I've reached the stage in my pregnancy where the nesting urge is kicking in ... big time. Good thing, too, because all these piles of stuff that have accumulated around our house need to be dealt with before my head explodes from the disorder. Yesterday I took myself to the study, to straighten the piles of books that were threatening to avalanche if I didn't do something about them.
Books, to quote another missionary kid I know, are my oldest and truest friends. There are some I just cannot throw away, no matter how tattered and worn their pages get, or how many times their covers are taped back on. The characters that live within them have never changed through the years. No matter how much I grow and change, Emily Starr still spins her mystical stories in the garret of old New Moon, Meg Murry's stubborn inquisitiveness continues to motivate her in her search for her father, and Digory and Polly always put on the rings when Uncle Andrew tells them to, even when I urge them not to every time.
These books, my old friends, greet me when I open the pages with the elusive, musty scent of old paper. A new book's pages are stiff, shiny, impersonal. But an old book has pages soft and supple as muslin, feathered at the edges by years of turnings and reshelving. The covers have faintly ringed watermarks and faded grease spots, testimonies of all the tea and toast consumed over years of readings.
An E-Reader, no matter how much storage it provides or how convenient it is, can never become a personal friend. The tears I shed over Fred Weasley's death won't stain the pages, and the random crayon scribble by my one year old daughter won't still be inside the back cover when she's five, ten, or fifteen.
Here's my call to you. Buy books. Real books. Books that will become treasured and worn. Books that will age with you even as the characters within them stay young. Or visit the library and get books for free that hundreds of others have read, loved, marked up and coffee ringed. Become part of the faceless community of book lovers, connected by the pages they read and the characters they love.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
When Change is Constant
My mom said the other day, "I have left pieces of my heart all over the world." She and my dad have only been back in the States since last summer. I understand that feeling of being caught in transition, trying to balance on the tectonic plates of multiple cultures that shift and bump into each other, change the only constant in your life.
I've had some time to heal, to put down roots, to come to a safe place where my feet are firmly planted and my heart can grow. Interesting fact: when infants begin to develop, they can only develop one skill at a time. They are born with their voice boxes high up in their throats, for example. At first they can only cry. Loudly! But then their voice boxes begin to drop, and they begin to make other sounds. When they start to crawl, however, an interesting change happens. The vocalizing takes a back seat to the developing gross motor skills as baby tries to figure out how to coordinate his arms and legs. Only one area of the brain can develop at a time.
I think our hearts act the same way. When we're in constant shift and transition, we focus on adapting to each new change. The heart issues of who we've left behind, broken relationships, and denied self, take a back seat. It's only when we've stopped moving that the heart can then start to sort all the backlogged emotions.
I've had some time to heal, to put down roots, to come to a safe place where my feet are firmly planted and my heart can grow. Interesting fact: when infants begin to develop, they can only develop one skill at a time. They are born with their voice boxes high up in their throats, for example. At first they can only cry. Loudly! But then their voice boxes begin to drop, and they begin to make other sounds. When they start to crawl, however, an interesting change happens. The vocalizing takes a back seat to the developing gross motor skills as baby tries to figure out how to coordinate his arms and legs. Only one area of the brain can develop at a time.
I think our hearts act the same way. When we're in constant shift and transition, we focus on adapting to each new change. The heart issues of who we've left behind, broken relationships, and denied self, take a back seat. It's only when we've stopped moving that the heart can then start to sort all the backlogged emotions.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Discrimination
Kohimarama is the Solomon Islands' Anglican seminary. The nation's training ground for new priests sits about an hour or so down the coast line from Honiara, nestled against the rising mountains, surrounded by cocoa and pineapple plantations. There is a potholed dirt road that connects Kohi with Honiara and the rest of Guadalcanal, cutting through the jungle but never out of sight of the beach. It was down this road that I bumped in a public transport van, sharing the seat with a local friend.
I was excited, high on the thrill of independence. My parents had never let me take this trip alone before, but it had been determined that I spend the weekend in Kohi with some friends. And best of all, I would ride the jungle road on my own. So I sat hugging my backpack, watching the trees reach over the road and relishing my happy freedom.
