It's Not Like The Movies

Lately I've seen a few posts by people who adore little cabins in the woods. The photos they share are of small log structures or cedar shacks with flower boxes ,a clear flowing spring nearby and pecking chickens dotting the yard.

And nearly every person says, "I could live here!"

Easy for you to say. 

What will you do without closets? Those big bulky coats and dozens of shoes won't fit under the sofa or the rocker. You can't hang them on the fireplace and snow will surely ruin them on the screened porch. Put them in bins? And where do you stack the bins? At the foot of the bed so you can trip over them every night? On the kitchen counter so you can move them 3 times a day in order to cook?

What do you do when company comes? Let them all pile on the bed, sit on the coffee table, stand at the doorway and play games on the floor?

Where do you possibly have room for luxuries like stew pots, griddles, blenders, pressure cookers and food processors? Where do you put spices, utensils, Tupperware and extra plates? How do you even begin to cook a big meal with a four foot counter space and no kitchen table?

How do you survive with only a shower? Won't you miss a long, hot bubble bath? Soaking your sore muscles from hauling firewood? Wouldn't you go crazy without the opportunity now and then to let Calgon take you away?

Where do you put all your cool stuff? Like the retro bar cart, martini glasses, giant art pieces, photographs, guitars, collections, seasonal decor and keepsakes?

Where do you store your bills and financial papers? Your favorite books? Your dogs toys? Those extra blankets, pillows, comforters and rugs?

Do you just do without extras? Do you adapt to the smallness of life? Do you sacrifice the things you love having around you for acres of woods and a log fortress? 

Would you really love to live there,  or just think you would?

The trickling spring is usually is home for bugs, snakes, salamanders and critters. Those sweet white chickens turn dirty and stinky. The flower boxes fill up with snow in the winter. The yard turns muddy. The forest turns gray. The little cabin fills up with fever so intense you think you might just break. You reek of firewood and cooked bacon and Deepwoods Off. Your skin is tattooed with bug bites and thorn pricks. And if your husband plays Stairway to Heaven on his guitar one more time, you might get out the shovel and start digging a six foot hole.

Yes, those little pristine places are so cute. Quite beautiful, in fact.

But you really don't want to live there.

Trust me, I know.

Simplicity Is Not Simple

I've learned a lot in the past few months...

I've always wondered what the cabin would be like in the winter. We spent an occasional weekend here before we moved here. It was usually a quick visit and rarely when there was snow on the ground. I anticipated the quiet woods and beautiful snow covered scenery that would be mine to enjoy on a daily basis once we lived here.

Let me tell you now. Snow is snow. It's the same everywhere. It's cold, it's depressing, it's inconvenient, it limits your activity and your choices. It may be pretty for awhile, but once you track through it in bulky coats and awkward rubber boots, it loses its appeal. Once you haul in tractor loads of firewood, feel your hand numbing while getting the mail, and have your eyes water when stepping outside, then the love is gone.

I don't think I expected this. I thought curling up with hot chocolate and a good book would be romantic and peaceful. And it is. For a day or two. Not for months! Not for what seems like FOREVER! 

My eyes scan the frosty horizon and I mourn for spring. I never thought I'd look forward to mowing the yard and weeding the garden and thinning the woods and fighting the bugs. I never thought I would feel trapped here. 

I never expected this anger.

I know that when spring finally arrives I will be ecstatic! It will be like the Wizard of Oz. I'll be dropped from the icy tornado of winter into a beautiful, flower filled world of color and music. I will dance. Sing. Shout hallelujah!

We discuss building on this year, but keep going back and forth- trying to decide on money matters and trying to predict the economy.

I am ready to spread my wings a little. Fluff my nest. 

Stretch. Stretch. Stretch.

My heart says that only now matters. That we must live in the moment. But I haven't always been the wisest one in this marriage. All I know is winter is not what I dreamed it would be ...and thinking of living though another one like this again has left me a bit downhearted. 

