My Grandmother's Quilt and Anne Lamott

I found this quilt at my grandmother's house when my grandfather moved to an apartment.  It's hand made and hand-stitched and sturdy and beautiful.  This summer I let Claire keep it on her bed as a "summertime" comforter and the quilt survived jumping on the bed and forts and two children giggling.  Now that fall is here, I got Claire's regular blankets out of the closet and reclaimed this beauty.

It's got some gaps in it right now where stitches came undone, but I've been repairing it stitch by stitch while watching television or praying.  I know my grandmother would be delighted that my kids are loving and using this blanket, even though that meant needed repairs.

This week my favorite author Anne Lamott will be in Fort Worth again.  This is her second appearance here this year.  Her book tours often haven't made it to our area, so for her to come back to my hometown is an exciting honor.  She's currently promoting her new book, Stitches, which is supposed to be a companion to Help, Thanks, Wow.

What I love about Anne Lamott is her transparent honesty and strong faith.  She knows she's imperfect and needs regular divine intervention and she shares that.  So many people try to look good or sound right.  Honesty in imperfection is like a breath of fresh air.  I strive for it as well, but I'm still practicing being transparent about my shortcomings and all the grace I receive on a daily basis.

While I've been sitting on the couch stitching the holes together in this beautiful quilt, I've been thinking of the rich metaphors that action brings.  

I have to sit down to repair the quilt, just like sometimes I have to sit down to be repaired.  When I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I miss hands trying to help me or hug me.  I have to sit down to be repaired.

The string the I'm using to patch the pieces together is stronger than the original thread.  Similarly, when I fall apart, I come out of the repair stronger than before.  When I get overwhelmed with work, motherhood, or life in general, I have to be pulled back together.  Sometimes a friend helps me, sometimes a quiet prayer helps me, sometimes a walk by myself helps me.  Whatever it is that pulls me back together, though, patches me up stronger than I was before.

Each patch of this quilt has a story with it, just like each part of my life is a story.  Everyone's life is full of color, alternating between bright and dark, dull and glittery, busy patterns and calmness.  If you look too closely at one part you miss the beauty of the entire quilt of life.  When I miss the big picture, I miss beauty and how every part of life works together to weave a beautiful story.

I can't wait to meet Anne Lamott on Thursday and share with her what her story means to me and my grandma's quilt.  I can't wait to see the addition of new patches on my life quilt and how they make the blanket of life even more beautiful.

I am an avocado

I am an avocado and my life is an avocado slicer.
Depending on the day or season, my skin is either thick or thin.  I'm either bruised or healthy green on the inside.
By nature, I am a giver.  With two jobs and commitments all across North Texas, I often feel like a sliced avocado.

A slice of me volunteers at the kids' school.  A slice of me goes to church to work.  A slice of me goes to church to worship. A slice of me takes care of my grandfather. A slice of me serves on committees at church and at school.  A slice of me socializes. A slice of me tutors children at a different elementary school. A slice of me leads a Bible study. Another slice cooks, cleans, and folds laundry.

I have other slices that go to different places, but my pit remains intact.  My core and my faith are always there, no matter how many slices of myself I hand out.  The trick is to teach myself to transfer the pulp from the other half of the avocado to support my core.  I have to learn to refill myself after handing out all the slices.  Otherwise, I just become a bowl of guacamole.

Chicken Little and Me

Early this morning, I took Captain Midnight Sugar Dot Express for a walk.  For seemingly the first time this summer, I was able to stare at the stars.  The moon was hiding behind clouds, which were illuminated in a magical, movie-style fashion.  I kept looking at the moon and appreciating it and thinking.  I walked an extra block so I could keep facing it.  Then I had to turn and I was so disappointed I had to stop my moon-gazing. I considered walking backward but knew I would trip and fall.  Reluctantly, I turned.
When I turned I realized that the sky had been lightening when I wasn't looking and there had been a beautiful sunrise at my back.  I didn't see it at first because my eyes were focused on a small part of the sky instead of the sky's beauty as a whole.
In Chicken Little, a popular children's story, Chicken Little gets hit on the head when a squirrel drops an acorn.  He couldn't see the source of the acorn so he believed that the sky was falling.  It was just a little acorn, but since Chicken Little couldn't see the whole picture, he assumed the whole picture was that the sky was falling.
Everyone has brief bouts of Chicken Little-ness in life.  Whenever my world seems small the acorns are magnified.  Once I see the whole picture, though, everything shrinks to its normal perspective. I just have to remember to look at the whole sky and not just what's directly in front of me.

