Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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or we could just buy new coffee filters

Story #1, The Mystery of the Hand Warmer:

This past Sunday Handsome and I took Klaus to Oklahoma City for the Open Streets festival. Despite the dark and chilly afternoon, we had so much fun! My parents and local sibs and beautiful nieces were all there too, and I loved every minute. Easy family time. We just enjoyed walking up and down the venue, meeting the vendors and jumping rope badly (me) or great (Angela), letting Klaus sniff each of the seven thousand dogs. (He was extremely well behaved. We were proud dog parents.)

And we showed up in a photographer’s public gallery, so we’re famous now, right??

At one point in the exploration, I was walking with Chloe, my sister Angela’s second born. She is a girl with sharp wits. A biting wit, you could say. Her mom bounced up to us and we traded updates about our meanderings. Then she remembered a free giveaway token in her pocket and showed Chloe. “Look, I got you a surprise, you’re gonna love it!”

Some background: Angela is very good at selecting personal gifts, big and small. She has a talent for showing you that she gets you. I love that!!

Anyway. The surprise was a single use handwarmer, the foil-wrapped kind, provided by one of the festival vendors. Chloe had been cold and it was so sweet and funny.

Then it got really funny.

Chloe asked aloud, “How do they work?” and everyone started offering their ideas.

As if none of us adults had ever successfully used a chemical hand warmer before.

Like ever in our very mature lives.

The possibilities of how they might work seemed endless. Who knew the secrets of these tiny packages of sorcery?! Perfect little modern miracles!! Angela and I got more excited and cracked up by the second. We knew it was ridiculous but couldn’t stop. (We also just didn’t know.)

“I think you break it like a glow stick!”

“No, I think you just squeeze it, I’ve been squeezing it a lot in my pocket already.” (Like a picnic condiment, probably.)

“Do you cut it open?”

“Are you sure it’s not electric?”

And so forth.

Imagine a calm but simmering middle school girl fluttering her beautiful eyelashes and collapsing her posture just a little more than it already was. Imagine her sighing so loudly we could hear it even above our cacophony of brilliant ideas.

“Or… you could read the directions???” Freckles sparkling on her cold cheeks.

We busted out laughing so hard and looked. Yep, sure enough, the foil wrapper was printed on one side with clear instructions which were, I am sad to say, not remotely close to any of our theories.

Oh well.

This reminds me of another Chloe story. I am pretty sure this took place last March when our whole group was in town for Grandpa’s funeral.

That photo above is me with my four siblings, March 2017. From the left, not in birth order, is Gen, then me, then Joe (Joey ok PLEASE), then Ang, and Phil (John to his coworkers and to my confoundment). My joke for this moment is that it looks like we had just cut a Beastie Boys cover album. The truth is, we had.

Story #2, Coffee Filters:

Ok. Three generations were crowded happily in Mom and Dad’s living room, talking about lots of irreverent things, things that were especially irreverent considering the somber reason for our gathering. One of the conversations was centered around suitable emergency substitutions for coffee filters.

I don’t remember exactly how this started, but it took off like widlfire. Considering ourselves a clever and resourceful bunch, the list grew by the minute. People suggested clean socks or tee shirts, paper towels, tissue wrapping paper, flour sack cotton, and much more. No one claimed (or admitted) to have ever tried any of these things, mind you; but we were in an unspoken contest to one-up the previous suggestion. You have siblings. You know the drill.

This whole time, Chloe had been playing a video game with her slender back to the room. She had so far contributed zero to this lively exchange. Out of the blue, she said, “Or we could just go buy some more coffee filters!” Dripping with both sweetness and acidity.

We all lost our minds from laughing. 

And that is the end of my story today.

A straight line is the shortest distance
between two points.
XOXOXOXO

 

 

 

 

there’s no crying in blogging!!

