"Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons." -Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts
I'm glad I left home--
its brome grass
waving a goodbye
and a hello;
its long dirt lanes
still there,
still solitary;
its public places
full of unguarded
character;
its kitchen
warm with
simmering soup
and some sort
of fragrant
love;
its faces--
Mom Dad
Rachel Jeanne
Myra Sarah--
meaning more
than labels on
the family tree.
So, I'm glad I
left home.
1/13/07
1/12/07
the minimum space
After dwindling my belongings to 55, I realized we'd have to get rid of this monstrosity of a house, trade it in for something a little... littler. And that called for a sequel to my post the bare minimum.
I discovered the Small House Society, an organization that encourages people to trade in their spaces for something more economically and environmentally responsible. They started up in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, after seeing so many homes ravished in the waters. The shed-sized houses the society promotes are often built on a trailer, so the owner can just pull out when they want (and avoid paying property taxes).
I think I could do without the trailer, but if we could sell this house, I'd be game right now for a little place -- one you can see from one end to the other and clean in less than an hour. I'm just not sure if my future children are ready for growing up in a 100-square foot space. Or maybe it's Kyle and I who wouldn't be up to the... closeness with them.
However, something smaller could still respect our individual privacy and chip away at our current excess of space, and we wouldn't be paying to heat and cool over 2,000 square feet of space when we use less than 1,000.
I'm still torn about how to live in a minimum amount of space while still being available to entertain guests. I guess you just have to be creative; taking more frequent advantage of your limitless outdoor space is an easy solution.
Well, I'm off to design my miniature house. BlueSky MOD and Alchemy Architects have some designs that really float my boat.
I discovered the Small House Society, an organization that encourages people to trade in their spaces for something more economically and environmentally responsible. They started up in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, after seeing so many homes ravished in the waters. The shed-sized houses the society promotes are often built on a trailer, so the owner can just pull out when they want (and avoid paying property taxes).
I think I could do without the trailer, but if we could sell this house, I'd be game right now for a little place -- one you can see from one end to the other and clean in less than an hour. I'm just not sure if my future children are ready for growing up in a 100-square foot space. Or maybe it's Kyle and I who wouldn't be up to the... closeness with them.
However, something smaller could still respect our individual privacy and chip away at our current excess of space, and we wouldn't be paying to heat and cool over 2,000 square feet of space when we use less than 1,000.
I'm still torn about how to live in a minimum amount of space while still being available to entertain guests. I guess you just have to be creative; taking more frequent advantage of your limitless outdoor space is an easy solution.
Well, I'm off to design my miniature house. BlueSky MOD and Alchemy Architects have some designs that really float my boat.
1/11/07
childbirth
You prepare like the dickens (or you have good intentions to), hoping Kegels and breathing will somehow make this a painfree experience for you, the most prepared woman in the world. By the time the contractions start in earnest, you've forgotten all about breathing and you know you're in for a long ride.
You kind of wish you could just go to the hospital and get it over with already, but you call your doctor, a nurse, the hospital, the hospital again, and everyone keeps saying, "Just wait until the contractions are closer." Closer. Harder. Closer. Harder. If you have to have this baby at home, they'll be responsible, you vow. So you talk to your sisters and your mom because they'll know best, better than those doctors and nurses, who haven't had near as many babies and don't have experience with your family's genetics. Talking to family makes you cry, but at least they assure you that the medical professionals are probably as whacko as you think they are. But still you stay at home because you think you can take it just a little longer, but the whole thing has been going on for over a day now, and you wonder if this labor part will ever turn into delivery.
Four o'clock in the afternoon and you say "enough is enough." You're not waiting for closer contractions because you know your husband's not keen on delivering his firstborn in the car.
