Letter Writing on Thursday

Last weekend the kids and I drove to Southern Utah to spend a couple of days at a friend's parents' ranch.

Can I just say how much I love that wide open, rugged landscape? I felt so happy and light as we drove along. 

I've got the West in my blood and bones.
(I also heart this picture of Mia.)

And every time I travel with these peeps, I'm amazed at how easy they are.

They read, sometimes we listen to audio books, we talk, listen to music, and sometimes we dance.
They are the best travelers.

While there, we rode 4-wheelers,

the kids got to help feed the cows,

and despite the fact that Lisa's mom has cancer and her hair just started falling out, she loved on all these kids and taught mine how to ride the 4-wheelers on their own.

Coop shot a little bird when the boys were out on the 4-wheeler by themselves. He and Benj pulled off the wings and feathers, cut it open, salvaged the meat, grilled it up, and ate it.

 (Claire wanted to try it too.)

I want the kids to write thank you notes to send to Lisa's parents, so after Claire and I ate breakfast this morning, we worked together on hers. (I write the letters on one paper, and she copies them on her own.)

I've said this before, but 

I'm not sure there's anything I love more than learning-to-write-your-letters handwriting.

(See this post and this post and this post, for example.) 

I love her little tongue poking out in concentration, and the amaryllis on the table (see that little green spear just beginning to emerge from one of them!).

 After the note was done, we did her first reading lesson.

(I've taught all my people how to read, and I'm not about to miss out with this one--even if she does decide to do public school for kindergarten this year.)

Then we listened to some tunes, danced the "Boot Scoot N' Boogy" together in the front room, and I cleaned up the kitchen.

She's watching The Nutcracker now (her request--we have a DVD of it by the San Francisco Ballet), I'm sitting beside her on my bed about to plug in to work, and I've got meat thawing on the counter for meatloaf and baked potatoes for dinner.

I love these simple, quiet, ordinary moments of day-to-day life.

They are special.

Have I told you how much I love being a mom and how I wouldn't miss it for the world?

#truth

So far, this Thursday is giving me alllllllllll the good vibes.

Happy Thursday to you too--whoever you are, and wherever you are.

xoxo

A Brave Woman

A couple of weeks ago at 1:12 a.m., I was sitting in my front room by the Christmas tree and sent a quick note to my mother who lives halfway around the world. 

I was thinking about what I've learned from her, mostly as I've watched how she has lived her life. 

My mom's a brave and strong woman, and she has been through a lot. 

 Dear Mom,

I meant to email you this morning and then things got going with my day and I didn't get to it. I'm emailing now, late, before I go to bed. All I have to say is this:

I love you.

And I appreciate you. 

Your life and example continue to shape how I look at the world, and I'm grateful for the ways that you inspire me:

To take steps into the dark,

to examine your questions, 

to be authentic, honest, and vulnerable, 

to do the hard thing, 

to not make fun of another's weakness,

to love learning, 

to live in simplicity while acknowledging, 

in the same breath, 

gratitude and abundance;

these things and more.

xoxo

E

Someday

Someday I won't have a boy in my house who, 

when I round the corner after coming downstairs, 

comes running out of my room with a mischievous smile.

And because of how he's acting, I think he's up to something -- he must have been in to something or doing something he wasn't supposed to.

So I ask him what he's up to and then call after him when he doesn't answer and runs upstairs.

And then I go into my room and see a huge tulip's head by my pillow, left there with a note.

And it says: 

Love you.

Someday, and someday all-too-soon, these days of legos and tween humor, ripsticking, chewing wads of bubble gum, and long conversations about life will be something in the past.

Someday he won't be here, under my same roof.

And so I smile today that he is, 
and that he's sweet and tender and funny. 

And I smile because he writes me notes I'll keep.

Late Night Note

I'm making my way through the last season of Parenthood.

Man...I love that show. I've laughed and I've cried throughout the whole series.

Love it enough that I bought the whole entire thing.

I watched a couple episodes last night, one of them being the episode where Zeek has open heart surgery.  Something about it triggered a memory about my dad when he was sick, one I hadn't thought about for a while.  

After midnight, I decided I was going to hit the hay.

I came upstairs to do a few things I always do before turning in.  

