Lazy W Marie

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

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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

miracles brewing in the late summer storms

Around sunset one evening last week, a mild storm gathered. We walked around the farm gathering the free range birds, I flaked out some bedtime hay for the horses, and Handsome obliged Klaus with his requisite post-dinner fetch throws. The skies grew bruised and moody, the clouds lowered, and a cool wind combed over us. After such a brutal heat wave and drought most of the summer, these were foreign details, sensations we had almost forgotten.

I grabbed my husband’s hand and said, “Let’s pray for the kids. For everyone.”

We stood in the front yard between the house and the yurt and faced north to watch the swirling, dimensional weather. We continued holding hands and prayed aloud for those closest to us. We prayed for some hard situations at the Commission, too. We prayed for a few dear friends. We gave thanks for innumerable miracles in our lives, both very old and very recent. We gave thanks for this little farm that has survived another extreme weather season, for all the birthdays, for all the fun and hard work and rest afforded us.

We prayed for the kids again.

And my heart lifted.

I got that giggling feeling that so often starts in my hips and rises through my belly and lungs. I let it bloom into a smile while we prayed and watched the Pine Forest and listened to the chickens quiet down. It felt wonderful and natural to be submitting needs and wants to God without begging Him. And in the shadow of the front edge of that storm, I felt revolution coming.

Today more fresh weather rolled in, an even cooler and much gentler rainstorm. I was at the local reservoir running a few easy miles, and the sky grew thick and woolly. The first few raindrops might have been my own sweat, but soon enough the moisture felt cold and consistent. I let it soak me and remembered many of the prayers we uttered a few nights ago. I thought back over the years, of how many miracles have burst forth in our life in what appeared to be an instant. One phone call, a sudden announcement at the office, an email, a visitor. A realization.

Everything can turn on a dime, and that is to be celebrated, not feared.

As we begin a brand new month and likely a new season, my heart feels stronger than it has, maybe, in years. I feel more attuned to Love and more expectant of miracles big and small, and this time in a much happier, less desperate way. Because this is how life is supposed to be. Rich with blessings and mercy. Alive with texture, change, mystery, peace, adventure, and Love.

I bid adieu to August in an Instagram post and my husband said it almost made him cry. I get it. Summer is a fun, free, celebratory time. August contains his birthday, too! And we always hate to see certain chapters close.

But this next little bit will be so good. Probably better in many ways. Maybe with fewer difficulties. Because all the late summer storms are hiding miracles we have not yet seen. Answers that we have sought earnestly and should absolutely expect at just the perfect moment.

As I finish writing this, rain has picked up pace. It is pinging and echoing in the chimney. Klaus is on the concrete floor, snoring contentedly. The farm is, otherwise, nearly silent. Ready for and open to whatever is coming our way.

Trust in the Goodness of Life
XOXOXOXO

out of the blue and in his perfect timing

Two Wednesdays ago, I had already planned to drive to the City to see Jess and go shopping with her for eyeglasses, hopefully grab lunch together, and do some early Christmassy fun stuff, too. You may already grasp what a beautiful blessing just this much is in our life, this normal mom-and-daughter afternoon. A year ago it was a brand new chapter, and I have been grateful every day since. But this week, we had another surprise.

In our planning texts, Jess asked casually how I would feel about her big sister joining us. My contact with Joc has been almost non-existent this past year, though I do hear updates through loved ones here and there and my intense dreams about her have not slowed down. But this would be our first in-person meeting in many months, and for it to happen by her choice made it extra meaningful. 

 

Silliness, beauty inside and out, & pure joy!! xoxoxo

My baby girls are young women now, ages 23 and 21, both fully engaging in life with all of its light and darkness, all of its thrills and terror and beauty and ugliness. They are as similar as twins yet wildly different. And they are two of the most resilient, deeply feeling, and vital people you will ever meet. Seeing them together, across from me, after so many years is an immeasurable joy.

Jess treated us to rolled ice cream after a romaine-free Tex-Mex lunch.

A few days before this, though I never told anyone, I was kind of on the edge of despair. For all my talk of gratitude and hope, faith and trust, I certainly have little stretches of time when the facts get too loud and scary, and I begin to doubt.

That Monday morning I was driving to the lake for a run and cried out loud to God, kind of spontaneously, “When are you going to bring her back?! I miss her so much!! Just bring her back!” Had you been in the car with me, friend, you might have described my outburst as a shriek. And not a lovely one. It was guttural and unplanned.

Though brief, all of that felt too much like anger, which is dangerous territory for me. So I tempered it with deliberate prayers of trust, shaping my thoughts and words with effort, making sure to verbalize that His timing is perfect, that I know it’s more important for her to be safe and happy than it is for me to have her close by.

You know that sometimes with motherhood, sometimes it is an impossible separation for us, to ever stop craving our children. Sometimes I miss them so much I feel like screaming or vomiting. Selfish, but there it is.

So I quieted myself and ran those solitary miles and went on with my work day at the farm. Next came a few days of extra spiritual/emotional work, choosing to trust Him when it did not come easily. And I will tell you that God was merciful. He sent me some relief, emotionally. I just felt softer, safer, more assured in those days. And forgiven for my outburst, too.

Then came Jessica’s text Wednesday morning. My hands were shaking, and I cried and giggled until my jaws clattered against each other.

Then my long drive to Oklahoma City, anticipating Jocelyn’s face, her ebony eyes, her smell, her slender arms and sneaker-clad feet. I had seen her from a distance recently, while driving, but that she hadn’t seen me. 

When I found my girls together, they were happy and laughing, curling their hair. We spent just a moment in suspense, feeling the space between us, then we hugged tighter than ever. I laughed until I cried, again. And those slender arms squeezed me back. She was 23 and newborn and 9 years old and home with me and on a mountain top in Estes park and there in her sister’s apartment, all at once.

We spoke carefully at first, but that did not last long. All this joy and ease, all of this delicious energy, just poured out of us, into the room, filling the space between the three of us. I could taste the Love.

This is exactly the kind of thing that is both out of the blue and completely “on deck,” if you know what I mean. It is something for which we have been praying, and we have trusted and built up our faith stone by stone, but we could never know when the answer would come. In fact, sometimes the answer comes in glimpses, and that’s ok.

Last November, life was so different. We were stunned and fearful. I wrote this almost exactly a year before this thrilling reunion two Wednesdays ago:

I have spent the last two weeks soaking this answered prayer deep into my bones.

I know more is coming.

I know that God hears us. He is worthy of our trust, and He has better answers than we could every imagine on our own, certainly better solutions than we could construct ourselves. I’ll happily take these glimpses of joy while we wait and trust. 

Whatever miracle you are waiting to see, please keep believing that the best is yet to come. Please muster the oxygen to fuel your faith, and fan each other’s flames too because we all need the warmth. Joy is coming. miracles are very real.

XOXOXOXO