Of Mites and Motes

It was one of those mornings.  The kind that begins with children whining and screaming and the bag in the diaper pail splitting and leaking and then, while wrestling the reeking, leaking bag into another bag your hair somehow gets caught in the pail and while you sit there untangling yourself you hear your older two children bickering and slamming doors and stomping and you really want to parent the way the Lord would, and for a moment you seriously consider giving a 40 year in the wilderness time out and then you realize that you have only been awake for 20 minutes and you have nothing left, the inner reserves are totally depleted.  

It was one of those mornings.

Ironically just the night before, I was thinking of all the things I wanted to accomplish - things like exercise, and writing more and pursuing talents and giving service and strengthening friendships and reading.  

Thinking of where I was and where I wanted to be had me feeling more than a little depressed because my limitations are very real and infuriatingly limiting.  I can only give so much but it feels like I can/should/aught to be able to give so much more.

Then the parable of the widow's mite flashed into my mind.  That widow gave next to nothing, but it was all she had.  Others had buckets of money and were able to slosh it around as generously as they liked.  The widow may not have given much, just a mite, but she gave all she had.

Some days I plonk the kiddos in front of candy-colored animation while I pull the covers over my head and try to remember what silence and solitude feel like.  Some days that is my mite - my everything.  It doesn't look like much, but it's all I have.

Right now, as we are saying goodbye to two weeks of colds and flu and starting homeschool just thinking about exercise is all I can do.  Keeping in on my "to be added to my life as soon as possible" list is all I can do.  It is not much, but it's what I have to give.

Some days two verses of scripture (sans meditation, study, cross-referencing, outside reading or preparing for Sunday School) is all I can do.  The judgy voice in my head is having a field day with that one, but honestly, some days that is all I can do.

Ditto for the dishes, laundry, toilets, reading list etc. etc. etc.

For the longest time I have been defining these areas where I lack as motes and beams - something wrong that needed fixing.  But I may have had it all wrong.

If I am truly giving everything, then when I have more I will be able to give more.  True, others may have buckets of time to slosh as generously as they choose and that's great for them and it has absolutely nothing to do with me.

If I am giving everything, no matter how little than I am in mite territory, not mote territory.

This realization doesn't change anything, but it sure makes me feel better.

Spanish Dancer

This is one of my favorite paintings.    It is Spanish Dancer by Pino.  I once saw the original.  It was huge and it moved me.  Just wanted to share.

The Everythingist

(from my Little Basil Blossoms blog.  It is exactly how I am feeling again today.)

In this world there are scientists, dentists, fascists, Bunburyists, and a host of "ists".

I am an everythingist. I want to do everything. I want to do it all at once, all the time and all the way. Perhaps this would work if I was also a rationalist. But, alas, I am a perfectionist and an idealist. This is a frightening combination. Frightening AND depressing.

This afternoon found me brooding about this. You see, I chose to exercise this morning. That takes up a significant chunk of my high-energy, super-productive time. This means that other things must go. This is hard ... tough ... excruciating!!!!

"Ah," says the voice of wisdom in my head (my voice of wisdom has a Chinese accent and sits in lotus position wearing a white robe) "but you have chosen what is best."

"But best is not everything" my everythingist side protests.

"True," says the voice of wisdom.

That's it. Nothing more from the little white robed voice. It must be waiting for me to put the rest of the pieces together. That, or it doesn't have any more of an idea of how I am going to un-burry the kitchen table and put laundry in the washer than I do.

Choosing the best is great.

Letting go of the good and the better stinks.

But, I believe it is worth it. I feel good. I have had more patience today. I have been happy. And that is worth a lot; possibly even worth more that a clean kitchen table.

Names

Our culture has an interesting phenomenon of taking boy names and making them into girl names.

There are Ashley, Jody, Tracy, Taylor, Payton, Jaden, Courtney, Leslie, Michael, Laurie, Whitney, Kim, Ariel, Paris ... just to name a few

There are a few names, however, that I think are completely safe from the grasping hands of innovative parents of baby girls.

Take Ralph for instance.  Boys, that one is all yours.  And Mortimer?  Well you're welcome to that one too.  The same goes for Bob, Doug, Hank, Bruno, Cesar and Hercules.

