Lazy W Marie

no chance of ice

March 10, 2015

Between farm chores today I lingered in the barn a long time, just listening to the soft, constant rain tickling the metal roof. It was so gentle and lulling, like the most delicious white-noise symphony you’ve ever heard. I could have laid on that big fresh hay bale and napped. Like the cats were doing.

The rain is such a gift, you know? Even as Oklahoma continues to recover from the scarring droughts of recent years, we still celebrate every shower. But today’s shower brought me a deeper joy than usual. A deeper assurance.

It occurred to me that just a few days ago, when it was still sixteen degrees outside, all this moisture would have been falling as ice, or at least as snow. And we’d be buried again in the stuff of winter that slows us down and makes me worry about the animals and not drive anywhere. But now, with the warmer temperatures gracing our region, the moisture is only just that: Moisture. Rain. Deeply drenching water for the earth. With none of the dangerous conditions that accompany snow and ice.

We can’t control the rain, of course, or the air temperatures; both are inevitable and somewhat unpredictable. So how many weeks in winter do we spend fretting over the ice, worrying about it because we know we’re at risk? Plenty. (Sometimes we are simply exposed. Or sometimes we choose to be. We neglect what we know will protect us.)

But today I just enjoyed the rain. I had no fear of ice. I knew (because I knew the nature of water and when it freezes) that today no ice would coat the roads where my husband and daughter drive. No ice would freeze the bellies of our animals. No ice would down any power lines to the house. Just rain. I knew I could safely trust and relax.

Then it hit me in the most amazing way: I could safely trust and relax.

Just as precipitation is far beyond my control, life changes are too. Big things are happening all around me quite without my permission, but they are definitely happening. The big headline, though, is that they are not happening in a cold, barren space. These life events are happening in the midst of Love and under the warm blanket of prayer. It may rain, but it will not freeze.

So, ice? I have no fear of it. Failure or destruction? It’s not even possible because Love won’t allow it. Faith prevents it.

It’s been raining since sunrise here, and now at almost 9 pm, with the sun finally dark, it is raining still. No chance of freeze, though, so there is nothing to fear.

We will sleep soundly with the rain.

No worrying, mama.

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear:
because fear hath torment.
He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
~I John 4:18
XOXOXOXO

friday 5 at the farm: parrot life

March 6, 2015

Bobby Pacino, our blue and gold macaw, will be ten years old this spring. He was hatched somewhere in the United States and sold to us at a pet store in Oklahoma City when he was just a pup. Err, baby? Kitten? Chick. When he was just a chick. A small, quiet one.

The first few days he was home with us were a lot like having a newborn infant, especially with regard to feeding and bonding. It was actually a very sweet time.

Then the next solid, unrelenting decade was a lot like having a dysfunctional toddler, especially with regard to, well, pretty much everything. A loud, messy, screaming, demanding, attention seeking, affectionate and VERY smart, un-CANNILY smart, but also disruptive and destructive, toddler. It’s been a whirlwind. A loving whirlwind.

Surely I’ve acquainted you with him here and there on this blog, right? I know I post photos of him to Instagram from time to time. Visitors to the dirt-and-hooves Lazy W cannot miss him. Pacino demands to not only meet but interact with everyone who enters the house or the yard, if it’s pretty weather and he’s outside in his big cage. Lots of our friends have become close with Pacino. Some are afraid of him. Others delight in ruffling his feathers. You know who you are. Pacino is a farm-ily member, and he is here to stay.

Yesterday I was reminded in myriad ways how different daily life can be when you live with a mature parrot. And friends, I use the word mature so loosely here I probably shouldn’t use it at all. But he is more or less of age; his personality is well formed; and he is vibrantly healthy and has full command of all his parrot faculties. He is a full time kinda guy. The thing is, he has spring fever or cabin fever or both, and this week he’s been telling me so.

“Hi, Mama. Gimme gimmee Kiiiiissss.”

So this installment of Friday 5 at the Farm is a cautionary tale for anyone who sees a parrot and thinks, “Oh how beautiful! He is magnificent! I wish IIIIIIII had a parrot!” Buyer beware, okay?

