Lazy W Marie

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

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high fire danger

This past week I remembered a mental trick or visualization that has always helped me in moments of crisis. I had forgotten about it for a while because, well, it’s not much needed in smooth and easy times. I hope this is useful to you, too.

Years ago, I learned to think of all my emotions as sparks of fire. I acknowledge every single one as real and valid, doing my best to feel them entirely; but then I decide whether they are emotions that should be fanned into true flames, and then into bonfires that can warm me and keep me safe, fires that can warm and feed my loved ones, or sparks that if left unchecked will grow into a dangerous, detructive wildfires.

The whole point for me is that every emotion can be fed or starved and has an end purpose, or at least potential. I get to decide, to an extent, the role they play in my life and in the world I share with my loved ones.

Okay, friends. No doubt about it, this past week has been hard. Not just in circumstances but in the emotional maelstrom that inevitably comes along for the ride. I have been fighting anger that actually qualifies as true rage. Then this rage sometimes drains out of my body and leaves a really cold, weird sadness, and I can’t stop crying. Shadowy details of our situation have twsited into very specific, painful fears that dominated my thoughts for a couple of days. I have definitely seen logical hope here and there, but I was having trouble feeling it most days. And I lost track of how to guide my emotions. I let a few sparks grow into fires when I should have consciously tamped them out.

This only happens in times like this, when our circumstances and life challenges are so bizarre that I don’t feel like myself. It’s insanely destabilizing. Emotionally, it’s a dry, windy, barren kind of environment that makes it so easy for sparks to become wildfires. High fire danger. No room for sloppiness.

A few nights ago, a new friend and one of Handsome’s colleagues texted me, just checking in. We traded updates then settled on a shared belief in this scripture:

“My grace is sufficient for thee. For my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
-II Corinthians 12:9

It was a fairly spontaneous exchange, and it set me gently on the path of renewing myself inwardly, though I had first quoted it (badly) with the intention of helping her. By the next day, I noticed that I was actually feeling better, fresher, more pliable, more alive in my thoughts and even in my body. I was no longer muscling myself into a positive attitude; the whole landscape around us seemed different. Green, hydrated, nourished. More than just hopeful, our entire world seemed to be brimming with promise.

As I write this now, I can honestly say that every single aspect of this situation feels perfect. Anointed, even. Of course there will be more hard days ahead, and there is plenty of mystery still. But that’s ok. I remember now to stay nourished and watered, so that my inner emotional landscape is never so dry and barren that sparks can fly out of control like that. And I remember to choose carefully which sparks get to be fanned into beautful, cozy, life affirming bonfires.

Thanks for reading, friends, and thanks for your messages and solid gold love this week! I hope this is helpful to you in some way.

“Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.” ~II Corinthians 10:5

a butterfly on Christmas morning

On Christmas morning, we stood outside in tee shirts and bare feet, marveling at the unseasonably warm weather. Sun shone abundantly, and a vivid blue and black butterfly landed on the northeast corner of our house, warming itself on the brick.

We had just enjoyed a sweet and festive overnight celebration with Jess and Alex, truly a glittery and affectionate family Christmas. This had followed a long and scary week with my Mom in the hospital, then a few days of intense last minute prep for the holiday. I was feeling both deeply satisfied and profoundly tired. Handsome was starting his week long vacation, and we were excited to collapse a little bit into some uneventful days, just resting and cocooning together.

The next day when our world threatened to fall apart, I thought of that butterfly. It had appeared almost exactly twenty four hours earlier, but it felt like a month ago. The butterfly appeared then in that reality, but that world no longer felt like ours.

((colorful greenhouse in January))

The thing is, I am a sucker for a metaphor. My mind searches constantly for parallels and omens, messages and patterns in daily life. Hidden meanings. Usually this serves me pretty well, but for the past eight days or so, my thoughts have been so turbulent and my heart so hurt, I can’t quite get a clear picture.

This week I have typed out and deleted dozens of pages trying to explain what happened, how it affects us and why this feels like history repeating itself in new brutal ways, what sense I have managed to make of it all, and more. But none of it feels worth sharing. I just want to anchor my thoughts to the deep knowlede that God is in control. Remember that our peace is linked directly to how deeply and consistently we stay aligned with Him.

I try to remember the butterfly appearing out of context. Beauty where it doesn’t belong, you know?

I try to remember that Love does win, and this includes the private spaces of my own heart. I cannot afford to hate people, not even temporarily to soothe myself, ha. (Why does hate feel just a little bit good, for just a minute?)

I try to remember that truth has a way of coming to light. Sunshine sanitizes. And often the truth comes out with no help from us.