The biggest lesson I've learned is this: I've learned you never really simplify your life. Your baggage goes with you. You learn to need certain things. Like Internet and satellite TV, eating out, tech toys and computers, extra buildings, tractors and tools and entertainment. You can never get away from car payments and mortgages and utility bills. You need a phone, new clothes and modern appliances.

It is a true art knowing how to pare down to the essentials. 

And to actually enjoy the sparsity of such a lifestyle.

Maybe I'm spoiled. Lazy. Ill equipped. All I know is this winter has me thinking negative thoughts. And I am usually the positive voice.

I'm sure once the daffodils shoot up across the hillside and dogwoods bloom with cotton colored blossoms, I'll think differently. Once the blue birds and robins return to build nests in the treetops, I will be smiling again. Once the warm breeze blows my hair and the night stars hang heavy in the sky, I will love this place again. And I'll forget today. This blue funk. This virtual pity party.

Spring, please hurry. Please...

Magic

I've unintentionally gone three months without posting. I'm sure how that happened. Time just got away from me. The duties of life took over and random thoughts on paper took a back seat to important responsibilities.

It's not that I haven't written all this time. I've just been writing in my head and my heart. At night while I'm lying in bed, in the morning when I watch the birds on the snow, during quiet evenings when the fireplace glows a thousand colors- I sort through words and put them together till they feel good. They just haven't found their way to paper yet...

We've had a cold winter here. Luckily the cabin is small and the fireplace big. And the fact that we don't have to venture out unless we are starving helps us accept it somewhat.

There are days I feel shackled by these walls, bound by my little counter and stove, crushed into a corner full of too many clothes, overflowing papers, and boxes of who- knows- what. 

But other days I feel exposed, open, lacking those proper walls and boundaries that secure privacy.

I've come to realize there is no happy medium. But such is the case in any home, so I roll with it.

There are days when I awaken and feel a dull sense of pain. A tiny, throbbing homesickness. A quick stab of nostalgia.

It's in those moments I look back to the big house we left. To soft carpeting underfoot, a collection of glassware displayed in a cupboard, a deep, warm bathtub filled with bubbles, the smell of fabric softener drifting from the laundry room, a shelf stacked with good books, a favorite table to play games, a place to listen to sweet music, a favorite chair....

It's also in these moments that I forget why we moved here.

We moved here because it is magic.

Once you come down that forest road and through the rusty gate it's obvious that this place is special. A big red barn, a tiny little cabin, and giant oaks that spread their arms in every season. A friendly scarecrow, an abundant garden, and flowers that sing. Secret pathways through the woods, wildlife that shows up at unexpected moments, and butterflies that dance among the dandelions. The fire pit glowing with embers, a stack of freshly cut wood, straight lines mowed across a green lawn, and a creek that bubbles from the earth. At night there are stars so thick and bright that they take your breath away. You just stare up at the night sky and say, " Ahhhhhh..." 

These are the things that matter. 

Not the little house or the fancy things. Not the extra room or extra things.

And I ask the good Lord right now to not ever let me become callous or indifferent to this beauty. Don't ever let me be looking over the fence when paradise is under my feet. Please let me breathe this fresh air, explore these wonderful woods, and enjoy these simple pleasures for all my life.

A Paper Sack Full Of Happy

Back before they made plastic pumpkin heads with a handle, designer Trick-or-Treat tote bags, or gallon buckets stenciled with monster heads, there was the perfect candy holder for Halloween night. The paper sack.

Long before the sun ever thought of setting on Halloween, we were all lined up in our home made costumes, clutching our paper bags - the very most important part of a successful costume. 

When mom passed them out, they were smooth and stiff and it took a bit of talent to roll the top down into a comfortable handle. But as we watched the clock roll around to twilight, we practiced numerous times on proper bag management. 

It was the only thing that had to survive the night. 

Forget the bed pillow as a belly, Dad's house slippers on small feet, or jewelry, wigs and gloves. They were all dispensable. But the paper sack? Well, it was the symbol of success, happiness, and love.

