a mug of hot tea in my hands
a New Year run and new distance
fireworks lighting up the space over the field
Carol's "Happy New Year!" on my walk
an audiobook recommendation that rocked my world
truth
a dinner date with a friend
Robin Hood hats
archery practice with the kids
home sounds
yoga
medieval history and literature
coffee in the mornings with Lanie
the delicious heat of covers in the winter
David
his generosity
his inclusion
his love
his affection
his presence
his talent
his thoughts
his love for rescue animals
his family
over twenty-five years of knowing him
a snowy day for his funeral
the company of his friends
Anita's grace
grieving time with others
a Monday cancelled
a dinner out with a friend
a new couch
a snow day to watch the kids play
Ruth
that man of mine
Becky
Anita
Marshall's Mom
a winter walk with Nora--6 miles
snow in the forecast
chaturanga
Lanie baking in the kitchen
a grocery shop with my guy
a hot fire
a run in 20-degree weather
a balaclava
blue curtains in the living room
bird song in winter
trash service
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Monday, January 28, 2019
Day story
January 2019
Outside my window, it's January winter, cold and barren. There is a bobcat in a neighboring driveway. It is the source of her many tears. A path is being forged in the woods. It's been over two years since we last saw Linda, last spoke to her. I miss her a lot. I want to tell her she was wrong when she said no one would build behind us. I want to tell her she was wrong about so many things--not from a place of superiority, but from a place of consequence and acceptance (or is it resignation?).
In the school room, a work focus this month. We are in the middle ages, my very favorite time, and just started reading The Kite Rider. Still to do, math, science, history, grammar. I served up little silicon cups of M&Ms for the three of us. We savored chocolate drops by fireside. Comet came to join us. Laid right across my right foot. He's lived with us nearly two years.
From the kitchen, leftovers for lunch. I made a chicken, bacon and wilted spinach salad by Wellness Mama. I wasn't sure I'd like it leftover, as I'm not a fan of leftover chicken as a rule. But it was good. Maybe because it was cooked in bacon grease. And bacon (and chocolate) makes everything better. Comfort food.
I am aware, though I don't want to be. I have the disappointing ability to remember birthdays of ex-boyfriends and people I wish I could forget. Today is the two-year date of my bio father's death. I am not saddened by this. And if I didn't have to date stamp our school work, I probably wouldn't have wanted to give it another thought. I am thankful for Tracey, who had the difficult task of breaking the news to me two years ago. I'm glad it was her. My other sister did not list me as a contact. I was the last to know. It wouldn't have changed anything anyway. Besides, someone has to be last. On another note, Charlemagne died on this date in 814. So there's that too.
I don't want to forget how good side planks feel in yoga. The crazy pain and strain of chaturanga. We focused on push ups and planks this morning. Two years ago, I had gotten the news my bio dad had died. One year ago, I was at his house, cleaning it alongside his neighbor, to save money and to have personal closure to a world that was mine only in death. This year, I was doing side planks, and my heart was pounding, my arms were shaking, and I felt so alive. I don't want to forget this journey to me. To life.
Around the house, hygge lights and fire and chocolate. We are cuddled and huddled in blankets with books. I have blue curtains hanging in the living room. And next month, a focus on purging things in the bedroom and closet. Of creating a space. Of making a home. Living in purpose, on purpose.
I am hearing Lanie at the piano. She starts lessons with a new instructor next week. We are both really excited. It's a great opportunity.
A view of my favorite things:
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| turkey trot |
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| David |
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| Ruth |
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| With my girl |
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| almond flour scones |
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| school days with the dogs |
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| Lanie made pumpkin muffins |
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| this was ten years ago |
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| my sister and one of her daughters |
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| the blues |
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| Ruth at my feet |
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| I love winter sunrises in the woods |
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| I bought myself flowers at Trader Joe's |
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| Dog cookies for Ruth's birthday |
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| I remind myself of this daily. |
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Dear Ruth
A year ago, Nella was on a nearly week-long adventure in the woods. A runaway. Again. And that time, with winter temperatures and January bleakness, plus the days ticking by that she was gone, we thought she was gone.
David told me, "Hounds are heartbreakers."
They are. Their noses take them away from all they love, always on the hunt and adventure. They're sweet dogs and loving, but they'll leave you on a whim.
