Not Meant to Be
… that is what my last post was, apparently. For some reason I wrote the whole thing–clicked “publish”, and it disappeared into the ether. Oh well. It was on the blessedness of possessing nothing (AW Tozer, Pursuit of God, chapter 2), and talked about having all things with an open hand. Guess that was my chance to practice what I preach!
Just wanted you to know I’m still alive and well. A very busy week with some wonderful family time. Life lessons to come. Enjoy this sunshine!
Home-Grown, Hand-Made
Not sure how this post will take form because I am so tired I cannot even form a coherent thought. Jeff’s so deliriously tired he inadvertently brought me a sippy cup of milk in bed. I directed him down the hall to try the other little blond person in our house.
Why so tired? Because in the midst of church activities this weekend we embarked on a yard-work marathon. Last weekend we built a 50-foot retaining wall in our yard. We carried every last stone (4 1/2 TONS of them), leveled it all, wheelbarrow-ed all the gravel. Jeff spent hours installing a special drainage system because we live on a hill. I had no idea the extent of this project. So. Much. Work.
This weekend we trenched our our sprinkler system (above), roto-tilled our entire back yard to grade it out for lawn, and then built a cedar deck onto the back of our house. My dad tilled and hauled and drove nails until his back about gave out and his right palm was one big blister. Dutch toted tools. Heidi ate dirt. We all enjoyed messy BBQ’d hamburgers and my first (and fabulously successful, I might add) attempt at homemade baked beans.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought, “If only we would’ve just hired someone to do this whole stupid yard. I’m so tired I never want to lift another retaining wall stone or 2×6 or haul another load of gravel in my life.” But, tonight as I sat on that freshly laid cedar decking, inhaling its amazing scent, and looked out over our project, I had to admit that there’s something special about doing it all ourselves.
I know we’ll look back on this summer with amazing memories. I can already imagine the conversations when we’re old and decrepit: “Remember when we were two young crazies that we built that cotton-pickin’ wall? Remember how the kids played in the dirt while we drove nails and shoveled dirt?” We’ll laugh. We’ll reminisce. And, at this rate, we’ll likely still be getting chiropractic work done on our backs. There really is something special about hand-made things.
And home-grown. That might be my very favorite thing about summer. I planted my very own garden this year. First ever. Well, first since the ground has been mine–growing up mom always let my brother and I have our own little plot of land in her big garden. I loved working in the dirt and still remember picking the fresh beans and carrots, the rhubarb and strawberries. In my garden we’re just harvesting the delicious sugar-snap peas (left). Dutch loves to stand out there and pick peas, popping them in his mouth like candy. Today during our work party we had a huge salad with baby gourmet salad greens fresh from my parents’ garden. We had had homemade baked beans–real ones that you soak overnight and cook with bacon. So good!
Earlier this week a dear woman from church dropped off 3 containers of fresh still-warm-from-the-sun, hand-picked strawberries (right: aren’t they beautiful?!). She and her kids had just picked them and she generous shared. They were AMAZING! I’d forgotten what real strawberries tasted like. I’ll admit I “picked” mine at Costco, but these were the real deal. Dutch and I polished of all three containers before the afternoon was over. We sat on the counter, next to the sink, rinsing and popping them in our mouths, gobbling and savoring the sweet perfection.
One thing I noticed. Hand-made and home-grown might not look as impressive. Check out these strawberries. One is from Costco. One is from some field out in rural Clackamas county. These were the average size of their bunch. Interesting. But, one was also infinitely tastier. A lot more work, perhaps, but so tasty!
So I’m learning to appreciate homemade and homegrown. I suppose there’s no inherent virtue in doing things yourself, and I have done a fair share of homemade attempts that have convinced me that I have some significant skill-limitations, so some things are better simply bought at a store (knitting and sewing to name a few). But I’m sure learning a lot through all of this, and I think Dutch might be too. He’s learning about gardening, building, working hard. I suppose Heidi is learning about dirt. We’re all learning the blessing of a couple advil, and when to sit down and take a rest. We’re loving family bathtime every evening, and I’m learning to ignore the brown ring in the tub. It’s a sign of a job well done.
So Happy 4th to all. This tired girl is off to bed. What do you enjoy that is homemade or homegrown? I’d love to hear as we celebrate this glorious season called Summer.
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*Here’s also to my dad, our hero, who has labored to no end to help us in this endeavor. I started building decks with my dad when I was 15-years-old, and this is the first one we’ve done that I get to keep! I love you, daddy–thanks for being the best dad a girl could ever imagine.