I walked through my house in the quiet and then went downstairs, pulled out the leather bound book by my bed, and wrote a few lines to my dad:

Was watching something tonight that took me back to the night you came home from Cape Cod and a friend brought you home and I was waiting at the house for you.  I came out to the car and you were waiting for me, leaning on the passenger door.  I put your arm around my shoulder and we slowly made our way up the back walk, the backyard lit from the little yellow light on the west side of the garage. It's crazy, Dad...it all happened so fast and I couldn't believe we were on that speeding train.  Made me remember how tender and difficult and unbelievable all of that was.  

I went outside tonight to turn out deck lights and twinkle lights in the yard on the garden shed.  When I came in and walked through the house, making sure doors and windows were locked, I looked around at the things in my entryway and front room -- the pictures on the walls, the china hutch, the things -- and so much of it -- almost all of it has sentimental value, ties me to my parents and grandparents.  You are all here, in my front room, in my heart, in my life.  I feel so aware that so much of me is you, that the love you all gave to me is my strength today.  I carry all of you with me.  I've got pictures of both sets of grandparents and the print Ellen did of the house, stuff you brought back from various travels, a brass pitcher of Grandma Vera's, a gift from Sarah, the china hutch, filled with Grandma's china and candles, the clock that was in the living room all growing up, the painting I chose from Dan Moss, years ago, the picture of my hands clasped with Mom and Grandma Vera's that symbolizes my motherhood to me.  It's all very humbling and beautiful to realize how many lives make up your life.  I remember that our family home was full of photographs of family long gone, but not gone.  I feel so aware of that now.  They're not gone.  They're still as much a part of you as they were when they were physically here.  I'm so grateful for that.  So very grateful.  

I love you, Dad. 

xoxo

Thursday afternoon

At 3:15 this afternoon I walked into the kitchen and found this on the counter.

 I opened it to find this: 

"I love you Mom," and signed by my gal.

She leaves me notes all the time.

Or other things, like when I came in from running yesterday and she had my smoothie bottle full of fresh water for me.

Or the way she'll fill my water cup full by my bed at night, cuz she knows I always take a big cup of water with me to bed.

She's thoughtful like that.

She makes me feel lucky to be her mother.

That was one buoyant thing this afternoon.

Another one? 

The boys have taken to listening to the radio in their room, and I can totally tell that it makes them feel cool, like adults.

(this pic is from 4 years ago)

It cracks me up.

Today, country music was blaring from their room.

It's so funny.  

And the last happy?

Making Belgian waffles for dinner.

Pouring the butter in here and I've set the batter out to rise while the Little Miss and I walk down to the post office to mail a letter.

Then, home for my dinner night date with Benji:

we're gonna whip cream,

chop strawberries, wash blueberries,

set the table, and then gather everyone 'round to eat.

So Long, You

Dear 2014,

Last night I was by myself for a few hours while the kids were with their dad.

I went for a run and got home just as it was almost dark.

I turned on some music and cleaned up my house.

I sat down on the floor in the front room, trimming strings of yarn from these pom pom balls I had made over the previous 24 hours (102 of them, to be precise!).

Fireworks were going off from a neighborhood across my street.

I felt really quiet inside, and a little sad.

My, what a year you were.

I'm not gonna lie...I am not feeling at all bad to kiss you goodbye.

Except that...

my baby is growing up, and there was a lot of beautiful there this year.

My list of things-I'm-grateful-for is about a million miles long.

During your twelve months, I've learned lessons I can't put a price tag on.

I have loved and been loved, have four walls around me to keep the cold out, friends, and things that make me laugh every day.

And even tho I have cried more tears than I care to count, I've also found joy, peace, goodness, light and hope.

And I've learned that God keeps His promises.

So yeah.

If I make a reckoning this way, you weren't bad.

I might not wish you back again, but I'd never give up what you've taught me or how you've changed me.

I stayed up into the middle of the night finishing the wreath and then taking Christmas down, which always makes me feel a bit nostalgic.  

Here it is, on the mantle this morning.

I am enjoying the freak out of color.

I'm kind of hoping that 

it's a shout out in advance for 

how awesome 2015 is gonna be.

xoxo

Handwritten Heart

This has been happening around here.

 Notes have been written and placed strategically for the recipient to find.

Like last night, when Mia had run upstairs at bedtime, and I called her a couple times to come back down.

When she did, she went into my room, and I realized she was being "sneaky."

I went into my room to find a stuffed envelope on my nightstand.

This was inside.