Shane and I decided: no more hounds for us. (Nella was discovered in the woods by a farm woman checking her traps. Nella wasn't in the traps. I carried that stubborn 60-pound hound out of the woods, across a stream and up a muddy hill to my car because she was tired of all her gallivanting. I think she slept by the fire for two days straight. That last excursion really aged her, and she's much more of a homebody now--our old 9-11/yr old rescue. And we also make sure she has her boundary collar on outside because she will take off on a fox hunt and never look back.)
A year ago, on this very day, Ruth was born, and we had no idea that a puppy would be entering our lives.
We officially brought her home in March of 2018, on National Puppy Day of all days. But we celebrate her today, her birthday. (Birthdays are great reasons for cupcakes and party hats.)
Shane has asked me often during the time we've had Ruth, "If you had it all to do over again, would you?"
The potty accidents in the house. The barking. The separation anxiety. The months of potty training. The midnight bathroom breaks. Sleeping on the couch. This past year, I've cleaned the floors more than ever and have barely slept through the night (that is no joke).
But last night and the night before, I got to sleep through the night (that is key) in my own bed. And it was wonderful. People, don't take these things for granted.
In answer to his question, I would. She is loyal. She is playful. She is funny. She is affectionate. She is protective. She is very much integrated into our daily lives.
Happy birthday, dear Ruth. Happy birthday to you!
David told me, "Hounds are heartbreakers."
They are. Their noses take them away from all they love, always on the hunt and adventure. They're sweet dogs and loving, but they'll leave you on a whim.
Shane and I decided: no more hounds for us. (Nella was discovered in the woods by a farm woman checking her traps. Nella wasn't in the traps. I carried that stubborn 60-pound hound out of the woods, across a stream and up a muddy hill to my car because she was tired of all her gallivanting. I think she slept by the fire for two days straight. That last excursion really aged her, and she's much more of a homebody now--our old 9-11/yr old rescue. And we also make sure she has her boundary collar on outside because she will take off on a fox hunt and never look back.)
A year ago, on this very day, Ruth was born, and we had no idea that a puppy would be entering our lives.
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| Baby Ruth |
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| Ruth and her mom and siblings--that's Ruth's white-tipped tail! |
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| Ruth! |
We officially brought her home in March of 2018, on National Puppy Day of all days. But we celebrate her today, her birthday. (Birthdays are great reasons for cupcakes and party hats.)
 |
| Family photo |
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| Bringing her home |
Shane has asked me often during the time we've had Ruth, "If you had it all to do over again, would you?"
The potty accidents in the house. The barking. The separation anxiety. The months of potty training. The midnight bathroom breaks. Sleeping on the couch. This past year, I've cleaned the floors more than ever and have barely slept through the night (that is no joke).
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| Miss that little body |
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| Oh, puppy love! |
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| her little big paw |
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| Seriously! That baby face! |
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| Happiest pup EVER! |
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| love, love, love, love, love |
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| the first foxy |
But last night and the night before, I got to sleep through the night (that is key) in my own bed. And it was wonderful. People, don't take these things for granted.
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| Hanging out with Erin and me during an afternoon read aloud |
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| She still sleeps at (on) my feet, and it is a wonderful thing to be so connected |
In answer to his question, I would. She is loyal. She is playful. She is funny. She is affectionate. She is protective. She is very much integrated into our daily lives.
Happy birthday, dear Ruth. Happy birthday to you!
But Ruth replied, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God (Ruth 1:16, NLT).
Sunday, January 20, 2019
One pan wonder
Hoisin Chicken
1/3 cup hoisin
1/3 cup coconut aminos
2 T maple syrup
1 T Korean chili sauce (you can use 2 T, but we just use 1 T)
1 T rice vinegar
2 t sesame oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 t minced fresh ginger
chicken thighs (we had a 4-pack)
salt and pepper
olive oil
fresh broccoli florets (1-2 heads) (you can sub with cauliflower)
2 sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed into good bite sizes
1 russet potato, cubed into good bite sizes
1 sweet bell pepper, chopped
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine first group of ingredients. Oil pan. Season chicken with salt and pepper. Coat chicken and potatoes on sheet pan with 1/3 of sauce and cook for 15 minutes. Flip chicken, and add broccoli and sweet bell pepper, add 1/3 more sauce and finish baking for 25 minutes.