Every fifteen miles or so the van would stop at wayside villages, picking up and letting off passengers. There weren't many travelers today, or perhaps there were more transport vans than usual, but either way the seats in our little van remained relatively empty. My legs stuck to the vinyl, sticky from countless sweaty passengers before me. My friend was closest to the window, her head leaning out so that the breeze could lift the curls from her neck. I said a silent thank you that we didn't have to share our seat, which was made for three, with a stranger. I didn't want to be stuck between two perspiring, swaying bodies.
My luck lasted to the next stop. When the van slowed and the door opened, people started piling in. We all began the inevitable dance that repeats itself in elevators, buses and subways across the world. Who shall sit where? The seats filled up quickly, until the only places left were the seat opposite me. And beside me.
I should stop here and say that I was the only white skin in the van. I was used to being the conspicuous on Guadalcanal, my blond hair and pale skin made more obvious by my height. On Luaniua, everyone knew me, and familiarity had long ago nullified any gaps caused by physical differences. But in other places in the Solomons, I was immediately categorized by the strangers around me as loose, easy, and rich. Most Islanders' exposure to Westerners came from movies, and most white women in moves filled these stereotypes. The weight of men's assessing eyes and women's judging ones became a familiar, if not easy, burden whenever I was on the mainland.
So I sat there on the van, trying to ignore the invisible bubble the Islanders had created around me. My friend's leg pressed comfortingly against mine. A woman boarded last with her daughter and a large basket of taro. She quickly took in the situation, and barked at the girl in Pidgin, "You sit with the Arokuao. I'll sit here."
I could feel my friend stiffen beside me. The woman had used the Island equivalent of the 'N' word we use here in the States, except it was their word for a white person. The daughter was looking at me, her face betraying her hesitance at having to sit next to the white skin. I gathered grace around me and smiled at her.
"You can sit here, there's room," I said, in flawless Pidgin.
As the girl slid down next to me, I looked over her head and watched her mother's slowly dawning realization that I had understood what she said.
To quote the inestimable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, "Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that."
I was excited, high on the thrill of independence. My parents had never let me take this trip alone before, but it had been determined that I spend the weekend in Kohi with some friends. And best of all, I would ride the jungle road on my own. So I sat hugging my backpack, watching the trees reach over the road and relishing my happy freedom.
Every fifteen miles or so the van would stop at wayside villages, picking up and letting off passengers. There weren't many travelers today, or perhaps there were more transport vans than usual, but either way the seats in our little van remained relatively empty. My legs stuck to the vinyl, sticky from countless sweaty passengers before me. My friend was closest to the window, her head leaning out so that the breeze could lift the curls from her neck. I said a silent thank you that we didn't have to share our seat, which was made for three, with a stranger. I didn't want to be stuck between two perspiring, swaying bodies.
My luck lasted to the next stop. When the van slowed and the door opened, people started piling in. We all began the inevitable dance that repeats itself in elevators, buses and subways across the world. Who shall sit where? The seats filled up quickly, until the only places left were the seat opposite me. And beside me.
I should stop here and say that I was the only white skin in the van. I was used to being the conspicuous on Guadalcanal, my blond hair and pale skin made more obvious by my height. On Luaniua, everyone knew me, and familiarity had long ago nullified any gaps caused by physical differences. But in other places in the Solomons, I was immediately categorized by the strangers around me as loose, easy, and rich. Most Islanders' exposure to Westerners came from movies, and most white women in moves filled these stereotypes. The weight of men's assessing eyes and women's judging ones became a familiar, if not easy, burden whenever I was on the mainland.
So I sat there on the van, trying to ignore the invisible bubble the Islanders had created around me. My friend's leg pressed comfortingly against mine. A woman boarded last with her daughter and a large basket of taro. She quickly took in the situation, and barked at the girl in Pidgin, "You sit with the Arokuao. I'll sit here."
