Lazy W Marie

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

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How to Justify a Siesta

   I will soon be adopting the Spanish custom of taking a siesta.  Don’t judge me.  Lots of highly productive and fulfilled people throughout history have long spent the middle hours of the day at rest. 
   Charlemagne, anyone?  Don Quixote?
   Many solid reasons support this practice.  More than just a happy throwback to Kindergarten napping, taking a siesta is good for your digestion and maybe even your heart health; it helps prevent heat exhaustion and overexposure to the dangerous sun; it can clear your mind before a busy evening; and it might even reduce your electricity bill.  Yep.
   We’ll get back to that last one in just a sec.
   The custom of making the midday meal heavier than the late night meal is globally and historically a lot more widespread than the alternative, and unnamed experts and fancy pantses agree it’s healthiest.  And as big meals tend to make a person sleepy (in Bengal they call it rice-sleep), resting afterward is just perfectly reasonable.
  
   Especially where the climate is hot and the day’s burdens are agricultural, resting after a substantial lunch is also a safety measure.  We certainly meet that criteria.  Oklahoma summers are HOT man.  Like, regularly in excess of 100 degrees, humid, and windy.  So steamy it feels like you are standing in front of a wet blowing furnace.  That kind of hot.
   Why more people in our modern North American culture do not observe siesta is a mystery to me.  Doing so is neither laziness nor apathy; it is rather a wise and well timed conservation of health and energy.  I for one am going to start this as soon as possible, which is today.

   And here’s how I will go about justifying it:

   The electricity billing at our little farm has recently seen a major update.  We now pay different rates per kilowatt hour according to the time of day, corresponding to the demand being placed on the grid at that time.  The point of this new program is to encourage efficiency and spread the load across the clock, because electricity cannot really be stored.  It has to be produced pretty much right when it is used.  
  My husband can explain all of this brilliantly, but for now suffice it to say that the same power consumption at 10 in the morning is considerably less expensive than, say, 6 in the evening when everybody is home and busy cooking, cooling off, and watching Swamp People. 
   To be a little more specific, we arrange our farm days with the understanding that “peak time” is from 2 pm till 7 pm.  During these hours we avoid heavily electrified chores and activities.   And our house is total electric, so that kind of includes everything you might do indoors.
   And truly working outdoors during the hottest part of the day, in Oklahoma, is asking for heatstroke. 

   Finally, few people know this, but late afternoon is when taste buds are most receptive to both fruit and yogurt smoothies and sweet iced tea.  Scientifically, this is also the time of day when your eyes are best suited for consuming new release literature.  You cannot fight biology. 

   Catching my drift?  Siesta.  Grab a book and a cold drink, find your hammock, and shut down a few expensive appliances.

   I can think of a few other perfect solutions for the 2pm till 7 pm chapter of my weekdays, and they all fit nicely under this enticing Latin umbrella.

     So for at least the next eight or nine weeks, in the latter afternoon hours, my batteries shall recharge whilst the rest of you Westerners slave away in either the extreme heat or the extremely expensive air conditioning.  My evenings shall be freshly approached, my metabolism shall find reprieve from heavy nighttime meals, my reading lists shall gradually dwindle, and Handsome will be happy to have saved some electriciy dollars.  Dollars which will then be spent on more fruit and yogurt smoothies for the afternoons.

   If all of these compelling arguments have failed to sway you to siesta along with me, still please suspend judgment.  I won’t be able to hear your Industrial Revolution comments anyway.  Because I will be away, resting.

Feast of All Saints (book review)

   Trying to review a book so broad in scope and rich in flavor as Anne Rice’s Feast of All Saints is mildly paralyzing.  I could tell you how much I liked it.  (It was thoroughly enjoyable.)  I could describe to you the tone.  (It was written elegantly and with luscious detail in a way that challenges a person’s command of both history and the English language.)  Or I could try to summarize the plot.  (But Rice weaves together so many stories here, I am hesitant to single out just one.)
  
   This is a wonderful piece of historical fiction set in 19th century Louisiana, primarily in New Orleans.  The characters form a crazy quilt of race, class, wealth, personality, religion, status, ambition, and relationships. 
   The reader is taken on a tour of the lives of white plantation owners, Creole families, black slaves and rebels from Jamaica, educated Les Gens De Couleur, and much more.  We get to immerse ourselves for a while in the dilemmas of living at a time when slavery was falling out of favor in much of the country but was still a viable (if not vital) cultural element in the deep south. 
   What a gut wrenching display of humanity Rice builds by simply telling the stories of young men and women coming of age at this crux in history.
   Please consider reading this book, and please consider doing so in tandem with any good piece of biography you can find about Abraham Lincoln.  The fictional illustrations of the end of slavery are fascinating.  Thinking through the application of historical facts to the every day lives and long term fates of real people, this is what really solidifies our impressions of events that took place not very long ago.
   And if the seriousness of such a read does nothing for you, then rest assured that The Feast of All Saints is a captivating, sexy, action-filled, emotional, politically charged novel worthy of every beach bag and airplane carry on!
Enjoy.