Five Things You Can’t Do When You Live With a Parrot

1. Talk on the phone. Pacino cannot stand to bear witness to what he perceives as a one-sided conversation. If he hears me talking, he naturally assumes I am talking to him. We are most of the time alone at the house together, after all. And if that phone conversation is filled with laughter, well, all the better. He joins in merrily and competes not quietly. The more I try to assert myself the worse it gets, and it seems I will never learn. So I rarely talk on the phone at all. I’ll chat with my best friend and my sister in law, like maybe once a month. Otherwise it’s just easier to text, seriously. The talking is just not worth the noise and drama on this end.

2. Watch yoga videos. Pacino especially likes female voices, and since most yoga videos are hosted by women I think that’s why he gets so riled up. But I literally have to sneak off to the furthest reaches of this house and close every door between us and play the video at low volume if I want any chance of watching and stretching in peace. Otherwise he screams and cries and attempts to opera sing at max volume the entire time. He wants to know this pretty yogi so much!! Not very Zen, you know? It really messes with my chakras and whatnot.

3. Eat anything all by yourself, especially things wrapped in cellophane. This is completely our fault, of course, because we have conditioned Pacino to accept all sorts of treats from us. But he now fully expects to share in any and all food that comes out of the kitchen, and it’s a problem.

4. Sweep the floor. This is ironic because Pacino’s indoor perch and his seed-scattering habits are the main reason we have to sweep the floor so many times per day. But he hates it. A lot. And he lets us know.

5. Kiss your husband. Birds are among the most territorial creatures I have ever encountered, and that is saying plenty. This glossy little blue Casanova is as jealous and needy as they come, so if Handsome and I feel like smooching, we have to do so at a safe distance or just accept the screaming and violent beak lunging that will inevitably follow.

********************

There. If you can cope with these five lifestyle changes then you are one half step closer to maybe considering you might possibly be ready for parrot ownership.

And let’s clear that up while we’re at it, too: You don’t own your parrot. Your parrot owns YOU. That’s the way it works, man. No getting out of that. But if you love each other it’s totally worth it.

Happy Friday!! I am signing off to go grab my first 18 mile run of this season. Very excited. See you soon for talk of translating literature and pregnancy metaphors and freezer cooking ideas. Have the best Friday ever, ok?

“Hi! Are ya Happy?”
~Bobby Pacino
xoxoxoxo

trusting changes

March 1, 2015

Lots of life changes around here lately. Again. But I don’t want to talk about that exactly.

Today I came up for air just long enough to see that everyone around me is going through big changes right now too. Lots of them are happy changes; most people close to me are anticipating big, exciting life events, onward and upward type stuff. Brittany is packing and preparing for a solo trip to Paris. Nicole is expecting another baby. My nephew is turning eighteen. Stephanie is on her way to a much needed San Diego retreat to start her fresh new year of health and rebuilding. Tracy’s college career is just amazing to watch. Allison is a new bride whose heart is just overflowing with the most brilliant Love ever.

Among my friends there are some heavy and truly difficult gravity issues at work too, grieving left and right, and such is life, but both are trying. Whether happy or sad, significant changes test us. They boil up our stomach acids and tense up our muscles. They cause us to take too-shallow breaths and maniacally write lists of things to do. No matter how good and right the Big Event may be, for me sometimes the anticipation can be paralyzing.

One of these days I want to write to you about the pregnancy metaphor.

Anyway.

This life turbulence can be dangerously taxing if we look at it the wrong way, if we are worrying instead of taking courage. And what I’ve learned about worry is that it’s a waste, a huge mistake. Like sawing through sawdust, there’s no use in it but it is in fact dangerous. So if a Big Event is churning up a tide of energy beyond our control, let’s reject worry and instead harness that tide and put it to excellent use.

When you lie wake at night thinking about “It,” consciously stop yourself, very gently, and pray instead. Turn it over to God in excruciating detail. He already knows anyway; just choose silently in your deepest thoughts to give Him control. Ask for His help in ways you can scarcely fathom He might help. (Spoiler alert: He totally will.)
Give thanks for the opportunity, whatever it looks like. Give thanks for how well things are going so far and give thanks in advance for all the amazing outcomes you trust are coming. See? You’re already breathing better. So am I.
Discipline your imagination to only see the best possible results and surprises along the way (for there will be plenty). You have to do practical things to prepare for certain unknowns of course, but something else I have learned these past few years is that your imagination is a crazy powerful conductor! You can literally shape the future with your thoughts, so make them good. Make them amazing.
Then in the daylight hours when action is called for, act. Trust the inspiration granted you, invest in your own intuition, and do one thing at a time toward whatever is on the horizon. Even when it feels like everything is on your shoulders alone, it’s really not. You’re not nearly so alone as you feel sometimes. Just take a deep breath, do what you can to the best of your ability, then exhale, knowing that you’re only one element of the masterpiece being worked. Unseen progress is being made that you will see and celebrate at the right time.

