If Willow Trees Could Talk...

Outside my door

I am greeted

with new life.

Spring is here

and even if it snows

and the wind has a bite,

Spring is here. 

The daffodils, crocus and hyacinth are triumphant 

and resplendent in all their finery.

They don't mind the autumn and winter debris 

for this is what kept them warm through the winter. 

I need to clean it out

(or just call it mulch).

I continued my trek around the farm,

the breeze pushing, pulling me towards the old willow tree,

the one that has stood many long years by the corncrib.

It did not fare the winter so well.

I think if trees could talk, 

this one would. 

(This tree was to be my someday "Party Tree",

where hobbits, elves, dwarves and men could gather.)

Today though, this tree made my thoughts go back to a Jerusalem hillside.

To another kind of tree. 

While some of it is now firewood,

and parts are dead, 

I don't just see despair and heartache.

I see LIFE. 

All around and in the midst of fallen branches, 

I see new life. 

I reflect.

I remember. 

Good Friday was a day of death. 

A day that many must have thought that surely all hope had come crashing down, 

leaving nothing in it's wake

but dead branches and decay.

I wonder if the day after was even worse. 

Final.

At least in their minds. 

But in all of that,

there was life.

Life that had been literally poured out

 for each and every one of us. 

And after three days

that must have felt like the three

 longest,

darkest, 

loneliest

most eternal days ever,

the morning came that the tomb was visited

and it was empty. 

The cross which signified suffering and death 

of the most unimaginable kind

became a symbol of hope too.

A way to reflect.

To remember. 

For in death, cold and biting,

life came forth. 

Thank You Jesus for what you sacrificed for me, yes for me, on that cross. 

Let me not forget those hard parts,

 Good Friday and the horrible days that followed,

but let me also remember 

the empty grave

and the morning that life sprang forth. 

Hallelujah!

Love,

Dianne

From Strikes to Homeruns

I had to apologize to my most middle child last night. Even now, after the moment is past, I still think about it. Why did I respond to what was really a simple question, with such flippant defiance? 

"Mom, how do I register for Rosedale?"

"Look it up online. I. Don't. Know." I continued to fold towels, stacking the green, the brown, the ivory in a nice, neat orderly stack. Exactly how I was not feeling at that moment. 

I think there was more said, because it seems like I always say more, even when I don't need to, but that was the gist of the beginnings of me shutting her down, closing her off. And for what purpose? 

Sigh.

The hour was late. She had just watched The Passion of The Christ and may have been feeling a little more emotional than usual and I was just getting tired and may have been a little more irrational than usual. The question felt like it was shot from a bow and it was the arrow. 

It may have pierced my heart just a little. That part of me that says, "I don't want my chicks to leave the nest. I'm not ready." But they are ready….. sigh. 

"Amy, I'm sorry I jumped on you like that. You just always spring these things at me and I am not prepared." (She has no idea how true that is.)

"I know. I always pick the wrong time." (And now I see just how much I close her off, shut her down. To her, maybe what that says is, "You never have time for me." Deep breath.)

"Oh Amy, I don't think there is ever a right time with me. I'm always busy, but I am interested and I want to help. I'm sorry I reacted like that. I just feel like I should have all the answers to these college questions, but I don't." 

That's another thing. I hate, hate, hate feeling inadequate in anything, but when it comes to being supermom who has the FAFSA's turned in the first eligible day, has all the forms with all the correct documentation in their proper file, knows how to navigate the financial aid nightmare, know how to find the cheapest books online, etc, etc, etc. ….I am not this woman. I don't like that very much and it makes me immediately on the defensive. Like my children are looking at me, shaking their heads and saying, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, who is the grown-up here?" 

Strike One: My babies are all growing up, much too quickly and even when I am happy for them, I am sad too. 

Strike Two: I don't know how to navigate various colleges. Yes, I went to college. Somehow I figured it out then and I can do it again, but it makes my head spin and my procrastinator go into high-gear. I just don't want to mess it up, so I don't even start. I avoid it like the plagues of Egypt. 

Strike Three: This all makes me see that I am growing older, but not necessarily wiser. Shucks. It's not that I want to stay 25 forever; I don't. Somehow the years are slipping by faster the older I get and I'd just like it to slow down sometimes. 

Three strikes. Does that mean I'm out of the game? I. Don't. Think. So. In fact, I think it means that this game is on.  A challenge as it were, to turn this game around.

Homerun #1: Leo and I have worked together raising our babies. We are delighted at the glimpses of the adults we see emerging in the younger ones, and are proud of the ones already blossomed into adulthood. I need to allow them flight. They all amaze me. Period. 

Homerun #2: I may not be the college expert in the house, but I can certainly keep trying. After all, I have two more after this one to get through. I may be the resident expert by the year 2022. There's always hope.

Homerun #3: Yes, I am getting older. Aren't we all? I need to embrace it, not try to erase it. Don't people always say, "The best is yet to come."? And if that's true, I've got fifty-ish more years to enjoy whatever God has planned for me. That is, if I make a choice, a conscious choice, to embrace it. 

And that my friends, is how to hit it out of the ballpark. 

Love,

Dianne

Busy Days, Sleepy Nights

Sometimes a blog posting takes a few days to come to fruition.

After all, the days are busy, full of the normal day-to-day stuff of living. 