Summer Book List: My Fifteen Favorite Fiction Picks
Several of you have mentioned that it’d be fun and helpful to have a list of favorite picks in the fiction department. I’m sure that I’m forgetting some, but this is off the top of my head, books that stand out to me as goodies from the last few years. These are in no particular order, but I see the first seven as the most remarkable and impacting reads. If you’re looking for pure fun, start with #9 or #12. Deep and impacting? Start at the top. All links are to amazon, but your local library is the place to go! Happy reading!
1. The Hawk and the Dove Trilogy (Slow at first, but stick with it! The story of a Benedictine monk in an English monastery in 1303: Deals with issues of humility, community, and the marginalization of our sick and handicapped. Must read. I bought this one.)
2. Ella Minnow Pea (This book fascinates me. A story of a fictional island that restricts the use of certain letters because of foolish superstition. First off, the way it’s written is absolutely genius. But the implications are fascinating as well. You have to see it for yourself.)
3. Year of Wonders (This one tore me apart: Seventeenth century England, during the Plague. A small village, when infected, chooses to quarantine themselves entirely in order to avoid spreading the deadly disease. It is horrific, heroic, inspiring and disturbing all at once. My only warning is that the end is stupid. If it had ended on page 272 it’d be great, but for some reason she adds this ridiculous ending. Ignore it.)
4. The Help (Current bestseller. It’s the story of three women, set in 1962 in Jackson, Mississippi, and how their lives intersect. Civil rights in a whole new light. Couldn’t put it down. It’s long too, so be sure to understand that your family will be severely neglected for a while during this one.)
5. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. (I’ve always said a novel in letters could never be done. At least not well. I was sooo wrong. This is amazing. Set in 1946, a story set in London and Guernsey island at the end of WW2. Humanity, frailty, love … it’s fabulous.)
6. Still Alice. (Another recent bestseller. This is a heartbreaking, but beautiful and insightful look at the progress and effects of early-onset Alzheimer’s. The author is a neuro-scientist, and uses her years of studying this devastating disease to inform her writing. Gripping: I think I read it in one sitting.)
7. Lowlands of Scotland Series: Thorn in my Heart, Fair is the Rose, Whence Came a Prince. These are the story of Jacob, Rachel, and Leah, set in 1764 in Scotland. I think these should contain a warning label because they will seize you emotionally. I became obsessed, sneaking up to bed early to read, staying up until the middle of the night carrying my book around to sneak in moments when I could. Carry kleenex. Powerful stuff. BTW there’s a 4th in this series too but I could never get into it for some reason.)
8. The Secret Life of Bees. (A coming-of-age story set in the 1960s. I haven’t seen the movie, but this book is great.)
9.The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series. (I don’t even remember how many are in this series, but you must read them all. They are all wonderful. The perfect light book for a summer afternoon. Mma Ramotswe will become your new best friend. I love her so much. Set in modern Botswana, this “traditionally built” African woman sets up shop as the No. 1 Ladies detective in her country. Amazing. This author, Alexander McCall Smith, also has a 44 Scotland Street series–I’ve read one–, and an Isabel Dalhousie series. I’ve read several and like them as well, but Mma Ramotswe takes the cake.)
10. Pride & Prejudice: Read it again for the first time.
11. Anything by Rosamunde Pilcher. (The Shell Seekers is her most popular, and probably my favorite, but the lady doesn’t have a bad novel in her. They’re all delightful. No real challenge or redeeming value but well-written; the woman’s just a born story-teller. Enjoy these by the pool sipping lemonade.)
12. The Rumpole series. (Again, I don’t know how many are in this series but I’ve read every single one and am begging for more. Not sure everyone will share my love for this odd British humor: Rumpole is a short pudgy aging British barrister who is rather unremarkable, who carries in his pocket a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse, and is married to a woman whom he refers to as She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. I love my Rumpole!)
13. An American Childhood (Annie Dillard is a literary genius, so brace yourself for some mental mastication. Such richness in this book though. The part about her rock collection wore on a bit, so I skimmed that part. Her insights into children and adolescents is amazing.)
14. The Things they Carried (I haven’t read this since my very first fiction writing course at OSU, so my memory is fuzzy, but it made an impact on me. This looks at the blurred line between truth and reality in the Vietnam war, in which the author served. It inspired some of my own writing. Pulitzer Prize finalist.)
15. A Year in Provence (This is Peter Mayle. I read a lot of his books and liked some and didn’t like some, can’t remember all which ones. This is a light read about spending a year in the south of France. He’s funny. Another light read.)
