Yes!

i thank you god
for most this
amazing day; for
the leaping greenly
spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;
and for everything
which is natural
which is infinite
which is yes

~ e e cummings

And I am thankful for this day. This day of YES. Yes to Sloane spending a week with cousins, even though I'll miss her like mad. Yes to Jeffrey having a fishing/camping trip with his Dad, brother, nephew, and uncle. Yes to a week on my own, even though right now it makes me sad. Yes to taking time to create. Yes to finally finishing up three major projects. Yes to this blue true dream of sky. Yes to every amazing day I'm given.

Of Books, Ice Cream, and Dads

I just finished reading A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg, author of the blog Orangette. Her book was marvelous; a lovely mix of foodie writing, recipes, and memoir. She writes about her family with so much affection that I feel blessed to read it. Molly loves her father with the same passion that Kelly Corrigan loves hers, but with a more clear-eyed view. (I know that I just might be the only woman in America who did not adore The Middle Place.) I found Kelly's Dad to be just too much. What adult still calls himself Greenie? A nickname bestowed in high school because of farts. Really! But, anyway. This post is not about The Middle Place. Or even about A Homemade Life. It's about Dads. Mine in particular. Molly's love for her Dad makes me itch to write about my own.

But. What to tell you? My Dad is an incredible man. I could gush and coo and you would think I am as infatuated as Kelly. I could tell you his faults, to prove I see him clearly, but I'm just not interested in that. Who cares about his faults? We all have them. In spades. I think we begin to become an adult when we learn to overlook faults and focus on what is good and right about a person. When we learn, not just to forgive the faults, but to stop seeing them. That's one of the things my dad (and my father-in-law) have taught me.

So, here's a story that sums up my Dad. When I was 17, I came home late on a Sunday night, only seconds before "Uh oh." I had to drive my brother and I to school the next day and my gas tank was on empty. Of course, I hadn't made time to fill it. It is important to note that school was a 40 minute drive away. Needed that gas. So, I asked my Mom to wake me up a 1/2 hour early because I had to stop for gas on my way to school. Monday morning arrives and finds me snapping at my mother because she didn't wake me up early, and now I'm either going to be late for school or run out of gas. We won't even go there with the snapping at my mother discussion. As you must already be able to tell, she had infinite patience for her fractious, not-a-morning-person daughter. Instead she played with my hair a moment, smiled at me, and told me that Daddy had filled it up last night, and breakfast would be ready in a few minutes. She went downstairs and I sat on my bed, stupefied.

You see, Dad was not up waiting for me the night before. And, he always was. Not a hawk-eye-out-the-front-window kind of waiting. His was a sitting-in-the-armchair-with-a-good-book, hope-she'll-tell-me-about-her-evening kind of waiting. In our family, Mom went to bed. Dad waited up. Until the day I married, when I came home from a date, Dad would holler up from the basement, "Hi honey. There's ice cream in the freezer." I'd scoop out two bowls and join him. We'd eat ice cream and talk. About my date, about boys, about my friends, my dreams, my classes. About everything and nothing at all.

But, on that night, Dad wasn't waiting. Mom was. Because Dad was sick. When she went to bed, he rolled over to check that I had made it home safe and sound. She told him about me needing to get up early to stop for gas. And, this is why I was stupefied, slightly ashamed of myself. He got up. Out of bed. Sick. And went to fill my car with gas. So I wouldn't have to get up 30 minutes early.

And that, my friends, is the kind of Dad I have.


Amazing image from Country Living magazine.

Reading In Bed

I don't know about you, but that is my dream bedroom. Well, almost. The bed needs to be big enough for two. That dreamy spot is actually a corner of Shakespeare and Company, a bookshop in Paris. Makes you want to move in, doesn't it?

If this were my bedroom I wouldn't need a nightstand piled high with books. I've asked it before, but I'm wondering... What's on your nightstand?



No idea where this picture came from. Sorry.

Magic In Their Pockets

The other day I read about a man in Mexico City who plays a leaf with all the precision and beauty of a traditional instrument. How lovely. Thinking about him reminded me of other people I've encountered who carry a little magic in their pocket; something special that blesses the people around them.

~ the couple at my church who show up at a hospital or a classroom and make balloon animals. Not for pay, not for advertising, just for the smiles they create.