There are Halloween nights from my childhood that I can only remember through two small slits of a cheap mask. I remember high heels flopping on broken sidewalks, itchy wool sweaters, dripping makeup and insufficient flashlights. I can remember freshly mowed grass sticking to my shoes and dew soaking through my socks. I can still see jack-o-lanterns beneath porch lights, sheet ghosts in the bushes and crowds of neighbor kids like gangs, forcing a candy handout with the quick whisk of a open paper sack.

It was worth every stumble, every leap across ditches and obstructive landscape...every long ,weary mile of the candy crusade.  Because once we were under the protective halo of our own porch light again, we knew we had made it. We were home. Our sacks had survived. We had persevered. We were as close to heaven as children dared to be.

After ripping off the costumes, washing our lip-sticked faces and mosquito bitten hands, we changed into some warm clothes and sat Indian-style on the floor. In the perfect hollow of our crossed legs, we each poured out the contents of our bag, being extra careful not to cross the boundaries of one another. One stray Bit-o-Honey or a chunk of Double Bubble was totally up for grabs, no matter who had spent two chilly hours walking door to door for it.

By this time our paper sacks were thin and wrinkled, with a soft, pliable handle like the smoothness of old leather. Ripped, torn, and previously bulging, we used it again and again in the next few weeks to harbor our candy stash.

I always ate the chocolate first. (Things never really change, do they?). Then I chose the butterscotch, starlight mints and English toffee. I traded away my Tootsie Rolls, licorice, and Mr. Rainey's traditional red-delicious apple. 

Within a week, my paper sack rolled up nicely to the size of small town newspaper, hidden away in the back of my drawer with only a few sticky bits of gum and jelly beans clinging to the inside.

It's almost sad to think how important Halloween night used to be. But in our large family, candy was a luxury - known only at Christmas. Halloween was our jackpot. Our lottery of lollipops. Our only chance to savor, hoard, and possess the sweetness of rich peoples treats.

Eventually the paper sacks were empty. Our efforts to extend the life of Halloween night soon faded into thoughts of Santa. 

But I have never forgotten how a simple paper sack gave us such immense joy. How one scary night was was one we remembered for years to come,

every time we relished a piece of candy or a stick of gum.

Thank you, mom. For letting us out into the dark with our paper sacks to bring back priceless memories.

  

It Doesnt Matter What They Think

When I was in fifth grade my mom took me to Montgomery Wards and bought me a new pair of shoes. This was a rare occasion, as most of my footwear was hand-me-downs, so I delighted in the prospect of something new and shiny...and totally mine.

What I ended up getting was a pair of patent slip-ons, with a slightly pointy toe, and leather the color of a pomegranate. Not red, mind you, but a sweet berry that shined with a hint of sparkle when I danced in the sun.

At first these shoes were stiff and awkward, barely bending the way I thought my feet should fall, slightly restrictive, but I loved them none the less. At night I would push them together under the bed and they resembled a little red heart. I fell asleep, anxious to wear them again the next morning.

Most girls my age were wearing go-go boots back then. Or sophisticated saddle loafers that bore no toe scuffs whatsoever - and smelled like real leather. I knew my classmates didn't really understand the fondness I had for my own shoes. And secretly I knew there were times when my shoes were the subject of muffled laughter.

Before long, the newness wore off. My feet slipped into them without a finger of assistance, the shiny, flesh colored soles became scuffed gray, and the glittery shine fogged over with days of unbridled play and unconscious abuse.

There were days I looked down at my feet and I was embarrassed. And I admit, there were tiny, fleeting moments when I wished I had chosen another style - or times when I dreamed of replacing them with a newer pair.
But in my little girl heart, I loved those shoes. Worn, familiar, and comfortable, I did my best to walk tall and be proud.

It is kind of like my home here. Some people don't understand. It's a little too wild, a bit too dated, a tad unfashionable and a suitable brunt of hillbilly jokes.

And even though this place is now familiar, no longer new, doesn't shine with quite the breathtaking brilliance as it did the day we moved here, my little girl heart still loves it.