Interview With the World’s Coolest Hen

      Introducing Red, my very favorite chicken.  She is an Ameraucana hen who generously provides us with big, heavy, sage green eggs.  She is feisty and hilarious.  She has serious eyes and gorgeous feathers.  She is addicted to love, Robert Palmer style. 
Here is Red boasting one of her many chicks. 
She is an exemplary mother, at least when she’s not eating her babies.
   And no, smarty pants,
not all chickens
are morning persons. 
But she is.
   In the spirit of gleaning from our elders all the life experience they have to offer, as well as celebrating the nifty collection of personalities here on the farm, following is an interview with the old girl.  At more than nine years old, she is no spring chicken after all, and I think we could benefit from her sharing.
Q:  There’s no one quite like you in the barn yard.  What do you believe is an important character trait in being the Alpha Hen?
A:  “Girth.  It helps you push the others around and makes sure you get a place in the food line.  Also attitude.  Look at every day as though it is filled with possibilities.  And mosquitoes, which are delicious.”
Q:  Rumor has it you are almost incapable of laying eggs anywhere but in one particular nest inside the chicken house.  Other hens are far less discriminating, especially now that you all are free range.  Why are you so particular about where you lay your big green eggs?
A:  “Those years of nimbly pimbly childbirth are far behind me now.  I have discovered a certain Zen in laying eggs in the same place at the same time every day.  You should try it.”
The four largest eggs are Red’s.

Q:  We understand you receive loads of kitchen scraps.  What human menu produces the best coop treats?
A:  “Apple shortbread tart.”

Q:  You look just fantastic, if you don’t mind me saying so.  How do you stay in such great shape? 
A: “Lots of cardio, first and foremost.  If I am not sleeping or egging, I am running.  And squats.  Try eating only off of the ground and see what that does for your posterior.  Also, never underestimate the glossing up power of a good dust bath.” 

Q:  Do you have a favorite color or a favorite song?
A:  “The chicken dance, obviously.  Favorite color?  Hmm, green.”
Q:  What dreams do you have for your flock in the future?
A:  “An egg in every crate.  And no chickens in any pots.”
Q:  Besides your fellow poultry and the outbound kittens, about eleven other animals live on this farm.  Care to comment on any of your neighbors?  This is strictly off the record, of course.
A.  “Chanta is very kind and shares his food and never steps on me.  The dogs are very, very poorly mannered.  Clark-Grievous is quite the looker…”
Chanta, the gentle giant
Q:   You seem to be quite the heart breaker around here.  Any romantic advice for the younger hens?
A:  “Watch your back.”
   Ahem, yes.  Red knows a thing or two about love.  She is very popular with the roosters.  Very popular.  Very.  Her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. 
   We conducted our scheduled interview in the vegetable garden where heat-tortured lettuce heads gave Red something to groom as we chatted.  She was accessible and friendly as always, opening up to me the wells of her decade-deep wisdom.  I am happy to have had this time with her, the world’s coolest hen, happy to learn what makes her tick.
   Meanwhile, Red’s easily distracted companions could be found beneath the tornado-damaged pine tree in the hilly middle field, rearranging dry brown needles and hunting bugs.  The noises of their urgent mission was the backdrop for our interview, and it slowly eroded Red’s attention span.
   It was a matter of time before she would leave.  I knew our moments were fast dwindling.  So I risked one more question.
Q:  “Unconfirmed sources report that you were seen eating a thickened egg yolk and maybe a partially formed chick the other day.  What is UP with that?!” 
A: 
   Red must have found it impossible to abide this line of questioning.  Her nervous energy rose like the mercury of that summer day, and all of a sudden my favorite chicken sprang up in a small, panicky cloud of feathers.  Zipping off down the hill, headed forward lean and fast while before she had been sitting plump and fluffy, Red left me alone with my wonderings in the vegetable garden. 
   My hottest concerns about motherhood & cannibalism remain unresolved.
   And Red, fighting against the sandy hourglass, continues to rule the roost.

