Life's Soundtrack

For as long as I can remember - like, really, as long as I can remember - I have personally made, or been a party to someone making (read: my big sister), music mix tapes.  I mean, I would sit in front of the radio for HOURS recording favorite songs.  Maybe perhaps based around some theme or genre like unrequited love or grunge, I would pause at just the right spot so as not to get any unwanted commercials on the tape, and then sit back and listen to my hours-long work condensed into sixty minutes of tape.

For longer than that music has been intricately woven into the familial fabric I have been given.  Whether it be my father or sister and their incredible voices (which is totally the only description for them, family or not), aunts, uncles, or grandparents singing or playing music, the sounds have been ever-present.  Even in the bodily absence of my grandfather Carl, in the last thirty days I have discovered some of the best music ever made in the form of his treasured records that I've been playing on a turntable I purchased for a steal online.  (Where's Chet Atkins been all my life?)

I suppose there are people somewhere on the planet who don't think much about music and all that jazz (me so punny), but I can't imagine that.  Music is magical, amazing.  I've decided that from time to time I want to share some of my favorite music and musicians here.  Sometimes it's the lyrics.  Sometimes it's the voice or the instrumentation.  Other times it's just the memory or emotion it evokes.  I've been thinking about this for some time, and today I know just where to start.

In my childhood I remember waking on Sunday mornings to the sound of live music coming from the living room. Without fail, it was my mom playing the piano. I remember the upright she played and the "Rhapsody In Blue" picture that hung above it. Mom's not a flashy lady.  In fact, a part of me wondered if I should get an all-clear from her before I wrote about her, but then what's the fun in that? But her playing is beautiful. Really beautiful. She's perfectly content for no one to know that. She plays for the sheer love of it. She's part of no band, plays for no church, or civic organization. She just plays because she has to. It's part of her now. Recently I even stopped by her house after running some errands with the kids, walked to her front door, and just stood on her front porch and enjoyed the concert coming through the interior and exterior walls. If I haven't said it already, beautiful.

The singular song that I remember from those Sunday mornings, and for which I will be eternally indebted to her for exposing me to, is Autumn Leaves.

The falling leaves drift by my window
The falling leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hands I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

Such a somber song.  And the version that Mom played was flourishy and dynamic, but so sincere.  Only years later did I learn the lyrics.  When I did, it explained the occasional tears that accompanied the resident pianist of our living room.

Not just is Mom not flashy, she's also somewhat of a mystery.  She can be quiet and guarded in the information she divulges (what great qualities, actually), especially about herself.  Dad, my sister, and I have joked that in a lot of ways she will die a mystery to us still.  But what she was never withholding in was loving us fully and drawing us out into who we are.  Quiet maybe.  Private, certainly.  Withholding of affection and love without conditions: NEVER.

I know now there have been losses that I can only imagine but that my mother lived.  One of them is the loss of a brother: Lewis Matthew Pope.  Through a post of my mom's from today, I gather that he would have celebrated his 58th birthday today.  Instead, he is frozen in time a 31-year-old man.  Here is what I know:
- He was funny.  Really funny.  Like, my kind of funny.  I love that.
- He was insanely and ridiculously artistically gifted.  An artist extraordinaire.
- I look like him.  A lot.
- He left a mother, a brother, and two sisters.
- He was not here nearly long enough.

His name is carried on by a red-haired, three-year-old munchkin of a great nephew.  His artistic abilities shot straight through the bloodline to his siblings' children.  And none of us can make it through a day without wit and sarcasm, which I think would make him laugh pretty hard.

I understand the fingers of the pianist being drawn to a song like this.  And what may have been grief or catharsis for her opened my world to beautiful music.

Thank you, Mama.  And happy birthday, Lewie.

If you've never heard Eva Cassidy, I'm, oh so sorry. Find out more about her here. (Thanks, SisterFriend, for her.)

Using It Or Losing It One Year Ago

In February I decided I would try to take a look back at the past year while also looking ahead to the future and while trying to live in The Now.  All clear?  Great.  Let's move on.

Here's a reminder from twelve months ago and an update.  You can click on the red words for the links back.

- The demise of Veruca Salt
I am practically floored - I mean, laid out - over the number of things from this post that I have seen either become reality or be exceeded in my expectation.  However, I cannot tell a lie (actually, yes I can, but I'm not right now): I still struggle with contentment.  There's not a ton of things I want in this world, but I realize the things that I do want can sometimes gnaw on me pretty hard.  Desires are good things.  In so many ways they can push us to be more and do more and have more of some pretty awesome stuff.  But the "gimme-s" are something else.  Veruca cannot go unchecked, that wily one.  "If she's a lady, I'm a Vermicious Knid."