You get to the hospital, feeling like a champ for laboring so long on your own. The nurse tells you you're doing such a good job for being at this stage, but who knows if every woman gets told the same thing. You walk around, you lean over, you read your book, you crunch on some ice chips, you take a bath. You sit on a big blue ball, convincing yourself it helps. The hours drag on; the pain gets worse. The television noise has got to go. The big blue ball has long since stopped fooling you of its helpfulness. You climb into bed. You ask yourself if you will ever have more children. Is there a back-door exit to this delivery thing? You try to breathe calmly, but it's no use. Enough of being macho: where's the painkiller?
The moments get hazy -- of seeing the head, of counting and pushing. Somehow in the midst of all your straining and breathing and pushing, someone up and steals your brain... or it wanders away when you're not paying attention. (Sometime after delivery, you'll realize it's gone and can only hope it'll find its way back soon.) But you don't notice because a flood has just been released from your body, your soul. It's over. It's over. It's over. The squalling baby is alive. It's alive. It's perfect. It's your baby. It's yours.
You try to catch your breath as they place a living being on your chest. You have just experienced a miracle.
The next day or two are blurry due to lack of sleep, but you're delirious (and sore). Before you know it, you're home and wondering who exactly was crazy enough to trust you with something so perfect, so fragile. Didn't they check your list of credentials? Didn't they realize you have no idea what to do with a live baby? As you sit there in the darkness and try to nurse, you realize that despite your brain being AWOL and your body being subject to a stronger force of gravity, you still remember how to love. And you figure that's a good place to start.
You kind of wish you could just go to the hospital and get it over with already, but you call your doctor, a nurse, the hospital, the hospital again, and everyone keeps saying, "Just wait until the contractions are closer." Closer. Harder. Closer. Harder. If you have to have this baby at home, they'll be responsible, you vow. So you talk to your sisters and your mom because they'll know best, better than those doctors and nurses, who haven't had near as many babies and don't have experience with your family's genetics. Talking to family makes you cry, but at least they assure you that the medical professionals are probably as whacko as you think they are. But still you stay at home because you think you can take it just a little longer, but the whole thing has been going on for over a day now, and you wonder if this labor part will ever turn into delivery.
Four o'clock in the afternoon and you say "enough is enough." You're not waiting for closer contractions because you know your husband's not keen on delivering his firstborn in the car.
You get to the hospital, feeling like a champ for laboring so long on your own. The nurse tells you you're doing such a good job for being at this stage, but who knows if every woman gets told the same thing. You walk around, you lean over, you read your book, you crunch on some ice chips, you take a bath. You sit on a big blue ball, convincing yourself it helps. The hours drag on; the pain gets worse. The television noise has got to go. The big blue ball has long since stopped fooling you of its helpfulness. You climb into bed. You ask yourself if you will ever have more children. Is there a back-door exit to this delivery thing? You try to breathe calmly, but it's no use. Enough of being macho: where's the painkiller?
The moments get hazy -- of seeing the head, of counting and pushing. Somehow in the midst of all your straining and breathing and pushing, someone up and steals your brain... or it wanders away when you're not paying attention. (Sometime after delivery, you'll realize it's gone and can only hope it'll find its way back soon.) But you don't notice because a flood has just been released from your body, your soul. It's over. It's over. It's over. The squalling baby is alive. It's alive. It's perfect. It's your baby. It's yours.
You try to catch your breath as they place a living being on your chest. You have just experienced a miracle.
The next day or two are blurry due to lack of sleep, but you're delirious (and sore). Before you know it, you're home and wondering who exactly was crazy enough to trust you with something so perfect, so fragile. Didn't they check your list of credentials? Didn't they realize you have no idea what to do with a live baby? As you sit there in the darkness and try to nurse, you realize that despite your brain being AWOL and your body being subject to a stronger force of gravity, you still remember how to love. And you figure that's a good place to start.
everyday perfection
I see the wind whipping across the grass outside, and I tell Isaiah, "It's a blustery day." His face blossoms into a perfect grin. I repeat myself then, several times, just to see that perfection again. He thinks I'm hilarious, and probably the best singer in the world, too. But then again, he smiles at the light in our study -- ignores me, even, just to look at that light.