I made up a double batch of jasmine rice and served as a base to this recipe when plating. Also, we added a russet potato to the mix of the original recipe because Shane doesn't really like sweet potatoes, but he did like them in this combination. Great flavors.
Monday, January 14, 2019
Shiva
Woke to snow. Noticed how it rested on the branches of the trees. The roads were cleared. Snow fell softly all day, with no real accumulation after Saturday's nightfall.
I saw the hearse, and we parked our car in the procession line up. We went into a reception hall, greeted by Anita, Lisa, Marcy, Paul, Shelly, Gail, Shauna, Wasil. We went into the chapel. No flowers. His coffin, marked with the Star of David. Adva and Michael greeted us, offered a place for us to sit with them.
Psalm 121. Anita spoke. She shook as she took her seat afterward. I felt suffocating grief, my throat closing in, straining for breath. Pall bearers were called. And then honorary pall bearers, to honor him as his coffin passed by. My name was called. I reached out one last time, felt the wood of the coffin, saw that star. Friend.
I stood at his graveside. Psalm 23. His family men and friends carrying him, setting him down, and I focused on the faces of a tender tribute. The prayers. Amen. And dirt shoveled by family members. I stood and watched, wanting, but standing back.
Wasil was one of the last to leave, "Goodbye, David. You were my friend." And my heart broke.
Never have I wanted to stay at a grave so badly.
We dropped the kids home and went to sit shiva at Anita's. His dog, Jamie, so lost and timid, wandering through the crowd. I walked through the rooms of their home. Sat with Wasil (he has no one, he's so lost, heard from those in the spaces). He closed his eyes. Shane pointed out the pictures on the fridge--and there we were. Still.
Thankful.
Anita hugged me long and told me that I am family, that she is my mother and I am her daughter and I had to hold it all back because everything in me was crumbling, clutching.
We took Wasil home, who had asked us three times that day if we had any children, after sitting with us and our children at the service. He thanked us for the ride repeatedly. Such a gentleman as he helped me with my coat, opened the door for me, said his goodbyes. He turned at the walkway and tipped his hat to us.
"I think I'm going to go to sleep," he said. I felt weighted by the grief.
"We'll probably never see him again," Shane commented as we pulled away.
Came home to Ruth running through the snow and the girls sledding down the hill.
It takes time for the truth of eternity to hit home; it rings out and wrenches, merciless. Just buried when grief dawns.
I saw the hearse, and we parked our car in the procession line up. We went into a reception hall, greeted by Anita, Lisa, Marcy, Paul, Shelly, Gail, Shauna, Wasil. We went into the chapel. No flowers. His coffin, marked with the Star of David. Adva and Michael greeted us, offered a place for us to sit with them.
 |
| Wasil created this portrait of David painting. |
Psalm 121. Anita spoke. She shook as she took her seat afterward. I felt suffocating grief, my throat closing in, straining for breath. Pall bearers were called. And then honorary pall bearers, to honor him as his coffin passed by. My name was called. I reached out one last time, felt the wood of the coffin, saw that star. Friend.
I stood at his graveside. Psalm 23. His family men and friends carrying him, setting him down, and I focused on the faces of a tender tribute. The prayers. Amen. And dirt shoveled by family members. I stood and watched, wanting, but standing back.
 |
| funeral procession |
 |
| a winter's day |
Wasil was one of the last to leave, "Goodbye, David. You were my friend." And my heart broke.
Never have I wanted to stay at a grave so badly.
We dropped the kids home and went to sit shiva at Anita's. His dog, Jamie, so lost and timid, wandering through the crowd. I walked through the rooms of their home. Sat with Wasil (he has no one, he's so lost, heard from those in the spaces). He closed his eyes. Shane pointed out the pictures on the fridge--and there we were. Still.
Thankful.
Anita hugged me long and told me that I am family, that she is my mother and I am her daughter and I had to hold it all back because everything in me was crumbling, clutching.
We took Wasil home, who had asked us three times that day if we had any children, after sitting with us and our children at the service. He thanked us for the ride repeatedly. Such a gentleman as he helped me with my coat, opened the door for me, said his goodbyes. He turned at the walkway and tipped his hat to us.
"I think I'm going to go to sleep," he said. I felt weighted by the grief.