Gift of Home

   To call me ruined by this beautiful place we call home would be fair.  There’s plenty of work to do, always, and nothing is ever really perfect by crazy-people standards; but I cannot imagine a more satisfying way to spend every day than to wake up here, work here, play here, and rest here. 
   The pleasures, challenges, and rewards of this crazy little farm march in gentle succession from dawn till dusk and at every moment in between, day after day and season after season.  I never dread coming home; in fact, I get homesick too easily now.  Home is now both my foundation and my escape, and I feel so blessed to be able to say that at such a relatively young age.
   Time passes too quickly within these gates, no matter how hard we try to manage our days and hours wisely. 

 

   One of the most beautiful truths we have discovered is that other people feel the specialness too.  Maybe not with the intensity we do, because visitors are usually only here for a few hours at a time, but we constantly collect warm, emotional reviews from friends and family of all ages about how good they feel here.
   One of our very beautiful, special-to-our-hearts nieces “K” once remarked that she feels happy here, that there is peace.  This only confirms for us that our country home was a gift from God.  I am not sure we have ever expressed to her our gratitude for that gift.  Thank you Sweet Girl.
   All of our prayers are not yet answered.  We wait and hope, ache, for all the beds to be filled here more often and for the dinner table to be crowded with happy faces on regular nights, without big parties. 
   That pain gets frequently eased with great mercy from the Lord.  But it is deep and pulsing and is always present. 

   And as so often happens, living with unsolvable pain makes us keenly aware of the abundant blessings we enjoy!  We have the gifts of knowing how to appreciate the things that are going well and of daily living so many miracles. 

   We simmer in love that comes in many shapes and languages.  We are surrounded by strong, compassionate people, both friends and family.  We get to care for a variety of creatures who mirror our spirit sometimes more than I would like to admit.  And we are constantly learning lessons we didn’t know were so vital. 
   The bottom line is that life here is good.  I am not bragging, just celebrating.  From the bottom of my heart.

  

Cyclical Creativity

   Over the years I have noticed both swells and droughts in my feelings of creativity or maybe in my productive creativity.  Writer’s Block is very real, and of course people from all crafts and disciplines have times of head-scratching and eye-rubbing because the seed of an idea refuses to germinate. 
   This could apply to office issues, home decorating, parenting, vacation planning, studying, anything at all that requires creative thinking or problem solving.  Universal but not terrible.
   One weird and slightly personal observation I’ve made of my own patterns has helped a bunch and might help you too.  Err, at least the ladies.
  Recognizing at what stage of my, ahem, lunar cycle I am tells me whether I have at that moment a propensity for wild idea storms, hard physical labor, painfully tedious attention to detail, praising and encouraging others, or just collecting energy from outside of myself. 
   I call this last time the Desperately Dry Sponge days.  It’s when I troll tastemaker blogs the most, re-read Charlotte Bronte, and flip through crinkly old marked up issues of my fave print magazines.
  Seems like every part of the month lends itself to something special and, when capitalized upon, can be uniquely fruitful.  Every stage of creating, by the way, is rich in blessing or benefit too!  All are necessary for the full artistic experience, and it may take more than one complete trek through the menu to complete a really good project.
   Maybe this explains in part why some bloggers may let a week or two pass without posting and then suddenly explode with  a long list of brilliantly written essays!  Or why after weeks of stagnant time in front of blank canvases, a painter can’t sleep for days because she is churning out her soul in color. 
   This brings with it a particular obstacle worth noticing, because how sad for the person who FINALLY feels the onslaught of motility in her craft but is bound by the structure of life to be at a paying job, care for others, etc, etc.
   Wait, shall we only go with the flow?  Remain tethered to the reggae vibe of our feelings?  I kind of don’t think so.  Part of adopting a discipline, of course, is the discipline part.  Working through regardless of the easy energy you feel.  So there’s a certain responsibility of any artist to try and produce with some amount of consistency, even if the end product is at times weak. 
   It will get better.  And who says you have to share the weak stuff with anyone?
   Pay attention to the added benefits here, too.  Check out what kind of emotional or psychological payoff you enjoy after managing to exact revenge on those thoughts like, “NOT TODAY ALREADY!”
   And by all means, when the monsoon hits, embrace it as much as you can.  Ride the waves of expression as much and as skillfully as you personally can do at that time, knowing that its time is possibly limited.
   How do you manage the swells and droughts in your creative life?  What practical methods do you have in place for those dry days?  And how do you rearrange your life for the lush days of outpouring?    
   The process of how people push through from frustration to completion is fascinating to me.  Crossing my fingers that you all share.  xoxo