Snuggling Down With Some Favorites

Used to be, when I felt bad enough to give up and crawl back in bed, the most I had to look forward to was diving into a good ... or not so good ... book.

Today, I got up and around (but not very far around) for about 3 hours then decided I really didn't feel good - shivers, fever, tummy - and was going to crawl back in bed. Then I had a moment of unexpected delight when I realized I could bring my laptop to bed and do some guilt-free catching up ... hours of it! ... with my favorite blogs.

There are some women out there who have opened their lives and farms or homes to the world who I just love to visit. Now, my 20-year PR and marketing career taught me that you NEVER promote someone else's product, unless it's a cross-promotion that strengthens your own brand. Well, I guess I've just shed most of my PR identity because I'd rather give kudos to and share the joy and whimsy (and scrumptious recipes or unabashed decadence) of keeping up with these ladies, rather than worry about sending you away from my little corner of the blogosphere. Besides, Gertie hasn't said so, but I think she's in a huff over all the recent attention, so she'd rather hang out of the public eye for a bit.

So, if you have time - or if you are a little under the weather and want some light reading - I might suggest you visit some of these wonderful gals:

The Pioneer Woman
On The Way To Critter Farm
Life On A Southern Farm
NieNieDialogues
A Handmade Life
Morning Ramble
Octoberfarm
Not Dabbling In Normal
101 Cookbooks
Chiot's Run
Chickens In the Road
Coal Creek Farm
Unearthing This Life
Slow Living Essentials

Now, go visit some of these folks. You can thank me later. (And, do let me know who you discover you love.)

Propped against pillows on the farm and suddenly feeling better about feeling bad,
Teri

Dog in Easter Spirit?

The headline I just saw on AOL read, "Dog In Easter Spirit With Costumes."

Really? I mean, really?!

There are some things that really shouldn't be trifled with. A jack-o-lantern on a dog? Sure. A hot dog bun costume for our wiener dog Belle? I suppose. If we're not worried about giving her nightmares (which I am, since she keeps finding her way into my bed at night.)

But, I'm not really too concerned with making it look as if my pooches are in the "Easter spirit" - much the same way I wouldn't dream of slapping a menorah on a headband and sliding it over Sadie the Dog's ears, so she can show her "Hanukkah Spirit." Or desecrate some symbol of Passover in the name of cute. I can't even bring myself to consider what capturing the true spirit of Easter would translate to in doggie fashion.

No, what I'd rather do is express that Easter is my favorite day of the year for thoroughly sacred and heart lifting reasons. Whether you're Christian or not, there's much to be appreciated about the symbolism of Easter: renewed life, the promise of being reunited with our loved ones who have left us - some far too soon. The idea that all will be restored to perfect form - no matter how broken or battered we are now.

I also cherish Christ's example of a love for our fellow man that leads to serving others, making sacrifices for those we love and for meaningful ideals that we graciously uphold no matter the cost. Whether you view Christ as a Messiah, a great prophet or simply a historic figure, there's no question his ministry encompassed all of these things.

I love Easter, and I love the spirit of Easter. And I'll cherish the symbolism and ponder the example of this Christ, who cherishes me, too. No costumes required.

Happy Easter from the farm,
Teri

Tell Me Why

Yesterday, the young mother who oversees my girls in "Activity Days" called to see if Karlie and Macy could go with a group of girls and women to serve dinner at the Bread of Life mission in town. Loaded up with baggies full of chopped onions and tomatoes (their contribution to the meal they would be serving), the girls hopped into their leader's car at 5 o'clock, excited to be on their way.

Activity Days is a program for girls ages 8 to 11 in our church. On any given Activity Day, they might make gingerbread houses, Father's Day gifts, memorize scriptures or learn to sew or sing harmony. Last summer, they came home with sparkly, star-spangled, ribbon-festooned flip flops they'd made themselves just in time for the 4th of July.

Upon their return last night, the girls tumbled out of their leader's car, yelled thanks and gave me a quick "hi!" as they bounced into the house. I thanked their leader for taking them and asked how it went. She said, "It was amazing. The girls were amazing. They did so good. They always do." I was surprised that she seemed really touched and quiet, rather than just upbeat and matter-of-fact.

Curious about her demeanor, I went into the house and asked if the girls had a good time. This was only the second time they'd fed the homeless in our community and I wondered if they felt that warm surge of lightness that seems to always accompany serving others. I remember - and still experience - the hesitation and nervousness I have felt when going into a situation where I'd be serving others less fortunate, ill or downtrodden; yet every time, there's that warm glow that makes me so glad I did.

I didn't want to color the girls' response to me, so I didn't say any of that. I simply asked them how it went. They said they'd had a good time, that it felt good to feed the people who were there. Then, they surprised me by saying, "We sang 'Tell Me Why'."