He's utterly free of self-consciousness -- free to smile, free to cry, free to fart at will. For him, there's nothing better than being naked. Forget hunger, forget cold, forget tiredness -- nudity eliminates them all.
I'm convinced Isaiah is the most brilliant and physically talented baby that ever lived. He doesn't always perform for relatives, friends, and doctors, but it's okay. We know. I read books to Isaiah. Usually he bears with me, hyperventilating at each new page, convincing me he's a genius. Instead of burping against my chest, like a normal baby, Isaiah likes to stand up (and look at the light in the study). Of course, at two and a half months, he has no sense of balance, but his legs are as strong as a couple of horses.
(When he's not eating or burping,) Isaiah loves to lie against my arm or my chest, his face buried in the folds of my shirt. I usually move his head to keep him from suffocation. Obviously, security and comfort are more important to him than breathing.
For him, I give up reading and cleaning. For him, I give up writing this down the first time it crosses my mind; it'll never sound like it did the first time; it'll never be better than mediocre writing. Oh, well. It's best to lie on the couch, his tiny body nestled against mine. In his peacefulness, I believe along with him that all is well with the world.
He's utterly free of self-consciousness -- free to smile, free to cry, free to fart at will. For him, there's nothing better than being naked. Forget hunger, forget cold, forget tiredness -- nudity eliminates them all.
I'm convinced Isaiah is the most brilliant and physically talented baby that ever lived. He doesn't always perform for relatives, friends, and doctors, but it's okay. We know. I read books to Isaiah. Usually he bears with me, hyperventilating at each new page, convincing me he's a genius. Instead of burping against my chest, like a normal baby, Isaiah likes to stand up (and look at the light in the study). Of course, at two and a half months, he has no sense of balance, but his legs are as strong as a couple of horses.
(When he's not eating or burping,) Isaiah loves to lie against my arm or my chest, his face buried in the folds of my shirt. I usually move his head to keep him from suffocation. Obviously, security and comfort are more important to him than breathing.
For him, I give up reading and cleaning. For him, I give up writing this down the first time it crosses my mind; it'll never sound like it did the first time; it'll never be better than mediocre writing. Oh, well. It's best to lie on the couch, his tiny body nestled against mine. In his peacefulness, I believe along with him that all is well with the world.
1/8/07
the bare minimum
Dan Ho's minimalistic lifestyle inspires me. In the New York Times article "The Imperfectionist," he is described as a man who, in an urge to unburden himself from plush, materialistic living, dwindled his possessions down to about 55 items.
For Ho, it was the constant "keeping up with the Jones's" that disgusted him about our society: you have to retain a certain standard of living and shoot for that magazine-cover decorating style just for the sake of folks -- virtual strangers -- who might drop by. In his opinion, all that stuff is just for show; it really isn't what makes us happy.
Ho's got a point. Aside from how our houses are decorated, why do we have such extensive wardrobes? Why an extra set of "company" dishes -- china that's rarely used?
Now, I do believe there's a need in a Christian's life for a hospitable home, contrary to what Ho believes about not needing to be ready for guests unless you're running a bed-and-breakfast. But are your home's company qualities for guests' comfort, or just for show-and tell? Ho's right: people set a mood far more than a scented candle ever will. But I think, too, there's room in a home for beauty. Sorry, Mr. Ho, but my bright red kitchen does make me happy. I didn't paint it for my next-door neighbor's sake.
Here's an exciting proposal, though: what if you really did dwindle your possessions down to the bare necessities? I've read the New Testament passage in which Jesus commands a follower to sell all he has and give to the poor, and the one about giving our coat along with that requested shirt, and I've often -- okay, always -- thought, "Jesus isn't being literal. He's not talking to me." Well, maybe He is.