And it's the perfect place to dance in the sun.

October Thoughts

I watch the world from my kitchen window...

 Yellow leaves swirl in the cool breeze. ..

Thin gray squirrels hop in the dry grass, searching for acorns and walnuts...

A hawk is silhouetted above the rain soaked clouds. 

I dip my hands in soapy dishwater and breathe deeply. This is my home now. Almost six months. 

Things grow familiar. 

Places fit my feet. 

I feel as though I am surrounded by lovely things here...and I belong.

The last three tomatoes from the garden sit in a blue bowl, almost soupy with ripeness. A bittersweet reminder that summer is over...that autumn surrounds us now and the harvest is complete. That the time of green clover and fireflies will not come again for another year.

I wonder if winter will be my friend at my new home....if I will curl up into a cozy cocoon and watch the snow fly, or will the chill eat away my bones till I can no longer see the beauty here? Will my heart welcome the ice covered creek and frosted pines, or will I hide away from the world of cold cruelty?

Yet, if winter must come, this is the place to face it. In a little cabin with a big fire, crackling away in a brick fireplace...soft cookies baking in the oven...a pot of thick chili cooking on the stove...my husband playing guitar...my dog sleeping in the fluff of quilted bed...silent snowflakes making a white world beyond the windows...

Time goes by.

I try to catch it. Reach out my hands and grasp its wonder...

Thank you, God, for this beautiful world and the blessings you have given me.

The Old Table

Sometime in the mid-eighties, we outgrew our kitchen table. A small walnut table with drop leaf sides that barely fit four dinner plates.

It just so happened that a friend of my sister was moving and offered to give us her dining room table.It was a nice size, oval, with a faux brown marble top made of the ever popular Formica. It had chrome legs, and no chairs, but we took it home and made it part of our lives.

We had that table in our dining room for thirty years. 

Often covered with a nice table cloth, ( and other times strewn with laundry, junk mail, or tools), we never felt the urge to go out and replace it. It  was solid and big and it worked. 

Over the years, I fell in love with it, realizing it made a perfect place to spread out the sewing machine and fabric projects. 

Covered with newspapers, it was ideal for pumpkin carving nights.

On weekends it was the best place for board games. And a deck of cards slid sweetly across its surface when a hand of Spades was being dealt.

That old table knew Thanksgiving turkeys and Christmas hams. And birthday cakes that were lopsided but baked with love.

It saw VCR tapes tossed upon it for return, then DVd's , and then the evolution to Blu Ray and an occasional XBox game.

That table was where I sat with my kids and dyed Easter eggs, our fingers turning the gray/blue/black, with spots of glitter and stickers.

And years later, it is the table where my grandchildren colored their Easter eggs, too... their bright faces proud of the multi colored masterpieces that they created.

How many art projects were born at that table? There is still a spot or two of glue, permanent marker, and spray paint as proof that fun was made right there...that scissors and paste and water colors and paper folding was always something that Nana enjoyed sharing at her old table.

That table is where we had our first Karaoke, dozens of guitar medleys, "Dad wants to talk to you " meetings...and where we simply just sat and talked.

That table was a great makeshift bar, holding several types of liquor and soda and glassware for Halloween celebrations and summer theme parties.

It was versatile. One day it might be a buffet, the next night it was a place to crawl under during the tornado watch. 

Some days it was a tent, other times a place for presents and packages and prayers.

There were bar stools and desk chairs and high chairs alike pulled up to this table. And even a plywood addition on sawhorse legs to extend when company came.

 It was a place for family. For life. For things that mattered.

 My husband promised that when we build on next year, he will make me a big harvest table.  He convinced me it was time to pass that old brown table to someone else who needed it. 

So last week we gave it away.

Don't ask me why I cried. 

A Simple Joy

If anyone would have told me a few years ago that I would give up the salt shaker, I would have laughed in their face while salting my bacon. 