It has been brought to my attention that so many of my posts lately are, however appreciated or readable, so sad that a very special person in my life can no longer read them at work for fear of crying at her desk. So I am dedicating this post entirely to her, and it will contain only funny stuff. Three stories.

Also. She and I are embarking on a new book, reading in tandem The Radium Girls by Kate Moore. We will explore these 400 pages across time zones and while juggling very different lifestyles. I can’t wait to discuss it with her! And I will post a review when we finish.

Okay. Three short stories, all painfully true:

  1. False Alarm: After a good speed workout at my favorite four-mile loop, that one at a nearby reservoir that is so well patrolled by both local police and the sheriff’s department, I was stretching near my car. Really stretching, and actively celebrating a good run because I love my tendons and ligaments so much right now. A police officer with whom I have a hand-waving acquaintance sped over and circled up alongside my car. Kind of in a startling way. I thought for sure I was being arrested. (You know, for running too fast, ha!) He asked if I was ok, I confirmed that I was great but had I done something wrong officer, he said it looked like I was flagging him down for help. That, my friends, is some over-achieving stretch work!
  2. Zero Upper Body Strength: One afternoon this past week Handsome and I took Klaus to a nearby park to romp around and sniff things, two of his best hobbies. I spotted a small monkey bar and had no choice but to attempt an old-school penny drop. This was a staple back in childhood, something my neighborhood friends and I did from the swingset hundreds of times per day and eventually perfected so well that we often hosted backyard performances for Mom and Dad. Once they even brought popcorn and lemonade and offered us scores. It was like the Olympics! It was also the era of Mary Lou Retton, okay? We nailed all the landings back then.Well, back to 2018 and I am 44 and my penny drop days might be far behind me. Despite some recent efforts to lift a hexagon weight here and there, I could not even hoist myself up to the bar without a phenomenal, crawling and moaning, very awkward full body effort. The difficulty was stunning, especially compared to how buoyant and energetic I had felt all day. When I finally got my knees hooked over the bar, my fancy Old Navy workout pants made the whole situation so soft and slippery that my husband said something like, “Don’t break your teeth!” To which my brain added, “…again!!“SoI dismounted (that’s a gymnastics term, don’t worry about it) and aggressively scooched the purple compression fabric up over my knees, hoping some skin contact to the metal would help. It did not help, but it did summon happy memories of raw skin and summertime. Also, I am 5’8″ and the monkey bar was built for children, so once I stretched out upside down, my head almost touched the ground already.


    So I dismounted again but didn’t exactly nail the landing. Really a fantastic anticlimax. Then I spent several uncomfortable minutes working to un-scooch the compression fabric back down to my ankles. It had sort of cut off the circulation at my knees.
    A penny drop did not happen that day, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. Do I want this more than I want to beat my brother in a half marathon? Maybe.

  3. Staple Gun Drama & Marriage is Hard: Yesterday, just before the weather turned cold and ugly, I wandered outside to see what kind of protection the gardens would need overnight. So much has broken dormancy and has been growing well this month, I didn’t want to lose anything to the predicted frost and freeze. I carried to the raised veggie beds a large sheet of landscape fabric, buckets, and my husband’s staple gun. He offered to help me with the staple gun but I took such great offense to him obviously thinking I was too dumb and incapable to operate it myself that I said something sharp and refused all assistance. He went back inside, wounded a little but mostly stunned I think, and I proceeded to deal with the project at hand all by myself thank you very much.Guess what. I couldn’t load staples into the stupid staple gun. But rather than ask for help I went to my little tool cabinet and brought out a hammer and box of finishing nails instead.  I hammered that white fabric to the wooden boxes as quietly as possible, tap-tap-tap, glancing furtively over my shoulder the whole time, lest my temporary opponent might hear the banging and feel victorious.Ok, as you might have guessed, he definitely heard the hammering and also saw through the upstairs window that I had abandoned the staple gun.Later I apologized for snapping at him and explained why my feelings were hurt but that I knew he had good intentions, is only ever trying to help and obviously he knows I am a genius. Obviously. He nodded enough to satisfy me then said that, actually, he had seen that I was trying to use a broken staple gun. Apparently, we own two. The End.

