Dreaming

On Saturday morning, I woke from a dream.

I had been working as a field hand picking cherries.

From inside a building there, I heard someone playing my dad's arrangement of

"God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again," and went inside to hear

it. It's one of his arrangements that isn't recorded.

I think it was my mother playing and she was piecing some things

together, kind of a variation of the hymn and then playing a verse of dad's that we had.

My sister Susan was standing there, too.

As Mom started to play it again, I was washed in emotion as I thought about my dad

and felt that deep pang of missing.

Susan came and stood by me, we hugged each other,

and in a moment, we were both sobbing.

And I woke up.

Kind of funny, because I spent Friday night cleaning my house.

It was driving me crazy.

Folded all the laundry.

Vacuumed the entire house.

Scrubbed bathrooms.

Dusted.

Mopped all the floors.

Soaped out my kitchen sink.

And as I stood there at the sink in the late-night quiet, I was thinking about him.

Sometimes I think about my grandparents, and how it wasn't that long ago that they were in the busy stage of life that I'm in.

They were raising kids and pursuing careers.

They were chatting with neighbors and laughing in kitchens.

They were involved and vibrant in their communities.

And now?

All but one of them has gone on--in almost just a moment, really.

Reminds me of another dream I had years ago that left an impression on me. I had just died, and my spirit literally went up through the ceiling of the room where my body was laying. And as I went through the ceiling, I went into a room of people and immediately found my father and aunt. They were laughing and happy and talking.

It was just as real there as life here and I was struck by how familiar it felt, as though nothing had changed.

But I remember feeling distressed because I was thinking of my little sister, still here. I knew she was crying because I'd died and I wanted to comfort her.

The older I get, the more I realize that our time here is short,

what we do here matters, and we will go on sooner than we think.

And I realize that the things my ancestors gave me--

their strength, their convictions, their examples, and their love--

are just as active through the veil that separates us as they were when they were here in the flesh.

I can feel those things, even though I can't see them, 

and it's strong--

especially from my father.

Someday I will see him again, and I'll run.

And when I get to him, I'll hug him and hold on.

And I'll thank him for hovering over my life.

Every Girl Can Dream

Every girl can have a dream, right?

And whether or not that dream will ever be a reality is another thing. Mine may never come true, but I still think about it and it takes me to a happy, peaceful place.

I suppose mine started, unbeknownst to me, as a little girl when I spent lots of time working the dirt. My father taught me how to plant beans and tomatoes, squash and cucumbers. We planted flowers together, and no spring was complete without going to the greenhouse. 

Something happened there that I'm not sure I fully appreciated at the time, but I developed a love for good food and the satisfaction of getting your feet and hands dirty---breathing in fresh air and really smelling it. 

There's just something about it.  

I also developed a love of work. 

I LOVE to work. 

But then. 

I read a book, a memoir, maybe five? years ago, and I fell in love with the concept of land and farming in a way I never had before. And I'm 100% positive it's a bit romanticized (owning it!), but it resonated so deeply with me: land, work, simplicity, and the beauty inherent in that connectedness. 

I absolutely love art and culture and literature and music and learning; I was raised to appreciate those things, but I also think I have a personal bent toward them. I'm frequently in my head, spinning ideas around, and I love books and being enlightened by chewing on other people's thoughts. I knew I had a love affair with words and writing and expression by the time I was in high school. 

I expect that will never change. 

But, at the heart, I think I'm a bit of a country girl. I've never been trendy or much of a shopper. Consumerism and materialism don't satisfy me. I don't need a lot of THINGS to make me happy. Besides...the shoe kinda fits. I mean, I DID choose to homeschool (though that may be coming to a close), and I AM passionate about natural childbirth. I love canning and making food from scratch and lighting fires and I have fond memories of chopping firewood in the woods with my dad and sisters.

When I go to my dream place, I imagine having a piece of land. Maybe a wrap-around porch to watch the sun set. Maybe a horse or two. I imagine country runs and morning quiet. A farm dog, maybe, and chickens. I imagine my family there; my children and grandchildren, and I think about cooking big meals for all of these people that I love and coming together. I imagine a warm home where the porch light calls you in and there's peace there. 

But. Let's just rein in that thought for a sec, peeps. 

That isn't my reality today. 

My current equivalent will make you laugh but I'll share it anyway.

