Day story

 February 2024

Outside my window, an unexpected snowfall. With mild and delightful temperatures lately, I almost bought into the Groundhog Day superstition that spring will come early. It hasn't been that bad of a winter, all in all, and this snowfall suits me fine. I put in the miles yesterday until my IT band and knee flared, and today I had planned to downgrade to a walk. The driveway is clear, and snow clings only to branches and blades. Lanie had a safe commute to school. Erin and I slept in later (for me anyway). I woke to thoughts of homemade chocolate coconut bread and a simmering pot of black bean soup. It's been years since I've made that soup. Thankfully, I've stored both recipes in archives here. And those recipes are accompanied by dear glimpses of past. I love this space for holding my memories.

And I quote, 

"I had a dream so big and loud, I jumped so high I touched the clouds." Song "Best Day of My Life" by American Authors

Giving thanks for a friend in Denise who stood behind me Sunday in front of the congregation for one of the rites. She looked over the program and commented on how beautiful it was--and it truly was. Giving thanks for a friend in Amy who is linking arms with me tomorrow in a prayerful space. Giving thanks for my man who stepped into my dreams with both feet. 

In the school room, all things school. We are reading about Joan of Arc in medieval literature and there's a reference to Chinon, France, where the One Who Loves Me was born. I only recently learned of her birth place, and it was so lovely to see it appear in our reading this week. I love familiar touch points.

From the kitchen, soon a pot of black bean soup. But for now, a candle burning with a cozy scent of nutmeg. The snow is tapering off. 

I am purging. I've got boxes of books to take to co-op to sell. I've taken out loads of bags that held old clothes. The dining room was the catch all: Lanie's kitchen goods from South Carolina in a storage container; all the mini mugs I collected from Crate and Barrel that were perfect for a rich mini mug of cocoa with a mountain of whipped cream and caramel drizzles; seeds for this spring's gardens; succulents with a will to live through my neglect; and random other things like bows and arrows and juggling pins. Some days, it's easy to let go. Other days, especially when I can discern the item of clothing through the bag, it is heart breaking--the site of a little pajama or once favorite dress. 

I don't want to forget the way he read poetry to us, telling us how the French add syllables to certain words in poetry that would otherwise end silently. I can remember how he'd read slowly and how his words embedded themselves in my memory. All these years later, it's about all I remember from all the literature I read. This one poem, and strikingly appropriate for an enneagram 4. He spoke of all the places he knew so well, the Tuileries, the catacombs, the Hotel des Invalides, the Sorbonne, and more, all laid out on a map in front of me. He must have been in his fifties forever ago. I heard he went back to France. He is probably dead now. 

I am reading, the last chapters of some books. Ready to soon begin a Lenten study on Abundance (the fruit of the Spirit); a book on praying for children; maybe one of the lots of running stories on my shelf. 

Around the house, purging, packing, painting, preparing. Still on my list to clean the windows. Still on my list to do, do, do.

On the letter board still: Stand Against the Tide.

I value adventure.

A view of my favorite things

Not wrong.

Team meet 2024

First race starting line team photo--I didn't run this after all

Celebratory sweets for Lanie's new job

All things Paris in my feed

Coffee table decor in a waiting room. Touch point.

 

Denise's hand on my shoulder

At the table, every evening at dinner, it is just us two. Lanie might be later from a class, or eating and unwinding in the living room. Erin is usually in the shower. Shane and I have more often than not, dined, the two of us. And when our plates are emptied, we lean back or lean forward into conversation. It is almost like dating--this time together and lack of hurry. It's nice.

And still counting ... (18,996-19,094)

Heather's unexpected prayers, a light crowd at the gym, blacktop, new running shoes, all the miles logged on the old pair

the truck at the stop light with the 13.1 sticker on the back, runners are everywhere, good cuddles with my kids, magnesium cream for my legs, strength

six years with Ruth, 66 Books, a 3-hr coffee date with Amy, that we both brought books to tell each other about, the angel painting she made that's now hanging in my school room

a morning where I got things done (the blog calendar/a Friday post/five miles/hair washed and blown dry!), laughing with Amy, donuts for Erin, a friend who will fast and pray with me, running in shorts through the fog

Bible verses on index cards, Ruth scaring off the fox, dwindling snow mounds, our sweet flock, hugs with my man when he gets home