"We'll probably never see him again," Shane commented as we pulled away.
Came home to Ruth running through the snow and the girls sledding down the hill.
It takes time for the truth of eternity to hit home; it rings out and wrenches, merciless. Just buried when grief dawns.
Saturday, January 12, 2019
David
I put his name in the search bar of the blog and read the posts that came up.
For what felt like the briefest of time, I was the luckiest girl in the world: to be chosen and loved as a daughter by a man who wasn't my father, but who picked me (and my husband and kids) to have in his life. So many years.
David died yesterday.
"He's all over our place," Shane commented when we spoke. From the clearing of the underbrush in the woods, to pictures on our walls, and pictures of him at our wedding, recitals and gatherings in our family yearbooks. (He's all over my life.) I look at his paintings on my walls, and they are so vibrant in color, so lively. There is one of his paintings in my bedroom, of a land cut by a stream, and it reminds me of Pearl, the story of a father and daughter separated by death.
A number of years ago, I contemplated life without my bio dad and David. They were both aging and in declining health. And both represented polar opposites tugging at my heart--one, a father who couldn't and wouldn't return love; the other a man who held his arms open for me and called me daughter--both men I loved. The combination loss felt crippling then--the loss of hope that went with one, the loss of love that went with the other.
One man commented to me at the first Christmas after my bio dad died, "This must be a hard time of year for you."
My response was short and popped out before I could soften it, "It's not. My dad was hardly part of my life. I don't associate him with Christmas." I suppose a better response would have been "thank you."
The other day, at dinner with a friend, she compassionately queried if January was hard for me, being the anniversary of my bio father's death.
"It's not," and explained I spent the first year mourning who he could have been. I spent the second year mourning who he was. I'm finished crying over him.
But this January has taken away a second father, and it's oddly symbolic that it would. God is a redeemer of all things. Where January hardened me, now it softens me--and truly, that is a better end.
I have so many pictures of David, but this is my favorite.
This was the last dance recital he attended in 2017.
I sit in long contemplation of love. It builds and surges in me, and I want to invest it deeply and richly into the lives of those who'd accept it. I wonder about those who don't accept or return the love, but not long. David and Anita have always shown me how life was meant to be lived: on purpose. May I live and love just as well.
Remembering David, a father.
For what felt like the briefest of time, I was the luckiest girl in the world: to be chosen and loved as a daughter by a man who wasn't my father, but who picked me (and my husband and kids) to have in his life. So many years.
David died yesterday.
"He's all over our place," Shane commented when we spoke. From the clearing of the underbrush in the woods, to pictures on our walls, and pictures of him at our wedding, recitals and gatherings in our family yearbooks. (He's all over my life.) I look at his paintings on my walls, and they are so vibrant in color, so lively. There is one of his paintings in my bedroom, of a land cut by a stream, and it reminds me of Pearl, the story of a father and daughter separated by death.
A number of years ago, I contemplated life without my bio dad and David. They were both aging and in declining health. And both represented polar opposites tugging at my heart--one, a father who couldn't and wouldn't return love; the other a man who held his arms open for me and called me daughter--both men I loved. The combination loss felt crippling then--the loss of hope that went with one, the loss of love that went with the other.
One man commented to me at the first Christmas after my bio dad died, "This must be a hard time of year for you."
My response was short and popped out before I could soften it, "It's not. My dad was hardly part of my life. I don't associate him with Christmas." I suppose a better response would have been "thank you."
The other day, at dinner with a friend, she compassionately queried if January was hard for me, being the anniversary of my bio father's death.
"It's not," and explained I spent the first year mourning who he could have been. I spent the second year mourning who he was. I'm finished crying over him.
But this January has taken away a second father, and it's oddly symbolic that it would. God is a redeemer of all things. Where January hardened me, now it softens me--and truly, that is a better end.
I have so many pictures of David, but this is my favorite.
 |
| 2011 at the carnival before we moved here |
This was the last dance recital he attended in 2017.
 |
| 2017 |
I sit in long contemplation of love. It builds and surges in me, and I want to invest it deeply and richly into the lives of those who'd accept it. I wonder about those who don't accept or return the love, but not long. David and Anita have always shown me how life was meant to be lived: on purpose. May I live and love just as well.
Remembering David, a father.
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