I try to remember the personal immense value of doing regular, daily work. Simple stuff. Meaningful, steady, physical work. As unto God, not for anyone’s approval.

I try to remember the importance of harnessing my imagination, which is really tough when your body is filled alternately with either rage, fear, or grief. But it does matter. Imagination is powerful.

I try to remember that miracles are happening all around us. And stepping out of our own storm to be aware of other people’s realities can be really helpful. My grandmother was so good at this.

I try to see the hidden answers, the gifts secreted to us in the midst of what we could curse as only a bad thing in life. We have endured far worse than this in our marriage, and we will endure this.

Thanks for listening, friends. Thanks for overlooking my lack of clarity and my failure to arrive at a great metaphor. Maybe the butterfly on Christmas Day was an omen of good and beautiful things out of the bue, maybe not. But it will probably live in my memory as an attachment to this bizarre chapter.

Order, Disorder, Reorder
~Dr. Richard Rohr
xoxo

snowmelt & hope for change

All week we been shivering and hiding ourselves away in near-zero temps, shrouded in snow and ice. Dark, moody skies. Until today.

Today, the sun reappeared. It started with a raw, rusty edge in the east, a quiet daybreak already more promising than the previous few. And although the morning was still frigid, still just four dergrees Farenheit, the brightness made it bearable. Then the sun rose fully and the sky turned from silver-grey to true blue, and I got very excited.

By lunchtime, sunlight was bouncing off of every surface, really truly streaming through the windows. I caught glossy reflections of water here and there. I saw drips, too. Wait, water? The ice is melting! I looked through a window in the Apartment and saw that the middle field, solid white just a few hours ago, was suddenly half mud. The pine trees were suddenly relieved of their snowy burdens, too, and the horses’ manes looked dry. Everything was bright and saturated with color. I ran downstairs to grab a light jacket to go play outside, and when I opened the door the cold nearly took my breath away. I folded in half and shut the door. It was still only around ten degrees, ha! Still frigid cold, even with the evidence of melt.

((snow day in January with Klaus, Max, Sadie, and Charlie!!))

So I bundled up properly this time and invited Klaus on a walk. He loves the cold. We checked on all the animals, distributed carrots to the horses and extra biscuits to the cows, made a bouncy loop around the back field, and caught Johnny Ringo on our way back uphill. When we passed the Batmobile and walked to get the mail, I started thinking about the sunlight and low temps and how we can enjoy a thaw even before we approach thirty two degrees. The concentration of light, I suppose, is pretty powerful.

You must already know where I’m going with this, if you’ve been here very long.

A little bit of weak sunlight, at low angles, is no match for ice in low temperatures.

But strong, abundant, uninterrupted rays of light, concentrated, directed energy, maybe bouncing off of surrounding walls and objects, can absolutely melt ice, even in low temperatures. That’s amazing.

I’m taking this as a reminder that focused attention can make all the difference in our work. That prayer can change things, if it is strong and focused. Abundant.

Maybe I’ve been playing a few things too softly, just casting my energy and attention vaguely where more focus is needed to accomplish something. Praying only in background ways, saying I trust God, when something more fervent is required. Pursuing a few worthy goals too lightly.

Maybe it was just a really beautiful, snowy day with a really beautiful, melty surprise tucked in. Maybe it was just nature doing her thing. But I can’t help but see the message and the promise:

If you focus your energy better, things will change.
XOXOXO

many plants, one beautiful green

Right now the back field contains at least four distinct shades of green. If you walk slowly and pay attention, you will see the blue-grey version of green in sage and cedar, the lime green of this glossy litlle ground cover I have not yet identified, the more serious olive green in prairie grass, and of course the deep and reliable green of cacti and pine. I love every single color plus all the blends and variations between them. I also love all the many textures that this wild vegetation offers.

I spend time regularly, just staring at the details up close. Analyzing and memorizing the differences. Normally I am entranced by separating and categorizing the details and differences around me, especially in nature. It’s fascinating! The Universe runs on variety and specialization, after all.

But lately my heart has been drawn to commonality. What really catches my attention is that from a distance, maybe standing next to the horse trough or at the upstairs hallway window, the back field blurs into a gorgeous, smooth July green. It looks like one color, one plant. A single vast carpet of photosynthesis.

I still walk the back field every day and take stock of the distinctions between plants and zones and habitats; but something inside my ribs swells to walk back uphill and see it all in a blur. From that small distance, one field. It’s a physical relief to me. A homecoming to togetherness.