I've never been hunting in my life, but for quite a while now, I've wanted to go. I've wanted to experience that with a man I love, and I've wanted to be more connected to that process because I take it for granted every day. But one day I'd love to go on the hunt and participate in a harvest and do it; like really DO IT. And I want my children in on it, too. I want to get my hands dirty with it. And then know what it is to package it up and store it away and feel gratitude for that animal sustaining me and my family. Just today, on an 8-mile run, I found myself thinking about my shocking indifference, because I don't ever really think about the fact that some animal's life was ended to sustain mine. I mean, sure, I think about it; but how often do I stop and feel gratitude and respect for that animal, for its life?

So. 

A few weeks ago I was thinking about this again: doing the work of getting meat and storing it away. Dinner was done and I still had a mountain to do that night, miles to go before sleep. I put the boys on kitchen cleanup and headed outside to the deck to tackle 40 pounds of chicken under the lights. 

Butcher knife. (Check.)

Cutting board. (Check.)

Get my game on. (Check.)

And as I sat there handling COLD fresh chicken that had never been frozen, cutting off the extra bits and getting the jelly off of it, Mia held the bags open for me and we enjoyed listening to the Weepies.

And I felt righteously industrious. 

(I hope you're laughing now, but it's totes true.)

I LOVE the satisfaction of getting it done and filling my freezer with meat. And, ridiculous though it may sound, invoking my pioneer spirit of taking care of my family and working together on our "piece of land."

Okay, I know. 

(Hardy-har-har and guffaw. Go ahead. Keep laughing.)

It's just my simple two-bum kitchen, my four people and me, my little house, and my yard. And we live in a very non-country neighborhood, although we do have wide streets that I love. 

But. 

My grandparents farmed. 

They worked the land and had respect for it. 

(My dad (left) with his brother Rick and Laddie)

My dad roamed the hills of western Montana on horseback. 

He combed that land with his dog, Laddie. He drove a tractor at 3, and by the time he was 6, he was helping his grandfather with haying and lots of other chores when he spent weeks on their ranch in the summer. 

(Dad in his duds as a little guy)

It all resonates with me, and it has for a long time. 

I find myself yearning for that life without throwing away some of today's modern conveniences. (I love the computer and camera and notepad that is my iPhone, for example, and I heart the crazy access to information that is Google and the internet and modern technology. I certainly appreciate plumbing and electricity and refrigeration and a furnace. Love me a hot shower and some perfume. Yup. Sure do. Super grateful.)

But really. 

Maybe it's why I feel happy when my feet are in the mud, and maybe it's also why I am always running toward quiet: I love country roads and fields, places where my mind can wander and roam, places where I feel free and open and at peace. 

I can find myself there. 

In those quiet places, my life becomes organized again: I can hear my own thoughts, identify what's truly important in my heart, and I come home ready to live my life again. 

Because it's a beautiful life. 

My things

A couple of things.

I've decided I need to take sleep more seriously (meaning that I need more of it).  

So, I've been making a concerted effort the last couple of nights to go to bed earlier, and I've noticed a difference.

But. 

Let's see how I'm doing a month from now.

(I've made this resolution before.)

And, I like to have a plan.

Last night, after I got the kids in bed, I came upstairs.

The deck lights were on and the sprinkler was going out on the new sod.

As it got dark, I sat at the kitchen table looking at numbers, setting financial goals, planning out how things are going to work.  

Thinking about where I want to be come December, putting things on paper so I can visually see it. Planning ahead for things I'll need to cover.

About halfway through, I went outside to change the sprinkler and got thoroughly soaked, came back inside, and sat down with one whole leg completely wet.

Something about sitting there under the lights of the kitchen table, listening to a favorite new tune and putting things in order made me strangely happy.

Like putting my ducks in a row, and hoping for the best.

Before going downstairs to read for a few minutes and settle in, I ran to Sonic to get pebble ice.

It's one of my favorite things, and I pretty much crunch on some every night as I sip water.

I fell asleep thinking.

A little after 7:00 this morning, I woke up thinking about my people.

I'm pretty sure I dreamed something about my dad.

And I was having a conversation with my mom at one point about my grandfather's death date: January 12, 1995.

And I think I dreamed about a baby girl, too.

I couldn't really put a finger on the dream bits about my dad and the baby. 

It was just like I knew they'd been there.

I got out of bed and went for a run.

And, here's the thing.

Sometimes the pieces that make up your core resurface: the people that have been the crux of it all, the pieces of yourself that define you.

My people -- mother, father, grandparents, siblings, children.

Family.

And motherhood.

Those are my things.

They're ultimately my only things. 

In My Dreams

 (Dad with Mia---two weeks, to the day, before he passed away)

Life is a fragile, tender thing---

life coming into the world, 

life going out of the world,

and trying to navigate the time in between.