What Ho didn't mention is that there's a lot more to getting rid of stuff than just to free ourselves in this life; we need to free ourselves for the next one.
In the past year or two, I've donated so many clothes to the Salvation Army that probably only a sixth of our closet space is now being used. It is a big closet, but still -- it is so freeing to get rid of junk (for good, not to make space for more!).
The strategy for my wardrobe was to get rid of things that I was only keeping "just in case." While my clothing breathed out their faux-security for me, someone else could have been using them on a regular basis. But even though my closet reduction was relatively easy, I think it'd be harder to prune down my kitchen, for instance. Just for fun, though, I made a list of my 55 belongings. (Check the comments link on this post, if you're interested.) It was fun and challenging, but it was a heart-searching exercise, too. I had to weed out some things that I found out I was attached to. And then, I had to ask myself if it came down to it, could I let go of the final 55?
For Ho, it was the constant "keeping up with the Jones's" that disgusted him about our society: you have to retain a certain standard of living and shoot for that magazine-cover decorating style just for the sake of folks -- virtual strangers -- who might drop by. In his opinion, all that stuff is just for show; it really isn't what makes us happy.
Ho's got a point. Aside from how our houses are decorated, why do we have such extensive wardrobes? Why an extra set of "company" dishes -- china that's rarely used?
Now, I do believe there's a need in a Christian's life for a hospitable home, contrary to what Ho believes about not needing to be ready for guests unless you're running a bed-and-breakfast. But are your home's company qualities for guests' comfort, or just for show-and tell? Ho's right: people set a mood far more than a scented candle ever will. But I think, too, there's room in a home for beauty. Sorry, Mr. Ho, but my bright red kitchen does make me happy. I didn't paint it for my next-door neighbor's sake.
Here's an exciting proposal, though: what if you really did dwindle your possessions down to the bare necessities? I've read the New Testament passage in which Jesus commands a follower to sell all he has and give to the poor, and the one about giving our coat along with that requested shirt, and I've often -- okay, always -- thought, "Jesus isn't being literal. He's not talking to me." Well, maybe He is.
What Ho didn't mention is that there's a lot more to getting rid of stuff than just to free ourselves in this life; we need to free ourselves for the next one.
In the past year or two, I've donated so many clothes to the Salvation Army that probably only a sixth of our closet space is now being used. It is a big closet, but still -- it is so freeing to get rid of junk (for good, not to make space for more!).
The strategy for my wardrobe was to get rid of things that I was only keeping "just in case." While my clothing breathed out their faux-security for me, someone else could have been using them on a regular basis. But even though my closet reduction was relatively easy, I think it'd be harder to prune down my kitchen, for instance. Just for fun, though, I made a list of my 55 belongings. (Check the comments link on this post, if you're interested.) It was fun and challenging, but it was a heart-searching exercise, too. I had to weed out some things that I found out I was attached to. And then, I had to ask myself if it came down to it, could I let go of the final 55?
1/6/07
best books of 2006
My list of favorite books is long this year, but I guess that comes from reading more books than I did in previous years. I read 37 in 2006. Yes, I keep track... in an Excel document, complete with authors, genres, dates I hope to finish, and dates I actually finished. The really good ones get an asterisk in the final column, and those are the books that make this honorable best of... list.
Searching for God Knows What, Donald Miller
Hmm... Should my failure to remember anything about his book automatically strike it from my list? Oops. Not exactly a compelling way to start. I do remember that this book flows as a whole work more than Blue Like Jazz did with its stand-alone essays, and if I know Donald Miller, it was chock-full of bold spiritual truths that I needed to hear. This is an embarrassing review; let's move on.
Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Lynne Truss
A panda walks into a bar (or something like that; I'm trying to remember from the back cover.) He eats, shoots and leaves. Hold it. A punctuational error just made him a criminal! Yeah, serious misunderstandings can result from you failing to put punctuation where it belongs. Lynne Truss is my hero.