Salt was in my hands at the table as often as my fork -and I used it with total abandon. I carried the salt shaker with me while eating in front of the TV. . I filled it often and kept it on the kitchen counter for quick use. A sprinkle was never enough. And two shakes deserved a third.

Not until my son suggested I get a salt block to set in the chair next to me, did I realize how much I really misused this seasoning. To drive his point even further, he showed up one day with a salt block and presented it to me as a gift.  

"This ought to last you a few weeks," he said.

So, I did something then that I thought I would never do. I gave up the salt shaker. 

Mind you, I didn't go completely crazy and  insist all my canned and prepared and fast food be "salt free", but I did make a major difference in the amount of sodium I was pouring into my body.

It has been over a year.

My salt shaker is empty and tucked into the junk drawer. 

My big Morton box is pushed somewhere on the shelf behind the outdated cans of hominy and generic black eyed peas. And I only dust it off and use it in the case of emergency biscuits or some other recipe that calls for "just a dash".

I've learned to eat things without the added salt and I really don't miss it. Scrambled eggs taste good with chopped peppers. I use onions and mushrooms to give meat more flavor, and I've simply grown accustomed to the true taste of most foods without an added skin of sodium.

However, this is the second summer I have gone without eating one of my favorite garden treats. Tomatoes.

Without salt, they just didn't taste good at all. They lacked zing. They seemed mushy and unattractive and useless.

Every time I plucked one from the vine, I smelled that familiar tomato fragrance that I loved since I was old enough to eat. 

I salivated when serving them to my husband.

I mourned for the taste of them as I lined them up perfectly on the windowsill to further ripen in the sun.

But yesterday, as I held a red warm tomato in my hand, I thought to myself -

" Do I want to go through the rest of my life not enjoying this delicious treat?"

So, I pulled a chair up to the cabinet and reached wayyyyy back to retrieve the salt box.

I cut the tip off a beautiful ripe tomato and sprinkled on a little salt. Then I stood over the sink and sunk my teeth into that tart/sweet/salty flesh like I was a little girl again. 

I let he juice drip down my chin and the seeds plop on my tee shirt and I didn't care.  I even wiped my face with the back of my hand and the hem of my shirt. 

And I didn't feel one single bit of guilt. Only joy.

This is not to say I'm back using salt again. I'm not. I know I am healthier without a shaker attached to my hand.

But I also know that we should never deny ourselves a simple joy every now and then.

That tomato made me smile...

Morning Thoughts

In these early morning hours, the air holds a special sweetness. A rare hint of promise, I think. Our minds are open to possibilities and dreams. We dare to think, create and imagine.

 But it is a sweetness that fades when the sun comes up, the day begins, and we are drawn up into the flow of the world. One must rise early and often to experience this breath of freedom.

There was a time in my life when I thought these early moments of the day were wasted. A waiting game. An act of standing in line, eager for the day to start in full force. An impatient space of quickly sipped coffee, of pacing the floor, of testing the clock every two minutes to make sure time hadn't frozen into a huge tick of heavy limbo. I used to think there was something outside my door that defined me. That leaving the circle of my home was breaking out of a suffocating shell.

Now I know it's quite the opposite.

I think that in the essence of our home there is a unique aura that feeds our souls. It's like getting a transfusion with the right type of blood. That only the familiar air of your nest, the breath of your sleep, the fabric of your leisure can prolong happiness.

You know how it is on days when you sleep through the alarm. 

You stumble to get ready. You curse. You rush around to get out the door on time. And it usually goes downhill from there. All day long you feel as though you've been deprived of something. It's a dull ache of realizing something is out of place.

I think it is because your soul failed to breathe. 

That you didn't take time to sit quietly and rest your mind. That you missed that great open window of freedom and sweetness. That short, fleeting space of time when you are alone with your thoughts and with God.

Maybe some people call it meditation. 

Whatever you want to call it, it is as necessary as oxygen. Without it, our lives are smothered by a monotony of work days. Of mounting responsibilities and complex relationships. Of worries and weariness and doubt.