Tonight, for whatever reason, as I was standing at the kitchen counter making dinner, I found myself thinking of a tender scene in the movie Stepmom.  

The mother, who has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, is snuggling with her son on Christmas morning, having just given him a cape with so many memories sewn on it---pictures and experiences that they've shared together.  This is all the more tender because you know it is their last Christmas before she'll be gone.

At one point, I think they start to talk about how they are going to miss each other.

And it gets really tugging when he asks something to the effect of, "But Mom, what will I do when you're not here and I need to talk to you?"

And, as you know from earlier in the movie, they share a little phrase with each other where they talk about meeting in their dreams.

And so, she responds by saying something like, "Well, we always have our dreams.  We can always meet each other there."

He says, "But that isn't good enough."

They agree on this.

And then, if I remember right, she tells him (or maybe it's in the later tender discussion she has with her daughter) that she'll always be in his heart.

I stood there at the counter, making dinner, thinking about that phrase---"in my dreams."

After my father died, and for several months, I had some very personal, more-than-dream exchanges in my dreams with my dad.

I knew he was being allowed to communicate with me in very direct and meaningful ways.

I will treasure those experiences always.

Lately, he has been frequenting my dreams a lot---but in a normal, comforting way, not with any message to convey or something of a serious nature, but almost like how we interacted when he was here, in the flesh.

I awoke from a dream a few weeks back that made me feel warm inside because it was so familiar.  In the dream, I had a zucchini and collard greens and I was so excited about hanging out with him to do something with them.  I remember telling him, excitedly, that we should slice the zucchini up and fry it, and that we needed to come up with something to do with those collards. 

(Insert: thumbs up emoji)

Why was it so warm?  

Because that's precisely the kind of conversation he and I would have.  We both loved food.  We would look at beautiful pictures of food, we would exchange recipes, we would call each other when something was amazingly delicious.  Sometimes we'd make a run to the other's house, just to taste what was going down in the kitchen.  That exchange while I was sleeping could just as easily have happened yesterday.

And yeah, I wish I could have that conversation, for real.

But having it in my dreams is pretty great in the meantime.

A week or so ago, I woke up and remembered that I'd been talking to him about something that has made me really sad lately, a friendship of mine.  

And that seemed natural, too, because if he were here, he would have heard all about it.

I was telling him the details and talking it through.  

He didn't say anything; he was just listening, the way that he always did.

I ended up telling my kids about it at the dinner table, and couldn't help myself---I cried as I talked about these things.

Life is a precious thing, and tender.

As time goes on, I feel more and more aware of the strength of the footings I was given.

I feel more and more grateful for what I believe, for what I know, for what the Holy Ghost whispers in my heart (and for how I know that the things that really matter, all the precious things that are engraved there, never leave you).

(Dad with Claire, 12 days before he was gone)

I know this:

Love is real.

Relationships are lasting.

God gives us gifts, and lately I've been really grateful for the gifts that have come...in my dreams.

I love you, Dad.

Little Blue Eyes and Funny Dreams

The last few days I find myself looking again and again at my beautiful little girl.

Her hair is at the length I love right now.

She's my little shadow.

She's got these huge, beautiful blue eyes that she wishes were brown.

In the car yesterday, as we were leaving the grocery store, I said to her, "Mia, you have the most beautiful blue eyes."  (I'm always trying to reinforce that fact.)

And she responded, "But I wish I had brown eyes."

When I asked her why, she responded, "Because I want to be a mother."

"You can still be a mother with blue eyes."

"But when I get bigger, I'll have brown eyes."

I told her they'd stay blue.

Then we got into a discussion about colored contacts and how I always just use the plain ones because I don't want to change my eyes.

And then she said, "I don't want to change anything about my eyes, either."

And then, "Mom, can we stop talking about eyes?"

She has always wanted brown eyes.

I want her to see the stunning beauty that I see.

She takes my breath away much of the time.

As I start to notice a quiver of gray hair by my ears, she is blooming away.

I woke from a dream this morning that I wanted to keep dreaming.

We had been up at a mountain cabin and it had snowed several feet.

Mr. C. and others were clearing the road so that we'd be able to drive home.

I was driving along (you know how weird dreams are -- all details blend together) and thought I'd just turn around really quick.

We slid right off the road and were falling backwards, down and down.

In the moment, as we were falling, I was deciding how hurt I was going to get.

Did I want to be almost killed?

Coma for several months?

A miraculous incident where we all walked away unscathed?

How bad would it be?

I found myself thinking that life isn't like that.