- Learning the art of early-birding
I could update this one with an endless string of "ha ha"s, simply because I barely remember this period in my life where I was actually getting up well before the chickens (whether it be the kind I birthed or the ones acquired from the feed store).  Ironically, I have been once again challenged that this needs to happen (heck fire).  What can I say?  I like the late nights after the kids are in bed and I'm not answering questions or care-giving of any kind, but they don't help me in the effort to get up earlier than the rest of the household.  I've got lots of work to do to make this a priority.  One of my dearies, Brandy, said it better than I could and is mastering it with grace and beauty.  Lots to think about and aspire to...

- Hippie hair
Yep, still gone-granola on the hair care (although the occasional bottle of Nice&Easy doesn't exactly fit that bill, huh?).  And it hasn't been without mishap.  I have been known to mix the intermittent batch that, in the immortal words of my father-in-law, leaves hair looking like it's been "combed with a pork chop".  But with ingredients so inexpensive I can scrap it and get back to the drawing board.  I still kinda totally love it.  Burnsy, by the way, is now the beautiful mother to the handsomest Henry I know, and debuting a world premiere of an opera called "The Inspector". Underachiever.)

- Some sage wisdom
It's good to be reminded of another slow, intentional project...and that I am the only me there is.

How about you?  Where were you a year ago?  Check your course; where'ya headed this time next year?

Why Network?

If you're reading this, chances are more than good that you got invited to this corner of the blogosphere through NetworkedBlogs on facebook.  If you're reading this, I'll go ahead and say thanks for that.  Really.

Sending out an oodle of requests to my friends asking them to read my blog felt something a little less than comfortable.  I mean, self-promotion is not a characteristic I aspire to be known for.  It's awkward and mis-readable; it can look like braggadocio and sales pitch-y.  Every time I sent out a batch of requests inviting - well, YOU - to the blog I thought, "Don't send them this.  What do they care?  Move on already."

Can you tell I'm not a salesman?  But that's fine since I've got nothing I'm trying to sell.

Here's the deal; it doesn't get easier to stay connected these days.  That's insanely ironic since our ability to connect is huger than ever in so many mediums.  But it isn't always easy.  If you are here - "networked" into this blog - I am so thankful because this is at least one way for me to "connect" with you in something more than my meager attempts at glib, witty facebook statuses.  I don't know if that will be good news to you.  You may not give a rip about the things that I have written or will write about here.  I get that.  I really do.  And if you don't and you "un-network" from here, I'll live and love you anyway (I'm not a self-promoter, but I'm also not easily offended).  But I have winnowed down my facebook list - numerous times - to consist of the people that mean something to me; you were and are my friends from school, or my teachers; my pastors or my youth leaders; you're extended family or people that I am just getting to know.  In some way our lives legitimately connected at some point, and the invitation extended to you is my way of moving that forward a bit.

It's just a blog.  Sometimes it's just nonsense or irrelevant or silly or too serious.  But it's my life now as I know it.  And I want to share it.  I don't want to grand-stand or show-boat.  I just want to stay connected.  I want to hear from you.  I want your comments as points of contact and not to stroke an ego.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.  Thanks for reading. 

And now, a bit of random gravity-defying, tutu-clad awesomeness before bed...

Survey

I live a lot of time unintentionally.  And I have let a lot of Easters go by without stopping to "survey the wondrous cross".  This year I consciously decided that wasn't going to happen again.  I (and "we" as a husband & wife/family) have done some things differently this year in order to keep my heart and mind set intentionally on this Event that, really, my entire life is built on. 

See, I believe in a loving and holy triune God who in infinite compassion and wisdom and sacrifice intentionally stepped into flesh and lived.  He was not good or moral or well-behaved.  He was perfect and Morality itself and passionate.  He was at the beginning of everything and always knew the race of man would be a treacherous race.  But he wanted us anyway, meticulously crafted us anyway, loved us limitlessly anyway.  We would never completely grasp or understand what we are worth or what we cost.  Or why we cost death.  But we did.  We do.  And he paid it.  I believe that.  He put in us the capacity to be devoted or to betray, and knew we'd apply one or the other, devotion or betrayal, to him.

I want to be devoted, and that takes practice.  So I've been practicing.  I'm not really good at it.  I think he knew that would be the case, too.  Wow.