I could feel my friend stiffen beside me. The woman had used the Island equivalent of the 'N' word we use here in the States, except it was their word for a white person. The daughter was looking at me, her face betraying her hesitance at having to sit next to the white skin. I gathered grace around me and smiled at her.
"You can sit here, there's room," I said, in flawless Pidgin.
As the girl slid down next to me, I looked over her head and watched her mother's slowly dawning realization that I had understood what she said.
To quote the inestimable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, "Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that."
Saturday, January 14, 2012
2012 Goals - Weekly Schedule
Warning before you read: This is just a little update on my 2012 goals, and therefore will be pretty dry. Feel free to skip :)
This year, one of my big focuses is organization - household organization, and organization of my time. I found a few years ago that as a stay-at-home mom, I do best when I create a schedule for myself to guide me through the day. If I don't, I end up wandering from one task to the next, leaving each half done, and feeling overwhelmed because there is SO MUCH TO DO and I don't know what to focus on first. With a schedule, I know that the kitchen floor will be mopped on Friday, and the cabinets wiped down on Monday. So on the other days, I don't worry about it! It's pretty freeing.
I used Microsoft Excel to create my schedule, creating it just like I used to make my weekly schedules when teaching. It's posted below. I'll let you know how it works for me, and if we're able to stick with it.
This year, one of my big focuses is organization - household organization, and organization of my time. I found a few years ago that as a stay-at-home mom, I do best when I create a schedule for myself to guide me through the day. If I don't, I end up wandering from one task to the next, leaving each half done, and feeling overwhelmed because there is SO MUCH TO DO and I don't know what to focus on first. With a schedule, I know that the kitchen floor will be mopped on Friday, and the cabinets wiped down on Monday. So on the other days, I don't worry about it! It's pretty freeing.
I used Microsoft Excel to create my schedule, creating it just like I used to make my weekly schedules when teaching. It's posted below. I'll let you know how it works for me, and if we're able to stick with it.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Another Boy!
So it's a boy. There was no doubt, when the sonographer found the between-the-legs money shot and yup, there was definitely some equipment down there. I'm ecstatic to have another little guy, a playmate for Xander, someone else for Scott to pass down his 'man lore' to. There's just something about snugly little boys with big, loving, trusting eyes that make this mommy's heart turn into play dough. Do what you will with me, little one, because I'm all yours.
With every pregnancy I'm amazed all over again when the little life begins to move inside me. I know the science and technicalities behind conception and fetal growth, but you can't tell me this isn't a miracle. And with this baby, every time he moves it feels like he's saying, "It's OK, Mommy. I'm here. I'm safe. I'm growing. See you soon." How is it that this little guy is already connected to my heart and I've only ever heard his?
When I pray for him, he jumps inside me. When I have moments of worry or some latent fear starts sneaking up on me, he jumps inside me. Just now as I wrote this and pondered our connection, my heart full, he jumped inside me. What a special little man he is going to be.
God in Heaven orders the paths for our feet, He numbers our days, He reigns supreme and loving. Sorrow may last for a night, but joy really does come in the morning, when you find your joy in the only One who remains unchanging.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Roger, Copy That
At church on Sunday, the baby's insistence on using my bladder as a kick board sent me to the restroom during worship. By then it had emptied of the pre-service rush, leaving only myself and one other woman, singing off key to herself in the next stall.
"Aww," I thought. "She's happy to be here." We finished at the same time and queued up in front of the mirror next to each other to wash our hands.
She suddenly raised her finger to her ear. "Hello, are you there? Yes. Is the ear piece working? OK, good. You'll have to report in later because I have just arrived at church." This was all in a semi hushed, furtive tone.
Keeping my eyes firmly on my hands, I dried them and quickly left the room. Thank you, secret agent bathroom lady, for making my day that much more enjoyable.
"Aww," I thought. "She's happy to be here." We finished at the same time and queued up in front of the mirror next to each other to wash our hands.
She suddenly raised her finger to her ear. "Hello, are you there? Yes. Is the ear piece working? OK, good. You'll have to report in later because I have just arrived at church." This was all in a semi hushed, furtive tone.