Life Stories Told

Yesterday at lunch, Rev. Nancy and I had a short conversation with our cashier about her tattoos.  She had a beautiful array of rainbow tattoos covering her entire left arm.  Rainbow Brite was there with her horse, as well as She-Ra, Care Bears, and pictures of other children's toys from the 1980s.  She said that when she was a kid, the most exciting event for her and her siblings was when their mother took them to McDonald's.  Her arm represented happiness from her childhood and the joy she received when she got a toy out of her Happy Meal.  Her right arm was bare and she said that she was considering, since only girl toys were represented on her left arm, that she would fill her right arm with pictures of Happy Meal toys for boys.
In my new pursuit of story, I recognized that this tattooed lady was using her arms to tell the story of her life. Excited, I've been brainstorming other ways that people use to tell their life story.  Everyone has a story inside of them, and we all use different ways to express it.
Personally, I write in my journal and on this blog.  But there are so many other ways that stories are told.  My mother-in-law collects antiques and figurines.  She can tell you a story about each one.
My husband Adam's engineering story is told in the buildings he helps build.
Claire and Paul both can tell you their life story from their stuffed animal/doll collection.  Each toy has a story about how they love the person that gave it to them and the special circumstances in which they received it.
Jesus' life story is recorded in the Bible.  It would be interesting to note, though, how many people's life stories have been entwined in recording Jesus' story.  The oral story-tellers, the scribes, the archaeologists, modern day translators, all have spent countless years focusing on the importance of the Biblical stories.  I wonder if any of them have or had Bible tattoos.  "This was when I translated Exodus. Dude, what a battle that was. We had scrolls all over the place!"  (Because since I've never met a Bible translator, I can imagine that some of them are surfer guys)
For anyone needing help in recording their life story the more traditional way, the website Proust will help you do it.  Each week they email you a question/writing prompt and then you go log-on to record your answer.  Eventually your life story and/or the story of those you love will be recorded.  I also have a handy book called The Book of Myself that is full of question prompts to help you write your own autobiography.
When I'm at school today, I will be seeking out more ways to tell stories.  And no, you won't find me at the tattoo parlor tonight.

Trees

I just heard the first bird of the morning sing a wake up song.  "Focus!" he said. "Remember what is beautiful!" he said.

Trees are an important symbol in my life.  Fortunately I live in an older neighborhood with many trees.  A walk to school is mostly shaded and my family is serenaded on the way by a woodpecker, blue jay, cardinal, and the ever-present grackle.

What a tree means to me:

A tree in our backyard.

If I'm talking about faith, a tree represents how, many years ago, I was rooted in faith and my faith grows deeper and wider.  I have experienced seasons of withering faith where the leaves fell off my branches, but spring/Easter/resurrection have always followed a season of winter.

If I'm talking about my marriage, a tree represents my relationship with my husband.  A carelessly planted seed of friendship sprouted a twig and as we've weathered winters and springs together, we've grown stronger and our love has grown deeper and wider. (We've been married almost 12 years!)

If I'm talking about my children, their life is like a tree.  When they were born, they needed constant nurture and care and shelter from their parents.  As they are growing, they are sprouting little timid branches, slowly stepping out into the world.  Some of their branches will break, but I am hopeful that the nurture Adam and I are providing while they are saplings will help them maintain inner strength and the ability to weather the storms of their lives.

If I'm talking about love, we all start out small and only loving ourselves and the people in our immediate environment.  As we age, we start branching out and loving others, and that love begins to feed our core so we can grow deeper and branch out more to love more and more until we have taken up the entire neighborhood with our love branches.

Trees are an important metaphor to my life.