Take time to indulge in your sweet mornings. Fill your soul up with good thoughts. Realize that your true blessings are within you - and when you slow down enough to see them, your life will flourish.

Breathe. Give thanks. Smile.

Leila, The Encourager

According to a Facebook status the other day, my sister in law accompanied a friend to the ER at 1:00 in the morning. Leila had been sleeping, all snugly and dreaming and resting up for the day ahead. But she got up, got dressed, and did what a good friend does.

This made me pause for a moment. It was so like Leila to give of herself unselfishly, to smile and encourage and be the strong shoulder, the kind word...the true friend.

When I look upon my life, I have never been that type of person. I've never been the kind of friend who shares late night coffee, shopping trips, fresh baked bread ( or portions of a good nights sleep.)
I have always been too private, too lazy, and too insecure to be a good friend. At best I am mediocre.

No one calls me at 1:00 am. They know better. They know my shoulder is a bit cold, my words a little shaky, my smile sometimes forced. I'm the kind of friend people call when they need to know about some fancy kind of font, what color I painted my foyer, and how I made that scary pumpkin last Halloween.

Truth be known, I have never had many friends. Maybe it's because I grew up in a large family. Because my brothers and sisters were my world for so many years. And then when I met my husband and got married, I stopped reaching out. I stopped finding time.

And when I did make a new friend, I soon found faults in them. I got bored with our conversations or became too weary to keep up. I didn't want to take the effort to be a good friend. I'm not a leader, a supporter, or like my sister in law Leila, an encourager.

Don't get me wrong. I've always wished I could be (and have) the kind of friend that picks up an extra bottle of nail polish because I know a friend who would love it, who bakes dozen cookies to drop off unexpectedly on their doorstep, who asks their opinions in the dressing room, who shares secrets and dreams ...and doesn't mind when they are woken in the middle of a deep sleep to join someone at the ER.

Lately I have been thinking I've dropped the ball. That God may judge me someday. Ask me why I wasn't the best friend that I could possibly be. Why wasn't I a Good Samaritan, a faithful servant, a unselfish soul? Why wasn't I dependable, reachable, likable? Why wasn't I a needed presence, a helping hand, a treasure to someone? Where was my soft shoulder, my gentle words, my testimony? Why did I stop short of creating solid friendships?

All I know is that friends like Leila are rare and priceless. That if you are -or have- a friend like her, then you are blessed beyond words. Because friendship is something that must be nurtured. Kneaded like bread in order to expand and grow. Tended daily in your heart of hearts.

Thank you, Leila,for being my friend as well as my sister in law. For always having that bright smile, that positive energy, that available shoulder..
And mostly,that gracious love.

Intermission

There is no mistaking the sound of rain on a tin roof. You never have to ask, 

"What's that sound?" It's a familiar tune.
It's a song that says slow down.
Wait.
Breathe.
It's like an unscheduled intermission in life.

This morning the rain is like a lullaby. It rocks me in a cradle of damp greenness. It hums with each pit pat on the roof. How can it be that my morning coffee tastes hotter and richer while listening to the distant thunder?

And why does the rain bring with it such an unmistakable fragrance? It smells like rain. Nothing else can say that. 

Nothing.

Rain slows down the day. Breeds thoughts and dreams like toadstools that pop up without warning. It gives you time to reflect, sort, and take control. 

If only for a little while...

It is still dark here, but I can see the outline of trees- a deep evergreen knot of forest beyond the yard. I never fail to realize how lucky I am to have such a view. To wake up in a playground of pine and oak ...and cedars that whistle in the wind.

It's days like this that make me want to paint. Splash some color here and there with total abandon. To embroider blue thread into the shape of a bird. To draw, color, paste and ponder what has no time on un-rainy days. 

The rain washes away all the person I am not. It reveals my bone. It sees me for who I am.

I suddenly grow aware that the music on the roof slows to a sprinkle, the clouds begin to fade, the light of a pale sky appears beyond the garden. Responsibility and errands come with the sunshine.

So I sip my coffee, say my prayers, and enjoy the last luxurious song of the rain...