The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis
Like virtually all of Lewis's work, a classic. This one is an entertaining yet sobering series of letters from a senior demon to his nephew. The reader gets an inside peek into conversations of how to effectively tempt a human to sin. It'll wake you up to Satan's subtlety!
The Elements of Style, William Strunk and E.B. White
Every literate, English-speaking person should read this at least once in his life, even if it's painful. Better yet, read it once a year. This is an irreplaceable handbook on the ins and outs of grammar and style -- the best in its class.
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I'm ashamed I've never read this before now. It's such a warm story about family values, respect for all people, and standing up for what's right. You'll fall in love with the characters. That's a generic comment, I know, but I read it before I had a baby, and now half my brains are gone. Oh, I did discover that Harper is a woman.
Mystery and Manners, Flannery O'Connor
Dear me, another book on writing. I think I may be addicted to them. At any rate, here's one of my favorite quotes from O'Connor's take on how to write well: "I think that if there is any value in hearing writers talk, it will be in hearing what they can witness to and not what they can theorize about." Here's another one: "There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored." Oh, yeah, and this one: "The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that doesn’t require his attention." That one might be my favorite. Okay, I'll stop. Flannery O'Connor just really knows her stuff.
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
I decided to read this after I listened to "Word by Word," a lecture Lamott gave at a writers' conference. As in all her books, Anne Lamott is honest and unsparing in this book about writing. My favorite piece of advice is to seek enjoyment -- not publication -- in writing because publication doesn't bring fulfillment.
Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott
I ought to be writing this book right about now. This is a collection of journal entries Lamott wrote during the first year of her son's life. Sappy tears, frustration, sheer amazement at this little dependent human being -- they're all there hanging out. (sigh) I ought to read this book again.
Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, Kathleen Norris
Sometimes I disagree with Norris's theology, but as with Anne Lamott, there's enough truth and candor in her writing that it makes me step back and rethink why I believe what I believe. One of the things I love most about this book is its seemingly exhaustive list of topics. Norris writes about everything from apostacy to grace to the Holy Ghost, giving each its short, manageable chapter. She tackles the "vocabulary of faith" with her own spin and her own experiences, maybe for people who don't have a handle on all that Christian terminology, or maybe just for herself. I think it'd be fun to rewrite my own version of this book.
Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse
When I first opened this book, I thought, "Ugh. Poetry." Isn't that horrible, coming from one who tries to write the stuff? Using my better judgment, though, I decided to check out the book anyway. I figured there had to be a good reason it was a Newbery award-winner. Not only was the poetry readable, the story was compelling, gritty, beautiful. It's an Oklahoma tomboy's account of her family's survival during the depression and dustbowl of the 1930s. Check it out; you can finish it in less than a day.
An American Childhood, Annie Dillard
I loved this autobiography. Beginning with age five or maybe even younger, Dillard tells with amazing detail of her life growing up in Pittsburg. One of my favorite chapters is about the physical ugliness of adults. With hiliarious and believable charm, she describes studying and playing with the veins in her mother's hands. I forgot how important things like that are!
I think I was more discriminatory in my book choices in 2006, and as a result, I'm coming away with a genuine respect for writers who can really write. In reading quality work, I expanded my repertoire of authors I enjoy, but at the same time, doing my own writing seems all the more intimidating. But why? As Anne Lamott says, I just need to enjoy it. Who's keeping score?
But aside from writing, the more I read, the more I know I have to keep reading. There's too much good stuff out there to waste any time! Now it's time to snuggle up with Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer...
Searching for God Knows What, Donald Miller
Hmm... Should my failure to remember anything about his book automatically strike it from my list? Oops. Not exactly a compelling way to start. I do remember that this book flows as a whole work more than Blue Like Jazz did with its stand-alone essays, and if I know Donald Miller, it was chock-full of bold spiritual truths that I needed to hear. This is an embarrassing review; let's move on.
Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Lynne Truss
A panda walks into a bar (or something like that; I'm trying to remember from the back cover.) He eats, shoots and leaves. Hold it. A punctuational error just made him a criminal! Yeah, serious misunderstandings can result from you failing to put punctuation where it belongs. Lynne Truss is my hero.
The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis
Like virtually all of Lewis's work, a classic. This one is an entertaining yet sobering series of letters from a senior demon to his nephew. The reader gets an inside peek into conversations of how to effectively tempt a human to sin. It'll wake you up to Satan's subtlety!
The Elements of Style, William Strunk and E.B. White
Every literate, English-speaking person should read this at least once in his life, even if it's painful. Better yet, read it once a year. This is an irreplaceable handbook on the ins and outs of grammar and style -- the best in its class.
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I'm ashamed I've never read this before now. It's such a warm story about family values, respect for all people, and standing up for what's right. You'll fall in love with the characters. That's a generic comment, I know, but I read it before I had a baby, and now half my brains are gone. Oh, I did discover that Harper is a woman.
Mystery and Manners, Flannery O'Connor
Dear me, another book on writing. I think I may be addicted to them. At any rate, here's one of my favorite quotes from O'Connor's take on how to write well: "I think that if there is any value in hearing writers talk, it will be in hearing what they can witness to and not what they can theorize about." Here's another one: "There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored." Oh, yeah, and this one: "The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that doesn’t require his attention." That one might be my favorite. Okay, I'll stop. Flannery O'Connor just really knows her stuff.
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
I decided to read this after I listened to "Word by Word," a lecture Lamott gave at a writers' conference. As in all her books, Anne Lamott is honest and unsparing in this book about writing. My favorite piece of advice is to seek enjoyment -- not publication -- in writing because publication doesn't bring fulfillment.
Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott
I ought to be writing this book right about now. This is a collection of journal entries Lamott wrote during the first year of her son's life. Sappy tears, frustration, sheer amazement at this little dependent human being -- they're all there hanging out. (sigh) I ought to read this book again.
Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, Kathleen Norris
Sometimes I disagree with Norris's theology, but as with Anne Lamott, there's enough truth and candor in her writing that it makes me step back and rethink why I believe what I believe. One of the things I love most about this book is its seemingly exhaustive list of topics. Norris writes about everything from apostacy to grace to the Holy Ghost, giving each its short, manageable chapter. She tackles the "vocabulary of faith" with her own spin and her own experiences, maybe for people who don't have a handle on all that Christian terminology, or maybe just for herself. I think it'd be fun to rewrite my own version of this book.
Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse
When I first opened this book, I thought, "Ugh. Poetry." Isn't that horrible, coming from one who tries to write the stuff? Using my better judgment, though, I decided to check out the book anyway. I figured there had to be a good reason it was a Newbery award-winner. Not only was the poetry readable, the story was compelling, gritty, beautiful. It's an Oklahoma tomboy's account of her family's survival during the depression and dustbowl of the 1930s. Check it out; you can finish it in less than a day.
An American Childhood, Annie Dillard
I loved this autobiography. Beginning with age five or maybe even younger, Dillard tells with amazing detail of her life growing up in Pittsburg. One of my favorite chapters is about the physical ugliness of adults. With hiliarious and believable charm, she describes studying and playing with the veins in her mother's hands. I forgot how important things like that are!
I think I was more discriminatory in my book choices in 2006, and as a result, I'm coming away with a genuine respect for writers who can really write. In reading quality work, I expanded my repertoire of authors I enjoy, but at the same time, doing my own writing seems all the more intimidating. But why? As Anne Lamott says, I just need to enjoy it. Who's keeping score?
But aside from writing, the more I read, the more I know I have to keep reading. There's too much good stuff out there to waste any time! Now it's time to snuggle up with Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer...
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