~ the man Maddie encountered who stands on a corner and offers hugs to strangers.

~ the two girls Jeffrey and I heard singing in Portland who sounded like nothing so much as a flute duet. They were standing in a mini tunnel creating the most awe-inspiring, swelling sound. They had no hat out, no money to collect. They sang because they could. Because it was beautiful.

~ the high school girl who drew amazing pictures. Who pulled them right off the wall and gave them to Sloane when she admired them.

~ the teacher who stayed after school two days a week, for 7 months, teaching a struggling student to read. No pay, no credit, just a knowledge that children must learn to read, no matter what it takes.

~ the friend who is a magician. Who performed for free at Sloane's birthday party and for my class. Who always takes the time to learn new tricks before we get together; just because it delights us so.

~ the pastor who missed his own birthday dinner because the brother of a co-worker of a church member was in the hospital and the family needed comfort.

~ the neighbor who brings me armfuls of her perfect peonies because I love flowers, but not gardening.

~ the grandpa who is a retired builder and now spends his time building, repairing, and generally being Mr. Fix It for anyone who needs it.

~ the WalMart greeter who loves her job and shows it, not only in her smile, but in the hats and fancy dresses she wears. Every Christmas she's dressed as a Victorian caroler and her Easter bonnets rival those in New York City.

Who do you know with magic in their pockets?


Illustration by LeUyen Pham.

Yesterday I Saw...

~ the kind of view that is a massage for your soul; a part of my own precious ordinary that I never take for granted

~ banks of tiger lilies creating streamers of orange along the roads



~ a white cow exactly in the middle of a bright green, algae-filled pond. How did that cow get in the exact middle without leaving a wake?

~ a horse rolling around, delightedly scratching himself in the dusty grass. His sock feet waved in the air like a roly poly bug stuck on it's back.



~ two kinds of sunshine

Pen and Ink

Pen and Ink

What if you draw a little sketch
Maybe just a doodle of a man
In profile
And he turned to look
at you
And he had eyes that
sparkled
And a nose that smelt you
and ears that heard your
intake of breath
As he reaches his hands out
and his finger touches your cheek.

~ Harry Philbrick

What have you read lately that takes your breath away? This poem took mine.




Eliza Beth's photostream is full of delights, including the photograph above. This book is full of poems and absolutely amazing art by Peggy Preheim.

Good Morning, Beautiful

With very few exceptions, my mother woke me up each morning of my childhood. In fact, she woke me up on my wedding day. Yes, I had an alarm clock. Yes, I knew how to use it. But, it was so much nicer to wake up to my Momma. She would sit beside me on the bed, her body tugging my covers just a little more snugly around me. Then she would tickle my bare arm with her long, long fingernails and sing to me. Yes, I said sing to me. My childhood days, each of them, began with affection and a song.

That tiny story tells a lot about my mother. About my childhood.

As you can see, when I became a mother I had a lot to live up to. A whole lot. I wanted to wake my daughter each day with singing. What a gift. In a lifetime of love, beginning each morning with a song is no small thing.


Isn't it amazing how frequently our intentions are hijacked by reality? My baby is an early-riser. I am a night-owl. A serious one. Example: it is 12:18 a.m. as I type these words. My baby informed me, at the age of five and a half, mind you, that she would really like to have an alarm clock of her own. She was big enough to wake herself up. Turns out, she was.

I've said it before, when life turns out differently than you've planned you have two choices. You can pout and be miserable. Or, you can adjust and be happy. I choose happy.


So. I don't wake Sloane up most mornings. But, the second I see her, I exclaim, "Good morning, Beautiful!" and grab her for a snuggle or a hug and always, always a great big smooch. When I do get to wake her up, guess how I do it. Yup. I sit down on her bed, my body pulling her covers tight. I massage her scalp or caress her face, and I sing to her.

Good morning, Beautiful.



All images by the amazing Honeypie Living.

The Simple Things

Thanks to dear Christina, today lots of us around the blogiverse are writing about the simple things that make us happy.