We can control, in small degrees, things that happen to us.

Good choices usually lead to good results.

Preparation yields progress.

But the opposite of those is true too.

And then there's a lot that just happens.

And we can no more choose the consequences than we can control how badly we get hurt in a mountain snow car crash or the color of our eyes.

Reminds me of this quote by Martha Washington that I agree with, is awfully inspiring, and a swift kick in the pants, too at certain moments:

"I have learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances."

Yet Another Extolling of Butter

Yesterday we finally did our liquid to solid discussion.

I've been so excited about this and thought we'd do it Monday and it didn't happen.

And Tuesday, well.  It was busy.

Yesterday morning we got up.  The boys did reading and writing.

I am so proud of them.  They are really coming along!

We ate lunch and they got to benefit from their valentine gift from Mr. C. and I (a big bag of Sour Cream & Cheddar potato chips).  These are a real treat around here.  I rarely buy stuff like that, and they were so stoked!

Then we read this book.  I wanted to find a book on making butter, specifically how they used to do it down home on the farm with a butter churn.  (I think youtube might be my friend for this request.)

I told them that if I had my way, I'd love to have a cow and have fresh milk and fresh butter sans pasteurization.  Oh, and chickens.  And a lot of other things.  I think that is the healthiest option available, really.  One of my fave reads from last year was this book.  I was so inspired and love all of the things she talks about.  Growing your food.  Being connected to the whole process.  Eating local.  Sans pesticides.  Building a community.  Love, love, love, love, LOVE. I really can't say enough good about it.

(One of my wishes?  If we ever own more land to accommodate a cow and chickens etc, maybe I'll convince Mr. C. to jump on board.)

So.

We dumped cream into a jar and started the shake-uh shake-uh shake-uh.

We took turns, passing it around.

We talked about liquids and solids.

I was so surprised at how quickly it changes from what looks like a more dense form of whipping cream to butter, surrounded by whey.  

My gosh!  

It was literally one second to the next.  Funky clump of something in there, frantic shaking, and then whey and a large clump of butter.  

So fun!

We spread it on crackers. 

It was yummy.

I mean, c'mon, all good things begin and end with butter.

My next endeavor is to go tour a dairy, and learn to make cheese from scratch.

AND get the kids in on the project.

And dream about my own Guernsey.

Oh, and ya know, a few cluck clucks for my backyard.

It's one of my dreams.

When Scott and I met and dated -- and then eventually married -- it was just the two of us.

But both of us had the anticipation of those we would bring here, of the people that would continue us, be a part of us, make us complete. Now I have moments, when we're all together, that amid the noise or activity that we're doing, or conversation we're having or song we sing together with little voices chiming in -- that I often think to myself, "This is it. Look at these people. Look at what we've created. Isn't this beautiful?"

Do you want to know what the best part about my life is?

The best part is that if anyone asked me what I'd have if I could have anything I ever wanted, any life dream or ambition?

The best part is that I honestly could say I'm living it. .

Right now.

I'd choose this.

But that doesn't mean I don't have my moments. In our faith we have visiting teachers, a way that we help look out for each other, take care of each other, make friends. At our last visit my visiting teacher surprised me by making a comment about how I was just amazing because I had it all together and wasn't frustrated by anything, etc. Seriously? Let me just say that I made sure she knew I have days. Oh my gosh, I have days. I have moments. I have hours. Oh yes, I do.

But the great thing is that I have strikingly beautiful moments. Really gorgeous, lovely moments. I revel in the testosterone that is flowing through my son, cracking me up with his repeated exclamations of "dude!", his need for adrenaline and the way he practically walks in his dad's shadow. The way his voice revs up when he sings or laughs. And the way he'll sing with me at night in his bed, sweet like he doesn't have any of that manliness in him.

And the other one cracks me up with how particular he is. The way he asks me to lie down with him each night. The way he sings songs, loves to be involved in cooking, loves to help with any task you will allow him to participate in, loves gum and food and chips. He is darling to watch when he talks on the phone, so serious and communicative. And he loves his sister, which is so cute to observe.

And my baby. My gosh I love my baby. A friend told me that she will have enough children, but never enough babies, and I feel the same way. I could call this gal my right hand because she is always with me, and it is so nice to always feel loved and needed and adored. That is how she makes me feel, and moments with a baby are magical. Magical. I will never have enough. Her laugh and smiles. Her crazy hair. Her bright blue eyes.

Ever since I was a little girl I wanted to be a mom. That isn't to say that I don't have other things that I want to do someday, but this dream has been my dream of ALL dreams. And I get to live it.