Sometimes life is easy-squeezy-lemon peasy.
Sometimes it is difficult-difficult-lemon-difficult.
XOXOXOXO

since yesterday

Hello friends and thank you so much for the love and encouragement you guys showed after yesterday’s post. Your comments here and on Facebook and in email all helped me feel very normal and not alone in the brackish water of life. We do all swim in a wonderful mix of good and bad. And you helped me want to write again, but more deeply, with more purpose. Thank you. 

You may have seen on Instagram later in the day that after that blog post, life served up another curveball. Sort of.

On one hand, it’s another emotional shock. On the other, it’s exactly the kind of thing that tends to happen just before a breakthrough, which I have been feeling was on its way. So, I actively choose to trust God. (What good is it for me only trust Him in easy, happy times? He’s got this, and so do we. We can do more than we think, and we can pray our way through any unknown, believing that His strength is made perfect in our weakness.)

Jocelyn has apparently moved back to Estes Park, or at least is traveling there now, we don’t know. As I told my husband, it hurts because I have already been missing her so much, even as nearby as she had been while living with her paternal grandparents in Oklahoma City. The physical proximity was slightly comforting, but our contact was limited and strained. So I just miss her so much, despite trusting God with her well being. 

By contrast, I remember feeling so close to her last September and all those three years leading up to that time. Just beautifully, intimately acquainted and well bonded. As I type this we are just past the three year anniversary of Joc moving to Estes Park for what was supposed to be a six-month YMCA experience. She stayed, obviously, and followed her heart in unpredictable ways. She grew and deepened and found herself, which I celebrated and shared sparingly here and there. We all just felt our way through every curveball, relinquishing control (which is an illusion) and grasping to our relationship instead. I visited her as often as possible and during those weeks we made thousands, millions, of beautiful memories. 

In September of last year, Joc was still living in EP, in a new apartment with her two pups and her boyfriend at the time and sometimes another friend. She was working two jobs and loving life, beginning to consider some college classes. She had just celebrated her twenty-second birthday, and  I sent her a gift package including homemade granola. Pumpkin-spice with pecans and coconut. She said opening it smelled like home. I felt her love and believed she felt mine. We talked on the phone several times per week and traded notes daily. Whatever was going on behind the scenes, my husband and I were in that blissful ignorance of how everything was about to implode.

Back to yesterday. I cried for a while after hearing the news that she was gone again, but I was not terror-stricken like before.  Nor was I, really, all that surprised. Just very sad. She is and will always be my baby, as trite as that sounds. I love her name, her face, her skin, her voice. I love her taste in music, her passions, her athleticism, her sense of humor and her unmatched artistic talent. I love her dogs. (I miss Bridget and Bubbins so much I sobbed through yoga three days ago. Will they remember us?)

And yet, yesterday as we absorbed the news, God was physically in the living room with us. I felt that familiar glowing, insulating sensation He brings every time we grieve hard and deep. I knew He was aware of every detail, including the things we didn’t and might never know. This assurance slowed my breath and just kind of stilled everything.

He loves her even more than I do, and His power and protection reach all the way along the interstate through Kansas, all the way up that mountain, and into every cabin and restaurant, into every complex human condition which might affect her. He has always been with her when I wasn’t, and He always will be.

Life goes on, all around us.

Before hearing that news, Monday was fairly productive. Early in the morning, I did some sewing and ironing of BW’s work shirts. Then I wrote that blog post and did morning chores around the farm, indoors and out. The gardens were happily unharmed by the overnight frost, and I silently congratulated us for having brought the potted plants indoors and for making sure the flower and veggie beds had all been deeply watered and mulched ahead of the cold snap.