Simple, Happy Things

tree tunnels
skinny dipping
covered bridges
pig tails on little girls
that sweet, baby smell
the smell of a magnolia
a vase full of sunflowers
singing sentimental songs
toe rings and ankle bracelets
postcards full of foreign stamps
telling stories around a campfire
laughing till you cry - or need to pee
the clickety-clack of heels down a hall
wedding rings on strong, manly hands
sending a card to a friend - just because
little girls in polka dotted dresses and no shoes
pretty, new journals just waiting for my words
the graceful hand gestures of flamenco dancers
emptying the shavings from the pencil sharpener
the toe-tapping tune that stays with you all day long
hearing a song from high school - and feeling 17 again, instantly
a secret spot where the daffodils cover acres in a sea of yellow stars
the black that gets all over your hands when you read the newspaper
taking peeks at all the freshly painted toes when sandal season begins
the way a deer will stand and stare at you for as long as you can be still
the shiver of delight when you catch the sparkle of your engagement ring
the cool, crisp way the sheets feel when you climb into a freshly made bed
happily singing and looking over to see someone in the other car doing the same
the way everyone at a piano recital claps sincerely for even the worst performance
a fresh peach, lightly dusted with powdered sugar, served with love on a hand-painted plate

What simple things make you happy?

Amazing photography by Maureen F, Deb5376, and *Sakura*.

More SOOJ

Tonight I've been reading Elizabeth Berg's new book. I've been laughing out loud and my fingers have been twitching to grab a pencil. At one point the narrator said she'd try to write a stream of consciousness list. My fingers began to do more than twitch. They were tingling. Time to write. So, I closed my eyes, opened the book to a page in the middle, pointed, and opened my eyes. The word was "taste". What follows is what I wrote.

Taste...

Taste. Even now I can taste that loaf of bread in Colonial Williamsburg, still warm, passing from the baker's hands to my fathers, from his to mine... the taste of it with that odd soft, pale yellow cheese... how both made a perfect mouthful... the exultant feeling that this was dinner... how odd... how wonderful... how exquisite that we were, all four of us, having an adventure. That all four of us were on this adventure together, instead of having the separate ones we usually had as we went off to school, to work, to... what kind of adventures did Mom have being at home all day? I think I assumed that she just sat around bored, waiting for me to get home from my own adventures, so that she could hear all about them and start living again... of course, that's what she lived for - me... and tangentially my brother and father. Oh, the arrogance of children.

Back to taste... That meal of bread and cheese, one of the most perfect meals in a lifetime of eating. Simple bread and cheese. You know? I can still taste it. Was it so delicious because we touched the hands that prepared it? Or because we ate it standing up, walking around, looking at things from such a long time ago? Or, was it so delicious because it was so out of the ordinary?

Normally we were a family who sat down together at 5:30 for dinner. If the phone rang, Dad would answer it and inform the caller that it was dinner time and that was family time. Back then, family dinner seemed so normal. Now, I realize what a gift it was.

I had a family that sat together, ate together, talked together, enjoyed a meal together. Every night. Every single night, with very few exceptions. How marvelous is that? Family dinnertime. Something so commonplace. And, anymore, profound. If Dad had a meeting that evening, he would make the long drive back home in time for dinner, and turn right around and head back to church; to work. Neither Mom or Dad ever said it, but family dinnertime was sacred.

Family meals. That's a bit of the precious ordinary. Isn't it? Mom cooks the meal, one child sets the table, the other cleans up after. Family of four sits down together, holds hands, blesses the food... Eats, talks, shares, is just... together. I guess that's it. That's what makes it so profound. We were together. Not only in the same place physically, but in the same place mentally. No one was rushing to get to a ballgame, or practice, or work. No one had a TV show they didn't want to miss. No one was shut off from the family with music playing only for their ears. We were all together. Together.

Oh, what precious ordinary.



The photograph of Colonial Williamburg was taken by Foto Blitz Color. It is a scene very much like ones that I remember from our walk in Colonial Williamsburg. SOOJ is a term I came up with. It means, straight out of the journal. I keep a paper journal - have for years. SOOJ posts are unedited reprints of a journal entry.

O is for...