So I pretty much wrote this to remind myself of the things I sometimes forget. But I hope it encourages you, too, for whatever Big Event is on your horizon. I’m sure there are plenty coming.

I trust, for myself and for you, that no matter how it feels in those weak or worried moments, the ultimate gift of life is Love. And Love is more powerful than anything. The weird way circumstances braid together do seem to be good for us, over and over again. We look back and see again that worry was a silly mistake. We were destined for happiness and celebration all along.

Take heart, you are not alone.
Love is so powerful.
XOXOXO

friday 5 at the farm: photos of soft sudden snow

February 27, 2015

I started chores early this morning then cleaned up the house and got dressed in “real clothes.” No running miles for me today, per the arctic temperatures, only running errands. After an hour or so in town doing miscellaneous things, I stopped at the grocery store for weekend essentials. When I parked my Jeep it was cold out, of course, but dry. Not so much as a sheen of moisture on anything. I really thought the weather forecasters, who all morning had been warning us of a blizzard, had done it to us again with the false alarms. So I gathered what we needed, then some more stuff, and maybe a few things too many for baking. When it’s bitter cold out, I really need to bake. You too, right?

There was basically a run on certain foods like ground beef and canned tomatoes. It was kind of hilarious. And exciting. So I joined the madness, wheeling my cart around at a nervous pace and collecting stuffs for one recipe after another. I didn’t give the weather another thought until I was standing in line to pay and heard an announcement about parking lot assistance.

Then suddenly the cashiers were all backed up and we fifty or sixty customers in line were all creening our necks up and out like meerkats to see through the pane glass store front. Yep, snow! It was snowing hard and fast, swirling past in angry swishes and hurrying the shivering, coat-less workers in and out of the automatic doors.

By the time I reached my Jeep and had the first half of our groceries loaded in the back, an open paper sack filled with kale was white! Snow had accumulated in tiny little drifts between the craggy dark green leaves, and it was beautiful! Unfortunately my fingers were too cold and slow to snap that photo, but I did get the Jeep windshield:

My drive back to the farm was slow but uneventful. Because, JEEP. xoxo

Once home, I was happy to see all the usual beautiful sights a snow day offers us.

So I am home now, warm and dry, safe and sound. Our pantry and refrigerator are both well supplied with our favorite edibles and then some. The animals are hunkered down. The heater is working, and for now so is the Internet. I’m wearing comfy jeans and fuzzy socks, and we have nowhere to go this weekend.

Now if my people could just get here already.

Every window a snow globe
XOXOXOXO

every day magic

February 26, 2015

I am not a fan of top hat magic, the kind that disappears women or reappears bunnies and doves. I really could not care less about from whence silk scarves come or whether you can guess which card I picked. I do know one weird illusion that claims to rub a quarter into my forearm. Unfortunately I laugh so hard from nervousness that every attempt gets ruined anyway.

But real magic? The kind of magic that lights up your eyes and adds sparkle and heat to the air? I love that. I am a sucker for real, pulsing, powerful magic. And it’s all around me.

I sense magic at dawn when the sky above the bachelors’ field changes from inky black with diamond stars to fiery, ridiculous shades of orange and purple. So much color some days it seizes up my throat and tightens my chest. A pleasure-pain. The roosters crowing can be magical, heralding another day I get to live on these strange and beautiful nine acres. Feeding the buffalo with his square, wet leathery nose and his poofy Afro and horns, cuddling and scruffing him as he reaches high for that bucket of sweet grain, yep, that’s magic. Releasing the frantic chickens to go roam free and then collecting their eggs, up to eleven per day lately, with those hard shells of greens and blues, rich mahogany brown and white, this is a gift and a bit of nutritional magic for me. Kissing Meh with his sweet, fuzzy little motherless lips, trading butterfly eyelashes with him, pure magic.

Every single time a seed germinates and sprouts, and then again when it grows tall and bursts out with one pair of tiny leaves after another, each of these stages is its own magic. When that seed becomes food that we eat, and then bolts and flowers and produces new seeds all over again, magic.

