Gifts from Heaven

I was rifling through the pantry to find something to make for dinner when I stumbled across a bag of Ghirardelli's dark chocolate squares with caramel.

*mmmm*

Better than finding a random $20 in my coat pocket.

Old Things Are New Again

I discovered recently that a number of films I like (notably Notting Hill and Wimbledon) are produced by a company called Working Title Films.  They also produced Four Weddings and a Funeral.  I watched the movie back when it came out and was horribly disappointed.  But the movie was playing on TV and I like dark chocolate and bleu cheese, which I didn't as a child so, why not?

I watched the movie and was still horribly disappointed (well, maybe only disappointed) but there were moments of brilliance that I failed to appreciate as a youth.

My favorite was at the one funeral in the movie.  Matthew, Gareth's partner, mourns the loss of his love and recites the most perfect poem about grief and loss.  He had me at the first sentence as I remember feeling that exact feeling at the loss of my mother.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

So while the movie was a waste of two hours, for the second time, the poem was well worth it.  I can now express verbally what's in my heart when I have my moments of grief and needing words I don't have for an emotion I can't wish away.

Coincidentally, in one of those great circle of life moments, the poem is by W.H. Auden, my senior year roommate's favorite poet.  I should have known she was on to something; she was a brilliant woman who took seriously the proper use of adverbs, knew a great deal about diamonds and could make an amazing gorgonzola cream sauce.

Feeling the Need

...the need to blog.  I know, it would be so much better if it rhymed but somehow I think "the need to bleed" would not quite convey my current craving.

The only issue is, I haven't much to say.  "But when," you cry, "when has that ever stopped you before?"

Too.  true.

So, I'm here to tell you that my toes on my left foot are sticky and I have no idea why.

I'm here to tell you that I have found a new Christmas tradition that has brought the whole season into my heart; I chase my cat and yell, "Run Fuzzy Butt!  Run!"  It's really quite fun. (And to all of you card carrying members of PETA, may I say that I only do that when she begins to enter my dad's cat's territory; really it's for her own safety.)

I'm here to tell you that my daughter is finally wearing size 6 clothing.  It's weird, but this new wardrobe makes her look all grown up.  No babies at my house.  Is it wrong to sob with loss while I party with glee?

Mmmm....what else could I possibly add to this utterly scintillating post? 


I have decided that my daily light therapy is a fabulous excuse to nap early morning.  Hobbits eat all day; I find excuses to sleep all day.

I guess that's it.  I'm trying to overcome this innate need to make all my posts looong.

So, adieu. I'm off to sip my delicious dark chocolate cocoa and wait for the Mentalist to start.

What a life.

Of a Certain Age

I've been adjusting to being the mother of older children; there are no babies in my house, no babies to come either. There are no toddlers. All of my children are potty trained (Thank you Lord!). I only have school aged children. In fact, I'm only two years away from having a teenager, which, in parenting years, is really only a heartbeat.

But I'm growing and accepting and I'm even finding glorious benefits.

Not only can they each pee independently and wipe their own butts, they can get their own snacks and even make a few simple meals.

They can answer questions about their day (occasionally even more than just a grunt - boys start training so young!).

Last week Q and Eliza came home from church talking about their lesson, which had been all about prayer and fasting. Their were both quite excited about this new power particularly since it seemed to be something that was in their power to affect.

Q has requested that we fast next week for their dad and his bad back. He also wants us to fast and pray for people with breast cancer and that "they" find a cure. (I'm not sure what all the lesson talked about, but Q has been obsessed with helping people with breast cancer and he includes them in all of his prayers that he offers.)

One of our dear neighbors got sick and Eliza requested that we fast this past Sunday for her. And for dad. It was a wonderful thing to see. Living out their ideals was a bit harder than they imagined (we fasted for one meal) and there were quite a few discussions as to what we would be eating after church, but overall it was a good start: child led and everyone wants to do it again.

Of course, added to these wonderful, spiritual breakthroughs are also the ever extending length my boys take in the bathroom; does 8 seem a bit young to be primping and worrying over hair?

The Obligatory Post

I am thankful for glazed ham and other fine smoked pork products.

I am grateful for my Chevy Astro van with AWD. Mostly I am grateful for the fact that my deep and abiding love for my van has rekindled a long dead relationship with snow; I am coming to appreciate the winter wonderland of the north.

I am thankful for tampons and all sorts of modern feminine hygiene products.

I am grateful for the wide variety of food available, even in Alaska, even in the dead of winter. I'm sure my ancestors could not have made a chocolate haupia pie for Thanksgiving even if they had wanted to.