Skinnytaste Cheesy Turkey/Leek/Potato Grain, that we had leftovers, the depth of flavor of herbs steeped and simmered in milk, salty almonds, a lap lane to myself at the pool

brilliant sunsets that slip away in moments, buttermilk for chicken, that good long run, the green hoodie she bought with her own money and loves to wear, Effie's first egg of the year

clips for the Tunisian crochet stitch in my feed, remembering that I bought my own hook, schooling with Erin, milkshakes on a Monday, Advil

climbing the stairs without pain, upperbody workouts and strength, new recipes that taste good and pack protein, a teapot small enough/big enough for two servings, the winter fruit tea blend on a chilly afternoon

texts with Amy, a phone call with Nora, the fun and surprise of our big adventures, magnesium cream for cranky/pent-up muscles, new apps on my phone

the fuzzy blanket, a sale at the running store, l'arbre fee de Bourlemont, back to blacktop with a walk-run combo that I wish could have been longer, how she poured herself a chocolate milk and topped it off with whipped cream just like I made it for her yesterday

all the French podcasts, two new Bible studies on the way, a February mood board that makes me want to happy cry, clean running clothes, flat-me laid out

the 2024 team meet up, teammates who told me to get my knee checked out, a DNS on race day, seeing teammates and friends before the race, new team swag

the first team photo of the first race of the year under the arch, a swim, building mileage, the delightful cushion in a new pair of running shoes, going up the stairs like a normal person

jeans that fit better, sunny days, winter sunrises through the woods, hugs from my kids, movies in French, good sleep

spring-like weather, little pink sticker pox that fell off the map, a stack of Bibles, a focus on future things, prayer

for a brief time in elementary school that I shared a space in the world with them (my friend's brother died unexpectedly in his 40s and I remember her and her family at this devastating and difficult time), that her family was the first of friends to take me to church, the bird making a nest in the flower box outside my kitchen window, bird song just before sunrise, suitcases

faster running times, a history of halfs to look at times and mentally prepare myself, Denise, Nora, Marshall's Mom

travel books, packing cubes, catching my man watching a video of a woman sampling croissants around the city, how he was excited to show them to me, a verse on love in my inbox

a pair of black pants in a size down, new perspective on parenting, the Mass with Denise and her hand on my shoulder, knowing that she prays for me

The real flex

Of the teammates I talked to about my knee injury, they also shared about former injuries, and we all had this in common: our injuries happened because of real life, not because we're runners (this is for anyone reading who insists running is bad for your knees).

A week and a half ago, I made an impulsive decision to make a popcorn snack (not on my day's eating plan) and justified it because the day before I did a long run. And I was cranky. And it was totally an emotional eating situation. Shane was talking to me in the kitchen as I reached into a low cabinet to get out the air popper. It was way in the back, and kneeling felt uncomfortable, so I sat back on my heels ... ouch! Searing, ripping pain at my knee and quad.

I got up. It was sore. But it got worse. I wasn't running on Sunday anyway because it was a rest day, but soon found I couldn't even bend my leg well or do stairs. For four days. Sleeping was painful. I ended up not running the first team race of the season--and trust me, I was in denial about my injury and wanted to push myself. (I still went to see everyone, but left after it started.)

Little by little I tried to run some, and while running felt great, later aches reminded me I still wasn't recovered.

Talking to teammates who had to take time off from running because of an injury (from days to weeks to months or a year), that was where I noticed the real flex. The real discipline. When everything in you wants to get back to training and doing what you love, to have to sit out and wait. Not force it. Let your body heal. They all felt it--the want versus the wait. Learning to wait is real discipline.

I factored in more rest days. Substituted a swim. Laid off lower body strength training. Did not sit on my heels. Had to teach myself how to walk up the steps again (I had been favoring my leg so much, it was the craziest habit to break--and scary); I did great, by the way, but it's still a conscious effort to make sure I don't favor the leg.

I'm about three weeks out from a half marathon, and I should have had more miles on these feet at this point. So taking time off has been a challenge, but a necessary one. This is the race I dreamed about ever since I started training for halfs. I don't want to miss it.

The other day I did a 5-miler at a great-for-me and pain-free pace. I've already had consistent 9s under my belt, so even if I can't squeeze in an 11 before the race (I originally planned on 2 of them), I feel confident in the base. It's not ideal, but it's doable. 

Rest is part of training. Excuses are not. Whether it's action or intentional inaction, doing what you need to do regardless of how you feel about it: that's the real flex. 

And to Future Me: emotional/stress eating is not a good idea. Not only did it compromise your progress, it completely led to a very unintended and unexpected setback--and it could have cost you your dream.

On 'after' motherhood

For over twenty years, I've cared for my children. And as time has gone by, they've learned to do things on their own--the point of launching, right? It's a weird shift from parenting youngers to parenting olders. These people have their own likes, dislikes, opinions, friends, dreams, faith. And when we used to share many of these things, now they are testing out life on their own terms. 

I'm still a mom, but mothering is morphing into a new role. Instead of managing, I am learning to step back. I stay available. I stay loving. I stay ... ready. I continue making a way forward and hope that my example is one worth imitating. 

I said to Shane, "I have been a mother for over twenty years. I don't know how else to see myself or what to do now that they are becoming independent. I feel like I lost a crucial role and I don't know who to be."

"How about be my wife?" he replied.