We’re about to be drenched in this, you know. Winter doesn’t stand a chance. Actually winter is magical, too. It draws us close, quiets us, urges us to shun lists and busyness and just be. Winter’s magic is togetherness and affection, inner warmth despite the cold outside.

Spending time with the horses and learning to speak their language has been an unexpected dose of magic lately. Feeling such a massive animal respond to the smallest squeeze of my thighs or the gentlest tug of reins is like nothing else. And the fact that I am on this adventure with my firstborn, this doe eyed young woman who was so recently my doe eyed baby, this is a magic for which I barely have words.

Maybe you frown on using the word magic in the realm of prayer, and that’s understandable because the connotation is historically so different, but to me it’s all the same. The amazing power of an intimate communication with my Creator, the results-getting influence of just talking to Him and asking for help and inspiration, guidance and then outright miracles, this is a magic without which I would really hate to live. This is a magic that has charmed my life and cracked open my imagination.

Magic can be found in the gleam of wood floors when the afternoon sun pours through that window and also in the sparkle of disco ball reflections on that ceiling. Magic is in the carpet on our stairs that we chose after the house fire, the same stairs the parrot sings in and climbs when he misses us. Magic is in the upright piano in our dining room that, although it is rarely played now, reminds me of my grandparents and how good childhood was. The piano also reminds me of Handsome’s Mom and the ache he must constantly feel without her. This remembrance is painful but important magic. I see magic in the estate sale black and white toille curtains I nailed up clumsily to flank our kitchen door, which leads to the south yard, where so many friends have gathered with us over these seven years.

Magic is in the smell of chicken roasting in the oven together with lemon, garlic, and fresh sage. Everyone likes the magic of chocolate chip cookies, soft and steaming, crispy on the edges, begging for cold milk. Magic is pasta night once every week when each of us gets exactly the sauce he or she likes best. Magic is perfect coffee together every single morning, even if it means a special drive to the truck stop late at night after a long road trip. Magic is homemade pizza when we feel like it and Little Caesar’s when we don’t. Magic is cooking twice as much food as we need and freezing the extras so our girl always has homemade meals to take with her. Even bigger, bolder magic is cooking with her and having her sit with us to eat.

Magic is watching a scary movie, knowing full well that Handsome will be in covert attack mode for the next three days, seeking after and relishing every blood curdling scream I offer. And me loving every second of it. Then it’s nothing short of magic when he gets up and goes to work day after day, week after week, all these years, despite the opposition, despite the imbalances in government, despite the lies and deceit and people who would be so thrilled for him to throw in the towel. Magic is in how much he loves and protects me, no matter how depleted he is.

I absolutely love the hours between chores and housework and then the evening, that little slice of afternoon when I am free to play in the garden or write or, most often, go for a long run. It’s a magical time of day for me. Running itself is a dose of magic for my mind as well as my body. I had to experience this for myself to believe it, but something bizarre really does happen to you in each stage of a long run, and it’s a gift. It’s worth exploring.

Magic is in the comfort of routine and the excitement of adventure. It’s in every part of our calendar, our friends and family, my book club, the thrumming life building up for the next generation. Magic is in legacy and tradition, dreams and departures.

Magic is the feel of paper and the smell of fresh laundry. The grumble of a strong car engine and the relief of not running out of gas when you’re late. Magic is found when your husband fixes your washing machine himself and also does the taxes.

Magic is in the sunset, too, brilliant over the llama field and the valley below it but somehow glowing against the hilltop bachelors’ field where we saw the sun rise this morning. More jaw-dropping color, more pleasure-pain from the kind of beauty we could never duplicate. Magic is in every wild heron that visits our pond and in the love we have found for Duck Duck, the wild goose who is now part of our farm-ily. Magic is in the way Duck Duck insists on being touched once on the back before allowing us to usher him to bed.

But he's so grown up now! — But he’s so grown up now!

And then magic is in wrapping up the farm at the end of a long day, setting coffee to brew at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, clicking off the lights, locking the doors, kissing the parrot, ascending those carpeted stairs. Some of my very favorite magic is sliding between our silky soft, clean sheets and collapsing on our best pillows, braiding together physically to reinforce our silent unions. Magic is how we feel stronger instead of weaker, better instead of worse, night after night.

And then the impossibly beautiful, magical sunrise again.

Now tell me something about your magic.

XOXOXOXO

Mama Kat invited us to write about magic this week. Please visit some of the other writers too! And thank you so much for stopping here.

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