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divorce diaries. entry 5.
I’ve almost forgotten what the routine Used To Be. Almost forgotten what it was like to grocery shop with a partner. The Divide and The Conquer. I’ve kind of grown accustomed to being The Only One. Some days it almost feels as if there never was a Before. (Some days.) Some days I just groove and strut along and forget I was not always in charge of every meal and all the yays and all the nays. And then some days it feels as if I am living with a severed limb. The ghost pains. The crushing weight of No One With Whom To Confer. Should this be allowed?…
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beautiful & terrible
Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. Frederick Buechner I live in a farmhouse that is over one hundred years old. Things fall apart. Ancient dirt rises from the splintery wooden floors. What starts out as white, seldom stays white. But in this dusty home abide five of the most interesting humans I have ever known. There is a six-year-old with his filthy boy feet resting right on top of my clean pillow. He stops me, mid-sentence, all the day long to profess his love for me. Not even an hour usually passes without kisses and hugs and back pats from my Wilde…
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bewildered in the best sort of way.
Daniel Boone is quoted as saying, I have never been lost, but I was bewildered once for three days. I hear you Dan’l. I hear you. Virginia. She’s a beauty. But she’ll rip a hole in your schedule and shift your plans and change your days. And all you’ll do is ride the wave and adjust accordingly. (And not even feel that she’s a burden. You’ll sing her praises and start looking at your calendar for days when you can return to the Motherland.)
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and here we go together ….
You guys. What sweet and lovely and painful and true and empathetic responses I received to yesterday’s post. They were all such kind reminders of why I even started this blog in the first place. Of why I read good literature. Of why stories are ever even written. That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not alone and isolated from anyone. You belong. – F. Scott Fitzgerald We are all fellow pilgrims and we really do need one another. Kevin’s favorite band (The Decemberists — in case you’ve forgotten the concert or the novel) has a new album…
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In the Heart of the Country
You know how much I love Virginia. We had this idea to share the love a little. And so we invited some friends to trek it up a few states and experience Virginia with us. Sadly, really truly sadly, not all of our buddies could make the journey up this time for a host of reasons. But one family was able to drive down that gloriously long driveway with us and bask in the beauty that is The Farm. I don’t want to gush too profusely – I love my friends who couldn’t make the journey with us too much for that. But I will say this – it was…
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framily. the beauty of it all.
We are so blessed. Framily is a gift so beautifully overwhelming sometimes. Papa Dale and a trip to the pond to go fishing after a trip to the auto store for man errands. Big buddies and little buddies. Oh, there’s all the usual chaos that accompanies a dozen-ish young children at every meal. But it’s a happy kind of crazy. And it’s kind of my favorite type of crazy. The crazy that says, “We are all in this life together. The tantrums and the tears. The hugs and the high-fives. The spills and the shoves.” I really like this Jason Maraz song entitled…
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mountains.
Our marriage retreat was in Asheville. Hands down one of the prettiest towns I’ve ever visited. And we stayed at The Grove Park Inn. A gorgeous old-fashioned one hundred year old rock beauty. The view from our room was spectacular. When I’m in the mountains, I don’t want to be anywhere else. And what I want more than anything is to never leave. To stay stay stay. And I get sort of frantic the very second I arrive. Breathe in. Look around. Feel that cozy safety of the ensconcing hillsides. Because immediately I begin to think of being forced to leave. The tearing away. The mountains in my rear view…
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broken.
The sound of breaking glass is not unfamiliar in this house. It no longer alarms me. Earlier this week my little Willow carried broken green remnants in to me in the kitchen. She was holding what used to be a hand made mug crafted by my aunt in Hawaii thirty-seven years ago. It was a pair. Now its partner will forever be alone. Yesterday Berg called to me from the bedroom. “Mommy? Can you come see this?” And in his hands he held the curtains from the kitchen door. Curtains that are meant to be on the kitchen door – not in his hands. The hook itself was damaged and…
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a change of pace.
There’s been a lot of talking going on in our house the last few days. And I’m almost weary of words. (Can you believe that?) But what I’m not weary of – and what I feel like focusing on anyway – is something else. The simple beautiful. I needs me some of that. When Emma was here for a visit with her boys last week she brought her camera. (Because she’s an incredible professional. Paper Story Photo & Design, friends. That’s where it’s at.) And while I wasn’t looking and while she wasn’t nursing her newborn son, she must have snapped some photos of our new old home. All I…
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Love
Love. It just isn’t the one big thing. That giant gift with the fat price tag doesn’t earn you a free pass. I can’t buy my children a really cool game for the Wii one Saturday night and then not speak to them all week. And when they wonder where dinner is on Tuesday evening I just point to the Wii game. That’s ludicrous. I can’t read Piper six chapters of a novel when she’s four and then never pick up another book until she’s eight. “What? Another reading of ‘Guess How Much I love You?’ Nah. I read you six chapters last year.” That’s crazy talk. I’m learning that…
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poor.
Over the course of today I had the following series of conversations with my son Bergen. (He’s five, you know.) At The Breakfast Table. We sang a song we like to sing every morning after we eat breakfast. (It’s a song I was reminded of many months ago by my sweet friend Rachael.) And it’s a song I have been trying to claim as our family’s anthem. Pure & Holy Passion. I don’t know if I can even imagine a sound more lovely than the voices of my young children singing those true and simple lyrics together of an early morn. Berg loves the song. He grins while we sing…
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simple.
Tell me this isn’t beautiful. It’s the Real Deal. And it’s one of my favorite types of beauty – the practical kind. Oh, how I love when Function meets Beauty. A fresh strawberry smoothie. As in – these strawberries were picked only hours before they were blended harmoniously together in my lame Black & Decker blender. And as if fresh, in season, local strawberries were not beauty enough on their own . . . there’s the glass. Isn’t it cute? It, too, is another pleasing little example of Beauty. The beauty of finding a great deal on a tiny treasure. This glass was purchased at the almost-giving-it-away price of $0.68.…
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This Is A True Story
Sometimes I am convinced that my children are actually better people than me. Kinder than I am. More compassionate. Speedier in love and more perceptive. For example . . . It had been a long day. Long. And I was home trying to get the younger kids corralled after soccer practice. Riley was hanging out with friends. Kevin was working. I was trying to feed Wilder his last bottle before bed. Finn was dumping rubber stamps on the floor and spilling blue ink. Bergen was sitting on the red chest trying to remove his cleats. Mosely had already removed her cleats and wanted to put them away in the red…