I drove to one of my nearby running spots and luxuriated in 8 easy miles on dirt trails, listening to a mix of Oprah’s podcats and Skrillex, then grabbed the few household supplies we needed from Walmart. You know, like clearance Easter chocolate.

And extra white thread!

The sewing projects I mentioned include curtains, aprons, and other kitchen treats for Jessica, now 20 and chipping away at some thrilling goals she has set for herself. She found her first (very tiny and extremely adorable) place and is moving in this week! We are so happy for her, so excited! This chapter of anyone’s life can be one of the most fun and most memorable, and she is on the right track to make it so. I’ll share photos only if and when she grooves it. Just know that she is as bright and beautiful and you can imagine.

This cheerful citrusy fabric is one of four or five she selected for her new home. I love it and cannot wait to see this apron on her! She is really excited to cook for herself.

Parenting note: I have had to make a conscious effort to limit how often I mention Jocelyn’s first apartment, which you might recall was that perfect, tiny cabin she renovated. Remember the blue kitchen and pegboard storage wall we installed? I understand now how well-meaning parents of adult children might accidentally frame little stories as competition or comparisons. That is never my intention. It’s all just part of my life. Has this happened to anyone else? 

Also on Monday, I received the most wonderful surprise in our mailbox. Rachel Forest is a mother, writer, and public speaker who also handcrafts gorgeous leather and beaded jewelry. Exactly my style. She and I met when we were on the same cast for LTYM, and for that, I am so grateful. Her story about redeeming motherhood was powerful. She sent me this gorgeous pair of turquoise earrings, very unexpectedly! And the handwritten note is so beautiful. The timing of her gift was perfect. To hear from a friend I made while sharing my motherhood story, on a difficult day in our ongoing parenting saga, had God written all over it. Thank you, Rachel. xoxoxo I can’t wait to wear these and will pay your kindness forward.

Tuesday should be full. I am headed out now to tackle The Big List, run slightly more miles than yesterday (plus hip strengtheners because it’s helping my feet of all things), and hopefully not get blown away by the wind gusts here. What does your day look like?

Thank you again for your loving words. I hope if we cross your mind for any reason you will consider praying for Joceyn’s safety and happiness, for her to hear God’s voice for everything she craves and needs. And for Jessica, that she continues to find her own footing and know how loved and supported she is at this exciting time.

You have our prayers too, any time you need them.

“A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions,
and the roots spring up and make new trees.”
~Amelia Earhart
XOXOXOXO

 

 

stories I would love to tell you

Yesterday evening after a wonderful Easter dinner and board games, my sister Angela and I stole away to our childhood kitchen to talk. We covered a lot of ground in a few solitary minutes, and one thing that came up was social media and what I choose to write about here on this blog. (Social media itself is a much-happening conversation in my life lately, by the way; an interesting shift is happening amongst my friends.)

I shared with her that over the years I have at times written very personal stories and enjoyed the warm embrace of whoever my readers were at that time. Sometimes though, and almost always at the times it would hurt the most, I have shared deeply private things and felt some serious backlash. So I lately tend to keep it pretty much on the surface.

Anyway.

All that to say that I have so much more to write about. Stuff beyond more frequent updates about #farmlife and #slowfood and my ground-breaking salad ideas (ha!) and running goals. Not that those topics aren’t fun! But they only scratch the surface. The daily fabric of life is important and how we relate to each other. But certainly, we all have secrets and tragedies and spiritual battles, family histories and terrifying giants that we’re trusting can be felled by five stones in God’s name. We relate to each other this way, too. It’s just that shame, fear of backlash, and other reasons keep us from sharing those stories.

So there are many, many stories like this that are begging to be written. And I would hope that the writing might be more than cathartic for me; I would hope to buoy someone or shed light into a murky situation, at least.

For example?