What does life look like after raising children? After tending little lives? After the most undeniable favorite part of (my) life so far? What does life look like when you don't want the chapter to end, but you don't get to choose? When I want to cry out, "I'm not done! There's still so much I want to do!" But time moves on, without slowing down. 

Before these fabulous people, it was Shane and me. And after them, thankfully, it is still Shane and me. I am still his wife. 

There's an author I've followed for many years. She inspires me and discourages me at the same time. She paints a beautiful (enviable) picture of motherhood. I have often looked to her vision and measured my success (and more often failure) by it. But as her children move on to make their own families, she is so involved that to me, at times, it appears suffocating and overbearing. And I've often wondered--where is her husband in all this? Her books and persona have been defined by her motherhood. But she doesn't teach women to be a wife or what a woman becomes when her children are grown. Instead, her message says to me that she can't let her children go and that her worth and identity are defined by motherhood. (In fact, it has been her ministry and livelihood.) Her travels are always about seeing her adult children for extended periods of time, with rare mentions or pictures of her with husband. (The 'children's' spouses seem either non-existent or appear to take a very backseat role to her. Her grandma name is even Queenie.)

When I asked my husband who I would be as our kids grow and go, his answer reminded me of who I am and who he wants me to be still--his wife. 

I don't want to overlook that. 

I will always be a mother to my kids--however, their need for me will be on their terms now. But in the every day, I am still a wife. Our marriage is our covenant, our vocation. 

Moms of empty-nesters advise other moms to start finding a new purpose as their kids grow and go. I became a runner and poured myself into fitness (for my own physical and mental health). But that is just a part of who I am. I am still Shane's wife--am I setting an example in marriage that my kids can use to model their future relationships? 

When I want to hold back time with "I'm not done! There's still so much to do!"--there is still so much to do. And I'm not done. I can invest in my marriage and in my home work. I can model joy in being a wife and homemaker. 

Being a mom was, so far, the very best part of my life. And if that part was so good, I can look to the future with hope and confidence that the next part can be as wonderful or better. When twenty-two of our twenty-five years together has included our children at home, it's definitely going to feel different. But if I look back with longing and grief ... 

When Lot's wife looked back at what they were leaving, it literally destroyed her. Jesus said that no one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back (to the things behind) is fit for the kingdom. When the Lord returns, there's a verse that states let him who is on the housetop not come down and take anything out of his house. Check out Matthew 24.).

Lord, help me to model this stage of life in a way that it will speak to my daughters and give them a healthy reference to the fullness of marriage and life in all its stages.

 

Bend the page

The majority of my schooling years with Erin, especially after The Year that prompted us to quit co-op, we have schooled on the couch in the school room. It's comfy and deep. It's the perfect size for two. We get under a blanket sometimes, and I'll read aloud. Sometimes I sit on the bricks of the fireplace while Erin props against the sofa. Sometimes Erin sits across from me on the bricks of the fireplace and draws while I read on the couch. That's how school looked today as we cracked open Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc by Mark Twain. 

(Medieval was a favorite year when I taught Great Books. And this was a favorite story. At year's end, the class did a skit, and a student played the ukulele to a tune she composed to sing the little song "L'Arbre Fee De Bourlemont." This is one of the tenderest memories I have of that year, and here I am, remembering, and reading this story aloud to my youngest, and likely for the last time.)

For so many years, YEARS, we have bent the pages of story parts that were amusing to us in some fashion. The kids carried on this habit in their personal reading choices, and some books have dog-eared pages throughout where they enjoyed the story. This is like a little road map to me, and I find myself searching sometimes for the part on the page that delighted my child.

There have been bent pages this school year. 

Now, Erin knows, that usually when I get to the end of a poem or to a particularly moving part of a story, I will botch it. I might stumble, stammer, or flop the sequence of words. Sometimes a word from a nearby line will come out of my mouth because I'm running ahead. But today, as I read aloud, I got to a part, and accidentally swapped a nearish word. Prostate, for prostrate. I tried to remedy the error with a quick do-over, not bringing emphasis to it, but Erin noticed and giggled. And I giggled. And then she gasped and laughed. Then I did too.

"Bend the page!" she cried out. And I did.

"I was hoping you didn't notice that," I muttered. She laughed harder.

But this: I will cherish these days, all the days, of all the years of homeschooling. Of sharing stories with my kids. Of talking about characters and insights and loving how language sounds. Certain words have been so fun: wool, crystal. I know how to say a word to get Erin to want to try it out. She's always loved sounds and rhymes. (Float-on-a-Boat and Step-away-the-inches were pool frog names in fourth grade.)

Arbre Fee de Bourlemont. As I read about that tree, see that little song in print, I think about lasts. And this tree and its significance in the story, a last of sorts too. The enchanting tree of childhood, and a foreboding.

I will never read this book again. 

It sinks in.

I will never read this book again. 

All the bent pages of all the books, a treasury.