Seeing the world through writer's eyes

Since I was a young girl, I have enjoyed writing.  I have boxes of journals dating all the way back to second grade when I had my first crush and though I can't remember his name, I can remember the fun and excitement of writing in my pink journal with the gold heart clasp that locked.
When  I look back on my life and my journals, I can see how much I've grown.  I can relive some uncomfortable moments and happy times.  One day I will offer them to my children as an emotional history of their mother.
I have a journal on me at all times.  In my purse, in my car door, in my kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom.  The thought is that by practicing and writing down what I feel and what I observe, I can get better at it and one day write a book.
One day I will write a book.  It has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, but only recently did I realize that I won't have a "road to Damascus" experience. I had misplaced hope that I will be travelling down the road and see a bright light and hear angels sing while I obtain enlightenment.  Apparently writers don't wake up one morning with a book already written in their head.  They don't sit down at the computer and pour out perfection.
In her book Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott describes seeing the world through "writer's eyes."  Basically that means paying close attention to the world around you and listening and watching for story.
"There is real skill in hearing all those words that real people--and your characters--say and to recording what you have heard--and the latter is or should be more interesting and concise and even more true than what was actually said."
So I'm practicing paying attention.  I'm listening, really listening, to people around me and observing.  I'm searching for stories.  I love a good story and I'm learning to write one.

Working on the Outside

Yesterday Adam and I had a dilemma.  After our Sunday afternoon nap (mandatory around here) we had about two and a half hours flex time before we needed to begin our school night routines.  We talked.  What would we do?  Claire wanted to take a walk around the whole neighborhood.  I wanted to spend at least an hour cleaning the inside of the house.  Adam needed to mow.
We decided to focus on yard work with the possibility of coming inside to clean house later.
Apart from tending to my little garden and flowerbeds around the house, I don't do much yard work.  I'm not opposed to it; it just usually falls under Adam's domain.  Yesterday was different.  Each family member pitched in.
Paul and Claire tackled the leaves that were everywhere.  They rotated between using the good rake and the super-cool leaf blower.
Adam focused on trimming bush/trees.
I rotated between the groups bagging whatever they had collected.
We ended up having such a good time working together that we spend the entire time outdoors.  Toward the end, the kids got tired and switched to playing Frisbee, which was fine.  They worked hard at manual labor for about two hours, so 30 minutes of play was totally acceptable.  Adam and I circled wagons and focused on one side of the house, which is now free of leaves and unsightly branches.
While we were working, though, I began to see that was where we needed to be.  At home, I spend most of my time indoors, so I often have an urgency about maintenance for the inside of the house.  There's always a load of laundry to hang, dishes to wash, floors to vacuum, and the dust bunnies yell at me daily.
I rarely think about maintaining the outside of our home.  Sure, that bush is half dead and needs trimming and/or uprooting, but look at the dust in the house!  Yes, there are piles of leaves that are slowly turning to coal and diamonds around our driveway, but the dishes are overflowing!
This inside/outside struggle is parallel to another struggle I have.
I spend little time maintaining my outward appearance.  As long as I'm clean, I don't really think too much about being in fashion, wearing makeup, having the latest hairstyle or being physically fit.  Instead, I spend many hours working on inward maintenance.  In my life, inward beauty is more important than outward beauty, so I am constantly praying, journaling, replaying my day and analyzing how I can be a better person.
The problem with that is that I get so focused on that I forget the outside needs maintenance, too.
So today I have both read my Bible and done a short Pilates workout.
Today I will try to focus on not forgetting I have an inside and an outside.

Stepping into the Sunlight

Today I'm sick.  I've got a disgusting nose and cough and I'm staying home from work to avoid sharing germs and getting worse.
Since I'm staying home sick today, oddly my to-do list is longer than normal.  I'll be at home, so why can't I do a full day's work from the office as well as clean the entire house and fold and hang up eight loads of laundry?
I'd never expect that much from anyone else, but for some reason, I expect more from myself.
I had these grandiose and impossible plans for the day, but then I stepped outside.  It is a beautiful day in Fort Worth, Texas and the only sounds I can hear right now are my fingers on the keyboard and an orchestra of birds in the backyard.

www.sxu.hu

Stepping outside in the sunlight always helps me gain perspective and remind myself where I am.
At both of my jobs, I work in a classroom or an office without windows.  I get frantically busy and focused on the tasks at hand.  Some days I am teaching my heart out, trying to get third graders to comprehend reading enough to pass their test.  Other days I am engulfed in trying to communicate every important activity at our church in many mediums.
But just when that molehill starts looking like a mountain, I have the privilege of stepping outside.  I can only work away from home during the same time Paul is in preschool, so about 2 every afternoon, I step outside.
When I exit the building and feel the sun on my face, the mountains shrink back into molehills and I know that I am loved.
Even on a rainy or cold day, when I step outside and feel wetness on my cheeks or cold wind, I am reminded of how small my problems are and how big God is.
Switching from an indoor frenzy to a walk outside to my car allows me to transition and reset.  I'm able to put my tasks in perspective and not worry so much about what is happening inside the building.  I remind myself once again that I am not the Messiah and I can't fix everything and save the world.
I am just one person who loves God, loves my family, and loves sunlight.