* Oregon * orchestras * opportunities taken * occasions * obelisk * Old Glory * ocean breezes * orangutan * old bottles, letters, lace * open-mindedness * October * objet d'art * ostentatious * overnight bags * Oreos with milk * off-the-cuff speeches * oscillating fans * onomatopoeia * orbits * outlaws * Olympics * opossums * okra * one-horse towns * ostrich eggs * oxygen * overhead compartments on a plane * observatories * otherworldly stories * off-kilter ways of looking at the world * open-hearted generosity * Orson Scott Card * optimism * octopus * odors * omelets * Oval Office * oinking piglets * orcas * O * organization * osprey * owls * oilcloth * opposable thumbs * Ozymandias * oleo * odd balls * orange juice, fresh squeezed * Oxford English Dictionary * opals * ocean side cottages * origami * ornery old men * orange, the color * Oompa Loompas * osmosis * Oscar Wilde * oil paintings * orioles * otters * olives stuffed with jalapenos * obstacle course * orderly stacks of freshly folded laundry * Oma * opinions * orchids * Ode to Joy * Op Art * octagonal buildings * obedient children * oak trees * oboes * obnoxiousness * odious, the word not the trait * odometers * opulence * off-season prices on vacation packages * opaque windows * open air theaters * opera houses * Operation, the game * original thoughts * outdoor activities * overtures *

Don't you just love the alphabet?

To see more work from these excellent photographers, click the individual links. O by Eva the Weaver. Old letters & bottles by Ennui. Oak tree by Perfect Pic Hunter. Oscillating Fan by allthpix. To find out more about the Alphabetica project, see the sidebar. To see the entire project so far, click the Alphabetica label at the end of this post.

Three Books

I am a huge fan of NPR. All of Team Lawson is, actually. It's a bummer of a Saturday if we somehow miss Car Talk. Sloane keeps hoping something odd will go wrong with one of our cars so she can call in and talk to Click and Clack. We've actually been late to appointments because we were sitting in the parking lot listening to the end of a piece. My shelves are full of books somehow affiliated with National Public Radio. Some of my favorite children's books ever were discovered listening to the radio. I cried as I listened to the last This I Believe a few weeks ago. I cried because this amazing series was no more.

I told you, I love NPR. But, this post isn't intended to be an homage to NPR.

It's about books. And, I absolutely love NPR's series called Three Books. Modern authors share three books they love, linked around a theme. These aren't reviews of the sort you might read in the New York Times. They are teasers. In my classroom we call them book commercials, and we all take turns giving them about books we love. The other day I heard Augusten Burroughs' talking about books for summertime. Books to make you feel like a kid again.

He said: So, if you suddenly find yourself feeling altogether entirely too grown up, do this: Take one of these three books, open it up and begin reading while you suck on a red hot Atomic Fireball, which, by the way, you should always have in your pocket.

Once you've finished reading his recommendations, maybe you'll try mine.

Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

The bees came the summer of 1964, the summer I turned fourteen and my life went spinning off into a whole new orbit, and I mean whole new orbit. Looking back on it now, I want to say the bees were sent to me. I want to say they showed up like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary, setting events in motion I could never have guessed. I know it is presumptuous to compare my small life to hers, but I have reason to believe she wouldn't mind; I will get to that. Right now it's enough to say that despite everything that happened that summer, I remain tender toward the bees.

The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy by Jane Birdsall

There was a loud oomph in the backseat. Rosalind glanced around to make sure violence hadn't broken out, but it was only Batty struggling with her car seat--she was trying to twist herself backward to see Hound. Jane was jotting in her favorite blue notebook. So they were both all right. But Skye was blowing out her cheeks and imitating a fish, which meant she was even more bored than Rosalind had feared. They'd better find this cottage soon.

The Inn at Lake Devine by Eleanor Lipman

My older sister and I often rowed past the Inn at Lake Devine, and studied it as best we could from offshore. It had a very green lawn, broad and sloping to the water, a white flagpole, and a chalky string of buoys marking off its swimming area. Closer to us, a raft covered with teenagers floated on shiny black oil drums. My sister and I had only each other for company, and a dock with no wading area, but here there were kids our age from what had to be a dozen families, swimming and diving as well as if they were on teams.

Instead of writing a little commercial, I thought I'd borrow an idea from my friend, Ms. K. The selection above is simply a teaser; a random selection straight from the book itself.

Happy reading.
And don't forget the Atomic Fireballs.



Radio image by YalvaS. Check it out, this picture has a very interesting story behind it. I found out about Teaser Tuesday here. I love it! Here's how to play along: Grab your current read & open to a random page. Share two "teaser" sentences from somewhere on that page. Be sure not to use a spoiler. Give the title and author.