Speaking of names, my cousin made a youtube video about how inventive Utahns have become with their names.  It's pretty funny.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfIehCrO4Zs

Because

(from my Two Sassy Lasses blog)

So, today I watched some bits of a show about body image that has an ... ahem ... questionable title. It was called "How to Look Good Naked." (note: this is not a recommendation.  If you just need to chill, I'd say White Collar is a better bet.) I watched pieces from the original British series and a few bits from the American knock-off. The show features a style guru who helps plus-size women with body issues to love the skin they're in. He teaches these ladies how do dress for their body type, how to wear their hair etc. As I saw women who were roughly the same size as me, look into a mirror and feel beautiful for the first time in years, something clicked. I can be beautiful now. And because I am beautiful and strong I am capable of even more greatness in my life. I am striving for slimmer and healthier NOT because I am lacking, but because I am capable of more. I can eat healthy because I am fabulous and I deserve to treat myself well. I can exercise because I love to move. These changes do not add to my worth. I am doing it because I am worth it.

This is a big step for someone who hasn't taken a good look in a full-length mirror for the last six months. So, can I maintain the fire to be better and look better and accept who I am at the same time? Can I stop making excuses for my bad habits and make time for better ones? Can I stop calling myself "chipmunk cheeks" every time I look in the mirror? I don't know, but I sure want to try.

Picture Perfect

I will forever remember a story my mother related to me.  She was chatting with the mother of one of my friends when she noticed that this woman had a beautiful, new family portrait hung on the small, shadowy wall in the bend of their stairs.  My mom complimented the beautiful photo and asked why it was hung in this out of the way place.  The mother of my friend said that in trying to make this picture as perfect as it could be the entire family had a miserable day.  There had been yelling, crying, hurt feelings and general grouchiness.  She said that every time she looked at that photo, she remembered the awful feelings she had that day.

Fast forward nearly 20 years to the present.  We needed a family picture - one where everyone was in front of the camera.  That hasn't happened for us in two years.

Due to my Nutcracker rehearsal schedule and Daylight savings, we only had a 15 minute window in which to catch the light.  Of course child #3 would take a late nap.  Child #3 wakes up 1/2 ogre and  1/2 wet dishrag.  Then there is child #2.  Child #2 is a diva when it comes to his clothes.  If he can't wear a dirty tee-shirt then life may not be worth living.  Well, his picture approved shirt had a collar, and the fit of his pants (which were admittedly a bit big) distressed his style sensibilities past the point of endurance and he flopped onto the couch, enormous tears trickling down his cheek.

I squashed the desire to administer a well-placed, swift kick.  I banished the impending sense of photographic disaster.  I wanted to be happy.  Okay, so not everyone else was going to be happy, but I was not going to let this picture matter more than being nice.   A quick dig through last years box of clothes produced a pair of pants, that while three inches too short, did not make my son cry.  As for the shirt, with only love and good will I told him he needed to buck up and stop clutching his collar and turning red.  I wanted smiles in my picture.  I would even let him keep his shirt un-tucked (another stylistic sticking point).  However,  if he could not manage calming down and smiling in the picture, he would go to bed without dinner the moment the picture taking was done.  Despite my calm demeanor he must have sensed the seriousness of that threat.

When my brother in law arrived with his fabulous camera, we all ran outside into the freezing cold.  We stood on the sidewalk.  "Forget placement, everyone just clump," was the rallying cry.

Child #3 was fine as long as she was facing backward and cried every time we faced her forward.  We took a few pictures.  We looked at a few of them and found that Child #1 was crossing her arms and making "I am FREEZING" faces in the pictures that were good of everyone else.  Child #2, bless his heart, stood there in his floods and untucked shirt and tried to muster a smile.  He managed to look stoic.

Not even photoshop would save this one.  And you know what?  I felt fine with that.  That photo will document my reality.  It will also document a proud moment for me - despite the stress and dysfunction, I managed to maintain a happy heart, a happy voice and had done everything I could to maintain a happy home.  That smile on my face was real.  I can look at that picture with no regrets.

We'll go for picture perfect some other year.

Snow!

Snow!  Nearly a foot of it!  Heavy, wet, packable snow!

Child #1 was the first to take up the cry this morning.  She roused child #2 and #3 and soon all three were pressed against the window.  After breakfast the search for mittens and snow-pants began.  Once every child was booted and hatted, zipped and cinched they tumbled outside.  Snowballs flew.  Tongues tasted the whiteness.  They churned the pristine blanket which had covered the yard into a wonderland of snow-angels and laughter.   Before long, my eldest started tugging on the branches of the apple tree, hoping to make the snow fall on her.  In one of those perverse moments that I am sure the angels set up just to entertain themselves, the snow fell off the other side of the tree directly on top of child #3 - who had just pushed back her hood.  Priceless.

Note to the recording angels - I want this morning on the home-video of my life.