Working smarter, not harder

Today has been such a great day!  I got up at 4:30, downed coffee and read a chapter of my book, then took Sugar Dot for a walk-run.  After taking Claire to school, Paul and I played tennis, hide and seek, and then went to the Botanic Gardens for exploring.  Right now he's played out; literally.  He's snoring.
I keep coming up with thoughts that I want to blog, but then get distracted.  One idea I've been wrestling with is how would Lent and Easter be different if I lived South of the Equator?  We're about a week from Easter and it seems every tree and plant know it.  The birds are singing all day and everything is in bloom.  It's like the entire world is living a resurrection story.  Below the Equator, though, it's autumn.  So while I feel all Eastery looking around at all the pretty flowers, citizens in South America are looking at falling leaves.

Another item I want to mention is the book I'm reading.  It's fascinating.  It's called The Compass for Pleasure by David Linden.  Adam actually requested this book from the library because he heard an interview on NPR.  He wanted to read it, but I swiped it before he could.  I'm a faster reader anyway, so it's okay.  This book is about the part of our brain that registers pleasure.  So far it's neuroscience for those of us that barely know what that word means.  Check later on my goodreads list to see what I think of it when I'm done.

One of the goals I'm focusing on right now is to work smarter, not harder.  I am a hard worker and I get up earlier than most and stay up until I absolutely can't stay awake any longer (usually somewhere about 9:05) but I still can't keep up with all the housework, errands, and playing that I must fit into the day.  One way that I'm trying to work smarter is by getting organized.  If you are a woman that needs help with organization, I want to recommend Simple Mom to you.  This lady is a little on the OCD side (apparently she alphabetizes her children's books) but she has great ideas on organization and you can always put your own spin on it, right?

I cleaned out the pantry and donated all unwanted items to the food bank.  I cleaned out my closet and donated extra clothes to Goodwill.  I've started writing down all my to-do lists in one place.  These small actions help my sanity.

I've also discovered about myself that I lack an intentionality about certain things, like placement of my car keys.  Just a month ago, and every day previous, I would spend 5-10 minutes a day looking for my car keys.  I wouldn't pay attention when I walked in the door, so that meant chaos when I walked out the door later.  I promised myself that I would put my keys in one of two places EVERY time.  Believe it or not, that little agreement with myself has completely changed my mornings.  I don't have to curse at myself for losing my keys because Voila!  I know where they are!

I've also started back with my walking.  I love early morning walks.  Besides the exercise, they help me clear my mind.  I'm able to say many short prayers of thanksgiving as well as enjoy the birds singing good morning to me.  Sugar Dot also loves them.  Wesley is too old to go further than a block, but that darn chihuahua can walk and run as far as I can and then some. 

One part of life that I love is that you can always reinvent yourself, improve yourself, and learn.  Maybe one day every scrap of paper and shoe in my house will be organized, but until then, I'm going to keep working and learning.

Gardening

Several of my friends have traditional gardens in their backyard, but I've always struggled with that.  We don't really have a place for a garden, with the pool, the playset, the deck, and the trampoline.  I also don't have a rototiller to dig up the dirt to get it ready.  Although I've wanted to garden for a long time, these details have impeded me.
This year I decided to poo-poo traditional.  I'm successfully gardening in every terra-cotta pot I own.  We've got lavendar, tomatoes, cilantro, okra, squash, and bell pepper.  None of it has been ready to harvest yet, but I think we'll be able to eat a tomato by this weekend.
What I love about gardening, is that it is a lot like my church--full of love.  When I look outside, I see the aloe vera that my late grandmother started in pots and that I have continuously repotted and shared with others.  I see the Rose of Sharon bush that grew from a seed from my great uncle.  We've got a beautiful hot pink oleander bush that was a housewarming gift from my grandparents.  There's mint, marigolds, and lamb's ear from our friend Ann-Marie.  And I've got my daisies which I planted from seeds five or six years ago.  Those make me happy every time I see them.
So like the church, I am filled with love every time I interact with my potted garden.  When the plant grows out of a pot, I share it with others.  If I fail to water and pay attention to the plants, they die just like a relationship that's not cultivated.
Excuse me while I go water my church.