Love everything about these: the handwriting, the expressions of love, the way they are leaving them to be found.

But, perhaps the one that I loved most last night?

This.

(my heart. again.)

I have no idea when he wrote it, but it pretty much made my whole day. 

All Hallow's Eve

Dear Dad,

Today it's a gorgeous autumn day.  

The sky is that washed out blue with wispy clouds.

The backyard is littered in leaves.

The sunlight has that distinct slanted look, different from the drenching wash of summer. When you are outside, even in the late afternoon sunlight, a long-sleeve shirt isn't unwelcome.

While a lot of the trees around my neighborhood have lost all their yellow leaves, my neighbor's trees are just now turning, and they're glorious!  I have yellow hanging over my driveway, and something bright to greet me as I open and close the curtains in the schoolroom. 

The maple in my backyard is doing what it always does -- several shades all at once, each leaf in its own process of change.  It is a myriad mix of greens and reds and some muted oranges.

This morning we gathered around the table in the front room for journal writing.  We all wrote letters today: Isaiah wrote to Anna, Mia to Nae Nae, Benji to Talon, and I wrote grandparents.  Claire busied herself getting on the table (and being taken off), and I attempted to distract her by offering her paper to color on.  It worked briefly.

We read in the sunshine during lunchtime, and listened to our history lesson while I rolled out sugar cookies.  Isaiah and Mia played with extra dough and Benji played with legos. Claire napped.

Afterward, the boys were downstairs cleaning their room and yelling at each other and my patience is about out.  Mia was busy frosting her bunch of cookies.

Sigh.  

Earlier today, I went downstairs to make my bed and straighten things up.  My book was still open on my pillow, and I looked for a bookmark so I could close it and put it on my nightstand.

I looked at a pile of papers there, sheets that had been at home in the front of my journal, random bits and pieces: letters, talks, quotes, notes of things to write about, saved programs, etc.  I pulled out a card, thinking I would just tuck it in the book briefly until I found something else.  It was a birthday card from you in 2009.  

I looked at your elegant penmanship and read your words.  You said your love for me "goes clear to the bone," and wished me goodness and God's richest blessings for the coming year.

I read it and sat there, thinking about you for a minute.  Thinking about how, then, I had no idea you would be gone in just-less-than-four-and-a-half-years from that point.  

But.

I also sat there, thinking about something I've learned in the past year -- and it is this. Until losing you, I didn't realize that when you lose someone you love deeply, they never really leave you.  

It's like this poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, written in 1932.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.  

I am not there.  I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there.  I did not die.

Of course, my sentiments would be different.

You're in the way I think of flowers, the way I stain my fingers with dirt.

You're a piece of Bach's music, fine chocolate, the texts of certain hymns, letter writing.

When I see tulips or Easter lilies, or make pies in my quiet kitchen at night, I feel you in the work and simple, stunning beauty.

(apple pie making, the other night)

Lots of things.

The people you love become a part of you.

I think it is one of God's most lovely gifts, a gift I hadn't discovered til incredible sadness, through loss, carved its way into my heart.  That chasm made room for warmth that I hadn't anticipated.

I've always thought of Lehi's discourse on opposition (2 Nephi 2) as a commentary on the difficulties of life.  But.  It occurs to me, now, that it goes, just as equally, the other way.  When God says that opposition is one of the guarantees, something we can count on, He also meant opposition to pain and struggle.  

He meant that He would meet you, in those dark places.

Just last night, a line from something I was watching stuck out to me.  One of the characters had just suffered a crushing loss, and someone said to her, "You keep on living, until you feel alive again."

My.

This has had application in my life over the past year in so many ways.

In relationships that mattered to me.

In questions that I don't know the answers to.

In forging ahead, when you can't always see the way.

I love that quote.

Keep on living, until you feel alive again.

I've realized that losses can become gains, Dad.

I've learned that pain is part of joy.

I've found that these pieces are part of the same whole.

And as I log off of blogger this afternoon and head to the kitchen to make beef stroganoff, I'll think of you as I make scratch sauce.

I'll brown meat and diced onions.  

I'll add in a little flour and mushrooms, pour in cream and some red cooking wine, mustard, red pepper, salt.

I'll let things simmer and thicken, and I'll taste test.

I learned it from you.

Happy 30th of October, Dad.

All Hallow's Eve.

xoxo

E.