What we've done this week as a family is just try to do a little something each day that puts Jesus and the realities of holy week back into our minds.  We've read Bible stories, colored sheets and made decorations, read story books, and just talked about it.  It's been such a blessing for Brilliant Beauty's spring break to fall during this time of year.  We spend the days hanging out and doing activities and talking.  And I've been reminded that the devotion comes not out of the activities or the projects or even the conversations we have, but in the posture of the heart.  That has made all the difference this week for me.  Even clipping azaleas and indian hawthorne to put in glass jars and set around the house felt like a remembrance of life, death, and resurrection.  It was in the posture of my heart.

We're down to the last few activities I've been saving for the last two or three days of holy week.  This is the one we will do today.  Monetarily it cost me a whopping $1.07, and about an hour of my time to gather what I needed and to put it all together.  The idea is definitely not original to me, but per usual I made it my own.  It is a simple way to tell the story of the last days and hours of Jesus' life, his death, and his resurrection.

There are 12 eggs, each one labeled #1 through #12.

#1 is little leaves to represent the palm branches laid down when
Jesus entered Jerusalem.
#2 is small bottle of perfume to represent Mary washing Jesus' feet.
#3 is a piece of flat bread to represent the last supper with the disciples.
#4 is a picture of Jesus holding a child as a reminder that his death was
for us, not something impersonal or against his will.

#5 is three dimes to symbolize the pieces of silver Judas
accepted for betraying Jesus.
#6 is a piece of purple cloth to represent the purple royal robes
that were placed on Jesus after his arrest as a mockery of him.
#7 is a cross.
#8 is a nail to represent the nails driven into his hands and feet.

#9 is a sign with "King of the Jews" written on it, like the one the
soldiers placed above Jesus' head when he was crucified.
#10 is a small swatch of black cloth bound with a rubber band and
holding cloves to represent the burial spices the women brought to
the tomb.
#11 is a rounded stone to represent the door to the tomb being rolled
away.
#12 is empty to represent an EMPTY grave.

Devotion takes practice.  And some parts of practicing are easy and breezy.  Other times I think the practicing is pointless at best and going to kill me at worst.  But then my heart wins out over my head and my hands, and I am devoted.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson, like a robe,
Spreads o’er His body on the tree;
Then I am dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

The Unclaimed Treasures

And now, I proudly introduce to the world (or the two of you reading) our CHICKENS!

We have a small flock of eight hens.  I bought them the last week of March as little chicks.  We kept them inside for nearly two weeks, brooding them under a heat lamp, making sure they were growing strong and hearty.  When the time was right (read: when I couldn't stand the idea of eight birds pooping on cardboard behind a cage in my house) I moved them into their coop outside where they will hopefully continue to grow fat and happy and lay for us a bazillion eggs.  We don't anticipate the bazillion eggs to begin until mid- to late summer, but the ol' gals are growing like crazy.

I have pined for chickens for years now.  I have read and researched, gotten all excited, and put it all to the back burner more times than I can count.  But finally Ma Luffin' Mayun got on board.  I think the move to the new house helped with that.  Whatever the reason, you can imagine I pounced the first time I heard him say, "You can get your chickens now".  The next awesome thing I heard from him was that I could use the storage shed that came with our house as a coop for the flock.  What a man.  Diamonds would have made no better gift.

The storage shed is where our backyard meets our woods.  It's perfect.  It has all the requirements for a hen house: good space, a window to the outside world, ventilation without drafts, solid floors, walls, and roof.  But it is also a really big storage shed, so I started to ponder and scheme ways of dividing the shed down the middle somehow; half for chickens and half for storage. 

The shed first needed a lot of cleaning up.  There was still some stuff left from the previous owners and our outdoor tools had been kind of haphazardly, we'll-deal-with-this-later chucked into the shed when we moved in.  I pulled EVERYTHING out of the shed and as I did I realized there was all sorts of scrap lumber, particle board panels, and molding strips obviously left over from weekend-warrior projects before our arrival on Noah Lane.  Some creative thinking, trial-and-error, screws, nails, and hours later, I stepped back and looked into a storage shed that had been neatly divided down the middle with a wall to separate...chickens to the left and tools to the right.  Ah, the satisfaction.

Don't worry.  I only put flowers on the "chick" side of the shed.
They're pinwheels, so they spin like mad on blustery days.

A shot of the piecemeal wall.
It ain't pretty, but it's sturdy.

Here's Little Big Man standing on the storage side by
Daddy's mower.

 

We can also store the extra hay bails for the coop
on the storage side.

Here's the coop side.  You can see their window
and their door to the outside.  The four nesting boxes
are made out of an old cabinet and plastic tubs.
The ladder is made out of a piece of closet shelving.
The roosting poles are two paintroll extenders screwed
to the wall.

