he’s learning.

Puzzles are on the wish list, too. Dragged out a 25-piece leftover from the older girls’ younger days. Pipsqueak was enthralled!

Bedtime Proctor
And all this brings me to the new nightly routine, which outshines the old like platinum to dirt. No more late-night knitting while watching morbid crime shows and trying to threaten the kids into ending their “party” so they’ll just go to sleep. NO MORE.

The New Format:

- 15 minutes before bedtime - board game of choice…everyone must participate! (or at least watch. or be the Banker.)

- 8:30 - tuck-in. –And you better be in your bed and not hiding or dashing downstairs for water if you want the famous “Caterpillar Tuck.”

- 8:45 - In the common sitting area, where no child is beyond Mom’s keen eyes and ears…Mom sits, knits, and listens to the audio Bible while Rocky works on his animation, draws, or otherwise quietly occupies himself.

- 10:30 - Rocky to bed–lights out. Audio Bible session ends.

- 10:30-till… - Mom continues knitting until no one is stirring and she reaches a good stopping point in the project.

- House is silent. All is well.

It’s a dream-come-true, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I get to unwind, Rocky and I get some quite time together, I can really settle into the Word, Rocky can listen to the Word without feeling like it’s another homeschooling subject of study, I can keep an eye on the girls to deter any shenanigans, they’ll be sure to get proper sleep, and no more anxiety for them that I’m “far away” downstairs. Peace and Security for all.

Blessing From Heaven–Honey-Weekend

He’s taking me to a snazzy company celebration. I couldn’t have asked for better, or for better timing. Critical Mass has been the default state for so long, intimate time unheard of. Yet, in a few precious weeks, we’ll be lazing in a suite, strolling nature paths and river walks, and schmoozing with his coworkers, both great and small.

The illusion will shatter. The veil drawn between his mysterious work life and his home will lift, finally bringing together the two worlds of his existence that have to present remained mutually exclusive.

And I get to be on his arm.

Predictably, I’ve been greedily planning for the event as if it were a high school prom. I’ve taken great care in conjuring a wardrobe, down to the last detail.

And yet, I consciously strive to put down any grand expectations, because that is self-destructive.

Instead, I pray for God’s blessing during that time, no matter how it unfolds. I’ll be content to just be with him, outside the constraints of familiar context.

I try to avoid thinking about what I might say, what I might want to hear, and endeavor to speak little but listen and love much.

And I try to extinguish any anxieties I might have about meeting his bosses and his bosses’ bosses. I can’t be anything I’m not, or have anything I don’t have. Simply, I’m his half, at best and worst. I hope he finds that enough.

“Communicate or Disintegrate.”  God’s timing is perfect.  I listened to Adrian Roger’s message this morning, and I’ll listen to it again tomorrow morning.  I not only need to hear it more than once–I need to hear it continually.

I have all day to pray about this before he gets home.  I’m not expecting a miraculous change, but I can pray to be warm and affectionate, attentive, already expecting nothing in return–but not as thanklessness, but as a seed just planted.