I am grateful for bedtimes and that every day ends.

I am grateful for Facebook and the easy way I can now breeze in and out of friends' lives with just a few keystrokes.

I am thankful that my husband loves bright sunny yellow (you'll never guess the color of the new flooring at the shop....) and I'm equally grateful that we currently have no home of our own to paint.

I love the rain. I love the fact that rain melts snow.

I love watching the winter storms, knowing I am warm and inside and dry and safe from all the fury of the outside.

I am thankful for family and for the joys of family living blocks away or hundreds of miles away. I am grateful for phones, computers and other technologies that make moves to Alaska less isolating than they were 50 years ago.

I am grateful that the power of the sun can now come in a small, convenient to carry box.

I am equally thankful for happy meds and pain killers, without with, I might just be single.

I am grateful for God and the fact that He has more patience for me than I do for myself.

I am grateful for blogging and for comments from random strangers. (ahem. hint. NUDGE.)

And I am grateful for tryptophan (although I wonder if they make it in pill form yet....).

Routine is Good

Do you ever find yourself thinking that your life is routine and boring? Do you ever wish for more excitement?

May I tell you to get down on your knees and pray that said excitement never arrives?!

Tuesday morning my father woke me up at 4am. Apparently, someone had broken into our home. The kids were fine and not much was disturbed. They had used a votive candle downstairs and turned of the power in my father's side; the breakers that control his power are hidden inside an old, unused apartment downstairs. Then the burglar crept upstairs, managing not to disturb the two dogs nor myself, rifled through my purse (not taking the whole purse), took my wallet, coin purse and digital camera and left.

It was all very odd.

There were no wet footprints which meant that either s/he (I'm trying not to presume the sex) waited, dried her/his shoes or it had happened earlier.

S/He must have been looking around the downstairs area of the house (essentially unused - the kids store their bikes there) and the extra apartment to have known that there was a breaker box there. I'm also curious how s/he knew that the downstairs breaker would control power up here. Was s/he just lucky?

Additionally creepy is the fact that I was sleeping just 10-15 feet away from where this person entered our home (I sleep on the front room floor).

The good news is that so little was touched and that, most importantly, we were all safe. My dad installed locks on the downstairs apartment door and on our door at the top of the stairs; previously, these doors had not been locked over the last 28 years.

The only real residual affect (other than having money issues as we wait for debit and credit cards and new checks to arrive) is that my children are a bit leery. Eliza and I had a conversation last night as she was scared someone would break in again.

I just have to laugh - probably to keep from being freaked out - because the situation was so odd - the breakers thrown, only the wallet taken, the dogs not barking, blah, blah, blah.

The thing that freaked me out the most was after we had reported the break-in, a police officer called me back to say that he would be arriving in about 15-20 min. He called from the local hospital. I had a moment's pause when I saw the hospital on caller ID and thought the worst (bad things always coming in threes and all that). When the officer was here, I told him he really should call from a cell phone or some other phone than the hospitals; it's not good to further traumatize people who are already on edge.

Verbal Irony

(or maybe it's just coincidence. I get the two mixed up at times.)

One of my miracles for last year was to watch my tongue and be more mindful of what I say.

This year I am taking a class on the Book of Revelation and the teacher made a connection that I had never made before. He mentioned the iron rod, which via Lehi’s vision we know to be the word of God. But then he further connected that using John 1:1 from which we know that the “word” is Jesus.

Today I was pondering on this connection along with an idea from The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. One of his agreements is to be impeccable with my words.

Connecting this with Jesus, it came to me that He was so impeccable with His words and who He was, that He literally was the word of God. If I think of myself as a composite of the words I have spoken and thought, I'm saddened by the image; certainly my words do not always portray the woman I wish to be.

Having been pondering this and vowing to begin again and be "impeccable with my words," (I love that turn of phrase) I then learned that I had deeply offended one of my Laurels. It was an unintentional thing on my part: we were discussing as a class a gospel topic and I joked around, as I am want to do; it was one of those "just kidding" jokes. And while there was no malicious intent on my end, from all accounts I couldn't have hurt her more if I had sucker punched her.

I hate having my feelings hurt and I hate knowing that I have caused this dear girl pain. I am currently trying to rectify the situation.

I'm not sure what I wanted to say in this post. Perhaps merely that I have such a long way to go in becoming my word. I think this situation, though, may result in a blessing; it is hard to correct a problem that I do not know exists. Today, I am more aware than ever.