Their feeder and waterer

The baby gate/kid corral/toddler torturer that I got at consignment last year is now the perfect yard for the chickens to peck and scratch in.  I attached three pvc pipes in arches to the gate sections and then covered the whole thing with chicken wire, so they are nice and secure and hopefully safe from predators.  I also made it so that the cage can detach from the coop and be moved around the backyard like a chicken tractor.

Walk softly and carry a big stick

The decision to raise chickens, at least for me, is only partly motivated by having our own eggs (although I guarantee that was the selling point for my mister).  I just like the whole idea of slowing the world down a little in the places I can.  If before we had kids I thought time flew, now with three children I'm a believer that it zooms past at break-neck, warp speed.  Sometimes it feels like we're in a runaway vehicle, but in reality we can apply the brakes.  We don't always remember that or choose it.  And I like to be on the move with places to go and people to see.  But that pace can wear me down, can wear all of us down.  The chickens - coming to us as chicks that required certain care to grow strong enough for the out-of-doors, needing daily tending with food and water, and teaching us delayed gratification while we wait for chicks to become mature hens and lay for us eggs - slow us down.  It feels like a throwback to days that come out of the stories my grandparents told.  It wasn't quaint or trendy or hippie to raise animals or grow food or not watch TV all day.  It was practical and a lot of times necessary.  And it was slower than fast food and highways and DVRs.

Thank God for modernity and the conveniences of 2011.  But thank God for the chances to rewind - or at least pause - time a bit.  It's something else to watch the kids learn that chickens start off a whole lot cuter than what's wrapped in cellophane at the grocery store, that eggs don't have to come in cartons; to see them scour the yard for grasses to pluck up and inch worms to poke through the fence as snacks for the chickens.  The kids don't sit for hours or even many minutes watching the chickens, but the hens seem to have become a sort of starting point in the yard from which the us-es explore.  Pretty Baby toddles around and plops down to investigate leaves and dirt and caterpillars and acorns . . .

...Little Big Man simultaneously scores winning touchdowns and fights bad guys with his super powers...

...and Brilliant Beauty stops the progression towards being "too cool" and sings made up songs to imaginary audiences without a sliver of self-consciousness.

I know, I know.  They're just chickens.  Really, I know.  But I'm so thankful for them.

I Meant To Do That

Some days are just tough.  Like the kind of tough that leaves you with pretty much no lasting impression from the day other than how tough it was.  Out of the past ten days I've had a nice stack of Tough.

"Terrible Twos" get named that for a reason.  And, no, I am not opting into some sort of reap-the-whirlwind fate by actually calling them "terrible" instead of something kitsch like the "terrific twos" or "totally tubular twos".  This pretty much is a it-is-what-it-is situation.  And I'm not calling my kid terrible, for heaven's sake; just this funky, awkward, uncomfortable stage of stretching and growing and testing and learning.  Whether the terrible twos hit at eighteen months or eight or eighteen years they're just, well, cruddy.  Like so many other things they are merely a stage, a phase.  They come and they go.  They're an alternate reality (not the new reality) that (thankfully) doesn't last forever.  But I'm telling you, in the vortex of that alternate reality it is not easy to maintain sanity or to take metered breaths.  It is most unpleasant to have a series of minutes, or hours, or days in which tiny tyrants stomp around and aim to rule unchallenged and unthwarted, based on nothing but their own whims, fancies, or grievances.  (Did I also mention you cannot use reason or logic with a toddler?)

But really, I digress.  I don't intend or want to write a diatribe on the woes of toddlerhood.  Some days are just tough.

But then they get better.

It's spring break around here.  Finally.  And there aren't too many big-deal plans in the works, other than just a whole lot of intentional living...like reading books, playing outside, coloring, taking long walks, talking about Easter, and watching chickens.  Nothing major, just intentional.

So time is the thing we're planning on using-or-losing this week.

mistress chicken no-name

So far this hasn't gotten old

This is LadyBird.
Her name fits her...and I kind of think she knows it.

Since there's not a rooster among them,
these gals collectively are "The Unclaimed Treasures"

That's intensity.  It ended in a Charlie Brown-esque miss,
but he kept trying until he made contact.

There are still Easter eggs on the
school playground from last week's
before-spring-break festivities.
An impromptu treasure hunt for us!

I love the look on his face
trying to not laugh at the toddler meltdown

Flying dad, cheering daughter

A favorite spot on our long walks

Noah Lane...home again, home again...

What will you be doing intentionally this week?