I believe deep down that we humans have more in common with each other than we realize. I believe that, for all our beautiful distinctions and uniqueness between cultures and families and individuals, we share a great many features and qualities that bind us. This is as much a comfort to me as the blurred green field is.

Are you feeling the pressure building in polarization? I sure am. It hurts, and sometimes it’s deeply worrisome. But instead of feeding that energy, instead of keeping track of who I agree with on this topic or that newest conflict, instead of resting in labels and narrow definitions, I am choosing to focus on the things that I have in common with people who see a few things differently. I am doing my best to fortify connections instead of surrender to disagreement and hopefully remember that not only might I be flat wrong in my views but that we both could be fully right, at the same time.

I love to see and celebrate differences when it feels healthy and loving. But right now, with so much instability and widespread uprootedness, I feel drawn to hunting the common ground and calling it by name. I feel the urge to declare love for people, groups, even schools of thought, that are far apart and clearly different when you get really close and alanlyze them but that, when you pull back and see us all as a group, as a community, are part of the same thick, velvety green blanket.

Yes. Differences are real and nuance matters. Nature relies on it. But patterns and fundamental processes are also real. Nature relies on these just as much.

I hope to see this beautiful green back field thrive more and more, a vast collection of different plants that are all doing their best. All workign to have their needs met. All contributing in their own inique way to the ecosystem.

I love you, friends! Keep choosing Joy.
XOXOXO

full pond, full hearts

Our recent rainfall in Oklahoma has been pretty stunning. We always hope for rain and sometimes pray for it, and every few years it seems like God answers all at once, ha! Such is the case now. Handsome and I have been enjoying the changing view of the farm for weeks. Everything is lush and emerald green. Grass and clover are growing where usually we find only sand burrs. Tree bark everywhere is almost black from moisture, and mushrooms and moss are quietly overtaking the north side of the property. When a thin silver rivulet appeared in the middle field and connected to the pond below, we celebrated! It’s usually a sure sign of a satisfied water supply. Everything is so beautiful.

Yesterday morning after feeding everyone, Klaus and I walked around the back field and up to my favorite spot on the edge of our pond to see how different things looked from there. Over the years I have taken a series of photos that show the pond mostly in various stages of drought. It’s still beautiful in those times, for different reasons. It’s still reflective of our extraordinary sky, if narrowly; and it is still a habitat for wildlife. But yesterday, the sight took my breath away. Its collar of pink sand was completely submerged, water having risen all the way up to the high bank and beyond, that place where Jocelyn once rescued several dozen fish and where Daphne and Chunk-hi used to swim. The big rocks we call Turtle Island were nowhere to be found, and an old telephone pole we were using to slow some erosion had floated into the middle of the glassy, dragonfly covered water. Water even extended up past the new fence we recently built for the enlarged cow pen. If they choose to, Rhett and Scarlett could be in the privacy of their own space and still go for a little swim, a new hobby of theirs.

((full pond, June 5, 2024))

I stood there just gazing at the pond, at its fullness, at its stillness and perfect mirror-like surface. Rain has been falling steadily for weeks and weeks. Sometimes it fell softly, just a mist, and often it was torrential. But overall it has been so consistent that we feel confident the pond is “sealed” now and will hang onto this fresh supply for a while. I don’t really know if that is good science; I just know that sometimes a single random downpour is not enough to satisfy parched earth. It’s like we are so profoundly dry that we need several doses of rewetting before we feel safe enough to hang onto it and let it refill us.

Do you ever feel like that, in your life, in your heart? I sure do. The needs are great and numerous and often painful. A spiritual drought. But sometimes, like right now, I also feel overwhelmed by how God pours Himself out so generously and so consistently that, like the pond right now, our lives are overflowing with goodness. Our dry, bare edges are gently submerged, and we are once again amply supplied. New pools appear, new resources. We are able to reflect the gorgeous sky even more widely than before. And we can relax, knowing we are safe and well nourished.

Yesterday I stood there absorbing all the beauty while Klaus meandered and sniffed the mud, visibly perplexed by the new scenery. He smiled. I started laughing. Life is full again. A few precious answers we still crave are on their way. I know they are. Other answers have already arrived and are blowing my mind. We are drenched with purpose, safety, romance, community, health, peace, and much more. We have enough to share. And we know who sent it all.

If you are in any kind of a drought, I hope the best rain finds its way to you soon. I hope you see the clouds gathering and get excited. I hope you smell it. I hope it gradually causes your heart to overflow and then helps you blossom the most gorgeous details all throughout your life.

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears,
for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth,
overlying our hard hearts.
I was better after I had cried, than before-
More sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude,
more gentle.”
~Charles Dickens
XOXOXO