What really happened in Colorado last November and where Jocelyn is now. And what our friends and family did to help us. Why I know we did the right thing, no matter what is being said about us now, by the same people who called us for desperate help then.

The advice my Dad has given us since November. (I should really share this because maybe you need it too. He’s a really amazing Dad and I am so lucky to have him.)

Why my children were gone for so long (at least as I see it).

What unprecedented miracles have happened in recent months to restore our family.

The time DHS appeared at the farm. And how vicious a custody battle can be.

Why I tend to form resentments against certain “types” of mothers. And how I am trying to soften my heart in that respect.

What happened with my husband’s sister and her adult son, what they did to the home where we raised the girls.

And the restorative miracles God has provided since then, both financially and emotionally.

The nature of addiction and the foul, destructive ways it has permeated our family (and my ex-husband’s) throughout generations.

The actual differences and similarities between Catholicism and Pentecost, in my own experience.

Why I am at peace with our church being closed. How much deeper my spiritual walk has been since, and yet how much I do understand what all those years meant to my husband (and to me for that matter).

The time we have been spending with new friends at monthly small group discussions.

Our new Lazy W Outreach project.

The deepest reasons I love running. (Five years into this, it’s about so much more than weight management now. Man.)

What my sister Angela’s life has been like these recent years, and the years before that, and what she has learned about fear and love, all about the same time I have been learning it too. And why I have resented her so bitterly. And how we have finally made peace and started a brand new friendship.

The sight of a woman I used to respect and admire, strapped to a hospital bed following a suicide attempt. And the precipitating storms since then.

What it’s like not having a “real job” in our stormy climate of feminism and all that jazz. And how it feels when people assume I have gobs of free time available for the taking. And how much I love having time free for my own taking, and my husband’s.

The few vivid and unshakable reasons I will always “unfriend” people on social media and why I am quick to burn certain bridges, seemingly out of the blue.

The first thoughts I tend to have when someone says they are trying to have a baby, or they are battling infertility.

How Jessica is faring and what her journey has looked like this past year especially. I want to tell you all about her stay in Germany with the Benedictine nuns and also all about her next chapter.

How I can tell the difference between a dream that is mental junk and a dream that is a message from God. Also, how I know His voice in the daytime. I’ve known since I was about six years old.

Why book club ended so suddenly, according to me.

And so very much more. Honestly, the things I could write about but choose to protect far outnumber the things I could write about but just don’t take the time to, because I do stay pretty busy these days. I am sure if pressed, you would say the same about your own life.

Life is messy and being a human is complicated, as my friend Mickey says.

You might glance through this quickly brainstormed list and easily peg the topics that I would protect mostly because the stories belong also to other people. Our lives are interconnected after all, and my own experience is only ever one of many overlapping circles, you know? I would never want to dilute someone else’s truth by highlighting my own.

(That is exactly why writing for Listen to Your Mother last spring was so difficult. Which is a whole other story to include in this list!)

Lots of shame, too. And even without shame, lots of things in life are just plain difficult to explain fully, and it hurts to live them over and over again. I have healed from plenty over the years, just like you have, and if given I choice I always choose to move forward.

Face the light, celebrate the miracles, live in the moment, today. Expect good things in the future.

I believe this stuff.

So why do these things keep circling?

Okay, friends. I don’t know what this means for this blog, going forward. I just needed to catch my breath and punctuate this a bit. Thank you for reading today and every single time you visit here. Thank you for your kind comments and emails, always, and for the unkind ones too because they have taught me a lot. Thank you for good vibes and prayers. You have mine always!

Now, on this chilly April morning, I am going to check on the animals and my gardens, because we woke up to a frosty farm. And then I will run 7 or 8 easy miles and go buy some white thread to finish a sewing project for Jessica and work on aprons for friends. And then? We will see. The list is long, as always, just like yours but probably very different too.

“Courage starts with showing up
and letting ourselves be seen.”
~Brene Brown
XOXOXOXO