Like laundry. 

(First load to hang out on the line.)

Blue jeans and blue skies…

Ah yes. 

Then the last few days shouted "I'm Spring!"

and we were outdoors…

…with the herds of cattle, Ryan's cattle.

Ryan could hardly wait to get his tractors out into the newly raked yard.

And, in case you ever thought pine trees were a less-messy alternative to raking leaves, they're not.

See those piles?

That's a lot of pine needles. And pine cones. 

Did you know that they get embedded in the ground over the winter? 

On a more positive note, if anyone needs pinecones for Christmas decor, we got 'em. 

Do you know what the best part of my Saturday was?

It wasn't getting a portion of the yard raked.

It wasn't hearing the birds chirping cheerfully.

It wasn't even being off work on a gorgeous day (although that came close!).

The best part of my day was watching Ryan get creative. 

I wasn't surprised at the cows, the tractor and the soon "plowed up" dirt. 

But when a part of the yard became a hole,

and the hole became a "manure pit"

I was a little surprised. 

Not surprised at him, because he likes to be the master of his miniature farm, 

but surprised at myself. 

Surprised that I didn't care that he had just dug a hole in the yard 

and that he was making it look like Shakespeare went a little crazy. 

 

Ryan was only doing what his dad was doing on Saturday. 

The smell of manure being spread on the fields...

does anything say "Spring" like that? 

Another fun part of my day?

Finding relics in the dirt as I repaired some flower beds,

leading me to wonder what these items would say to my descendents

 had them found them 100 years from now. 

Not pottery shards or primitive tools, but interesting nonetheless. 

Usually when I rake the yard, all my pine needle piles just stay there for a while.

For a long while. 

But not this time. 

 Thanks Leo and Ryan!

Sometimes a blog posting takes a few days to come to fruition.

Not only because of busy days, but when evening comes and all is quiet,

I try to write and I fall asleep. 

I think that means life is good. 

Love,

Dianne

Wisdom Teeth…Who Needs "Em?

Sitting in the waiting room awaiting Amy's turn, I observed five of its occupants, three of whom were on their call phones. See Exhibit A. On the wall there is a sign pertaining to their particular use. See Exhibit B

Exhibit B

Exhibit A

Besides the cell phone warning and a new location, much was the same as 17 years ago when I was here to have my wisdom teeth extracted (if that' not a horrible word, I don't know what is.) Today it's Amy's turn as part of her orthodontic journey to pearly white perfection. Seriously, who would've thought that teeth could be so troublesome?

On a side note, Ryan came along with us. He wasn't playing hooky from school, but had his own appointment in the morning and is now on antibiotics for an ear infection. He must have been feeling a little better as he spent part of his time here searching for copper. He found exactly one penny. Then, exhausted from the treasure hunt, he read his book for a while before leaning against my arm and sleeping for 45 minutes.

At 3:34pm, a staff member came out and told us it would be a few minutes and then we could go back with Amy. All went well.

Big sigh of relief from Mama.

Ryan just stretched and blinked sleepily like an owl awoken too soon from his slumber.



I would've video'd Amy or at least taken a picture of her at this just-after-surgery-and-coming-out-of-anesthesia moment, but there was another sign. I didn't even feel right taking out my phone to take a picture of just the sign. Because it was underlined and in bold print this time. To protect the privacy of staff and patients, it said.

Let's just say that Amy looked even more sleepy than a heavy-lidded owl and with two large rolls of gauze sticking out of her mouth, all I could think of was "walrus". A very cute, lovable walrus, but walrus nonetheless. She didn't think that was funny. And when I tried to wake her a little more, she would lift an arm in slow-motion to bat me away. Poor girl.

We got Wobbly to the car and made it home without any oddness. She was thirsty though. I had some water in the car and had offered it to her. She declined. You know, all that gauze in her cheeks would just soak it up. Gross.

So I drank it. Almost all of it except for a just a smidgen. This I offered her again, just in case. This time she wanted it, but the sight of her tipping the bottle completely up trying to shake down the few drops…too funny.

Hey, I was thirsty too. And she did decline the first time. So, I got her a blue Gaterade.

Home again and so far, so good. She looked much better. Much, much better. See Exhibit C

Exhibit C

 Then she took her pain pill, her antibiotic and ate an entire box of Cheesecake Pudding and went to sleep. They always look sweet when they sleep; it doesn't matter how old they get, there is just something so endearing about your child sleeping. See Exhibit D

Exhibit D

And today? She was up, no noticeable swelling, no real pain, and she went to school. Supergirl. She hid her cape in her book satchel. Oh to be young. 

Love,

Dianne

Waxing Poetic in April

The hour is early and I am tucked in bed listening to the rain hitting the roof in a soothing tap-dance symphony that is mismatched but yet perfect at the same time. Others have heard the Spring Peepers in the evening; I haven't yet but for me the rain is enough. With it comes a promise of new growth, of flowers, of green. 

April Rain

The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth
The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth!
Frail symbol of our human story,
It flowers through showers where, looming hoary,
The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,
Like Life on earth. 

by Mathilde Blind

I never cared for poems much when I was younger. Too long. Too boring. Too confusing. Why not just say, "I like rain."? I just didn't get it. But now? I think I get it now. 

Love, Dianne

P.S. I think I am going back to sleep now, just because.