In praise of novels
On my schedule there is a new slot, each Saturday and Sunday night, from 7:30-9pm. It is called “Novels.” See, some people are list people. I’m a list person. I’d probably qualify as a hyper-list person because lists aren’t sufficient for me. I must then take my list and actually schedule out all the moments of my day (at least those which are “mine”, which are few), in order to get things done and give myself the structure and routine that my sanity requires. Someone once said a budget enables you to tell your money where to go instead of wondering where it went. I’d apply that to schedules as well. I schedule my time to tell myself where to go, otherwise I wonder where I went.
So, after a few very busy weeks, I scheduled in a week of rest–no studying, no teaching, no meetings–nothing except working on house and yard projects, playing with my children, and finally allowing myself to indulge in the stack of unread fiction novels that sit on my nightstand. Oh, I love fiction.
My source for good fiction is a blessing that came with marriage: My mother in law. She’s a voracious reader, preferring it to sleep, in fact, and knows my appetite for well-written, wholesome, thoughtful fiction. I am a hopeless INTJ in personality; thus, the drive to accomplish and be efficient and purposeful is as ingrained as the fight or flight response. Therefore, I want to read something that will provide both pleasure and betterment. I want to learn without knowing it. I want to study the world without studying. Carry me along in a well-written story and show me the world from a perspective wholly other than my own. Now we’re talking.
She began as my novel source when I was pregnant with my son, Dutch. The first 6 months of Dutch’s life were my allotted novel-time, and I allowed myself to read whenever he was nursing, but only then. Jeff bought me a clip-on booklight,and I’d sit up through 2am feedings, chapter after chapter. I must have read at least 25 books those first few months. Ella Minnow Pea, Year of Wonders, and the Rumple series still stand out as my shining favorites from those early days of quiet. Later, the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, The Hawk and the Dove and a Liz Curtis Higgs trilogy had me savoring, laughing, weeping, and repenting, sometimes all in one sitting. Those were a sacred 6 months–the only time of my adult life when I was involved in nothing. No school, no ministry, no work. For six months I nursed my baby and read books. I hardly left the house but I felt as though I traveled the world. Contemporary Botswana, 1790s Scotland, a small Derbyshire village in the plague of 1666. As music often takes one back to a season or moment, I can still remember turning the pages of Peter Mayle, my orange stiped Boppy nestled around my waist, propped up in bed, eyes squinting in the dark, tiny Dutch nursing contentedly and Jeff sleeping soundly at my side.
But now life is much different. Heidi’s early months brought many things, but novel-reading was certainly not one of them. I wouldn’t change anything about my life. All the rich busyness is my choice, and my blessing. But I’m reminded afresh that there are two things necessary for this girls’ mental health: fiction and running. Running will be another post. For now, I say: Fiction has its place.
So what shall we then read? And how can we keep our fiction reading from becoming like a habit of soap operas or some other form of slow brain-rot? A few ideas:
1. Is it helpful? We are free to read what we like; that doesn’t mean everything is helpful for us to read. I love to read perspectives that are other than my own. However, I have more than once put a book down, and tossed it, when it painted images in my mind that I do not need. Raunchiness, raciness, and vulgarity are for people who have dim intellects and lack imaginations. Consider that humor usually requires a victim. I love humor; but be mindful of the victim.
2. Is it challenging? This could possibly mean reading a book from a wildly different perspective from our own. That said, the most challenging book I have ever read, hands down, is the Bible. Nothing challenges us to the core more than this. A quick dive into the story of the Rich Young Ruler will cure us of the stubborn acedia that renders us spiritually lethargic.
3. Do you have to look up a word? Another favorite of mine, The Quotidian Mysteries, is a fascinating thin little book which is essentially the Sacredness of the Mundane, written by the hand of a genius. When I picked it up I did not know what quotidian or acedia meant. I had to look them up. I love that! I just finished Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood and had to look up arcana. Really, spending our lives using a quarter of our given vocabulary is like spending our whole life eating nothing but potatoes and pancakes. Let’s learn some words and use them!
4. Does it broaden, deepen, widen, enrich? Yes, this is similar to the first question, but this takes it a step further. Sheer pleasure, I believe, can be a perfectly acceptable purpose. It enriches. But does it also make us think, challenge us, take us beyond our picket fences and help us understand a world that’s not our own. History comes off the page and impacts our daily lives when it’s told in a story, told through tears sometimes, allowing us to step inside and feel the dirt between our toes. Fiction should help us understand.
And now, it seems, I have spent my first officially-scheduled novel time not in reading novels but in blogging about them. Oh well. I always welcome suggested reading, so pass along your own favorites. And I wish for you this summer at least one good wholesome novel, an ice-cold lemonade, and an afternoon or two beneath a shade tree, turning pages.