Keeping my eyes firmly on my hands, I dried them and quickly left the room. Thank you, secret agent bathroom lady, for making my day that much more enjoyable.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Media Monday - Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead
Wa-hoo! It feels good to be back on my normal blogging schedule. It also feels good to have a cup of coffee beside me. Coincidence? I don't think so. I'm enjoying this once daily dose of caffeine allowed to my pregnant self 'to the last drop'. But back to the task at hand.
It's Monday, and that means today I bring you a review of something I found online (Netflix, Hulu, Vudu, or other websites) that caught my interest. Today's selection is a movie Scott and I watched back in November, which made such an impact that it caused us to go out and drop some money on a specialty kitchen appliance. And you know that when these cheap skates spend money, it's not without conviction.
This documentary kept popping up on my Netflix recommended queue (it's also on Hulu), and I passed it over time and again. The cover and title are pretty ridiculous. I mean, those grey boxers don't inspire a lot of confidence. But I finally decided to give it a try and, as usual, Netflix was right on in its recommendations.
'Fat, Sick, & Nearly Dead' chronicles one man's journey to health and wellness through a self imposed, 60 day juice fast. He doesn't drink your typical grocery store apple juice. Joe Cross, with the help of a juicer, makes his own nutrient-packed juice from fresh fruits and veggies. Starting at 301 lbs and suffering from a chronic disease, Joe takes a road trip across America subsiding only on his home made juice, and the results at the end of 60 days are no less than jaw dropping.
I won't give away the ending, but along the way Joe meets a truck driver, morbidly obese and desperate, who decides to join Joe in his own juice fast. The two men's valiant battle to regain their bodies, and lives, is nothing short of inspiring.
I highly recommend watching this film. It will inspire and educate you about the benefits of healthy eating, juicing in particular. I just bought my own juicer, and have been juicing every day as part of my New Year's goal to eat more whole foods. It's amazing. A glass of fresh juice peps me up like a cup of coffee, stays with me, and revs up my energy for hours. Of course I'm not doing a juice fast right now, being pregnant, but hope to do a short one in the summer to detox my body (if it's OK while nursing).
SO. Just give this documentary a try, even if the cover looks silly and the idea of an entire movie about juice even sillier. You won't be disappointed.
It's Monday, and that means today I bring you a review of something I found online (Netflix, Hulu, Vudu, or other websites) that caught my interest. Today's selection is a movie Scott and I watched back in November, which made such an impact that it caused us to go out and drop some money on a specialty kitchen appliance. And you know that when these cheap skates spend money, it's not without conviction.
This documentary kept popping up on my Netflix recommended queue (it's also on Hulu), and I passed it over time and again. The cover and title are pretty ridiculous. I mean, those grey boxers don't inspire a lot of confidence. But I finally decided to give it a try and, as usual, Netflix was right on in its recommendations.
'Fat, Sick, & Nearly Dead' chronicles one man's journey to health and wellness through a self imposed, 60 day juice fast. He doesn't drink your typical grocery store apple juice. Joe Cross, with the help of a juicer, makes his own nutrient-packed juice from fresh fruits and veggies. Starting at 301 lbs and suffering from a chronic disease, Joe takes a road trip across America subsiding only on his home made juice, and the results at the end of 60 days are no less than jaw dropping.
I won't give away the ending, but along the way Joe meets a truck driver, morbidly obese and desperate, who decides to join Joe in his own juice fast. The two men's valiant battle to regain their bodies, and lives, is nothing short of inspiring.
I highly recommend watching this film. It will inspire and educate you about the benefits of healthy eating, juicing in particular. I just bought my own juicer, and have been juicing every day as part of my New Year's goal to eat more whole foods. It's amazing. A glass of fresh juice peps me up like a cup of coffee, stays with me, and revs up my energy for hours. Of course I'm not doing a juice fast right now, being pregnant, but hope to do a short one in the summer to detox my body (if it's OK while nursing).
SO. Just give this documentary a try, even if the cover looks silly and the idea of an entire movie about juice even sillier. You won't be disappointed.
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