"Tell Me Why" is a sweet little old song that's been around forever. I taught it to the girls while we were driving around lost one night in northeastern Arizona. I wasn't worried, I knew we'd eventually find our way back onto the right route home. We just had time to kill as we drove around in the dark, so we started singing songs. I hadn't thought of the song in years until that night, but it was fun to teach them the words and try our hand at harmonizing.

I was surprised when Karlie told me they sang a duet last night, because I was forever trying to get the girls to sing to us. Sometimes they're all for it, other times they claim shyness. I understand - I do the same thing. I knew something must have moved the girls to prompt them to share the song with these struggling families and lonely individuals who take refuge at the mission. I thought how beautiful it must have been for those being served to sit at dinner, hearing these two little girls sing in their clear, sweet voices the simple words:

Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.

Because God made the stars to shine
Because God made the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that's why I love you.

I asked how the people responded. Macy said, "They really liked it." Karlie, in the nose-wrinkled, quizzical little tone she has patented replied, "Sister Stanton cried." Her tone clearly conveyed she wasn't sure why.

I knew why.

Because there's something about a child's voice lifted in song that touches the spirit, especially a lonely or aching spirit. A child's voice is a balm. There is a purity in those breathy, high, sometimes faltering notes that somehow conveys a downy softness and innocence that we don't often feel as adults. And it affects us.

I was reminded of the times our babysitter Oma would take my sister and me along with her church group to the "old folks' homes" in Ohio when we were little, so we could sing to the "old people." I was a little frightened of the ancient, bent over people in wheel chairs, with rheumy unseeing eyes and impossibly wrinkled skin. Though I couldn't know the words to describe it at that time, I remember their fragility and seeming vulnerability being so unsettling for me. But my fear soon gave way to that puzzled wonder that Karlie conveyed as I witnessed the smiles and pure joy those old people expressed as we sang to them. Some closed their eyes as tears streamed down their faces and they tilted their heads towards us so they could hear more clearly. Some of the white-haired old ladies would clasp our hands as we stood near them and with beaming smiles tell us how beautiful we were. I remember feeling that warmth of knowing we'd made these people happy somehow, even though I didn't understand how we'd done it.

Recalling all of this, I asked the girls if they would sing the song again for my sister and me as we sat in the living room last night. They did, and as I listened I thought how their leaders' demeanor when she dropped them off made so much sense now. Of course she was touched by hearing these sweet girls sing to people who were hungry not only for warm food, but for a warming balm that would soothe their troubled spirits, if only for an evening. Of course she was moved by the pure innocence that they exude at this tender time in their lives. Who wouldn't be?

I love the wonder of little girls who sing simple, sweet songs.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Family Night

Monday night is family night, and this past Monday was amazing. Yes, we had our Family Home Evening, with scripture, song, prayer and snack. It was a great one, actually - for the 1st time, our family set goals for the New Year - and they were doozies: As a family, help Adam prepare for his mission this fall...read the entire Bible - Old and New Testaments...go on a family summer road trip...and others.

We had fun discussing what goals are, the difference between short- and long-term goals, how we'll stay on track to achieving our goals, and we all left with the assignment of determining at least one and, preferably, no more than 3 personal goals that we'll discuss at our next Family Home Evening. Very fun stuff.

It was also neat to begin reading in Genesis - the first time we've tackled the Bible since all the kiddos have been old enough to read. We've never read it all the way through, and we've never had such deep and insightful discussions and questions. "But, who was before God?" Oh, I remember losing sleep over that one. That's not to say we were able to answer all the questions; I'm just acknowledging the deep doctrine began to be plumbed. We even had that occasional terrible, irreverent but excruciatingly funny closing prayer when Mike asked Tanner to be sure to include a blessing on the snack as part of his prayer. Somehow, the words, "We are grateful for the cantaloupe. Please bless it," struck us all has hysterical and we all fell into a fit of giggles, and Tanner nearly gave up on finishing the prayer. It seems like Heavenly Father should understand we really were earnest, but it was just funny and we couldn't help laughing.

It was a really nice family night, but it wasn't just what happened during Family Home Evening that made it so. It was also what came before. When, for some reason, we all found ourselves lounging in Mike's and my bedroom, which was probably the original family's living room - a long room with our bed at one end and a fireplace at the other. The boys were on the futon in front of the fire, reading. Mike was on the love seat next to the bed looking at seed catalogs with Karlie and ribbing her mercilessly, as usual; with her getting a few well-placed jabs in, too, as usual. I was laying on my bed, curled around Macy who was using me as a back rest, as she worked on her homework.

I lay there quietly watching her write her vocabulary words, watching how she formed her letters, noting her quick, dashing motions that are quintessential Macy: she can't be bothered with neatness and precision when her mind is off and running to the next big idea. She seemed almost impatient when she had to stop her forward motion to go back and cross a "t" or dot a "j." Her body was so still, except for her flashing pencil and her intent eyes. I wondered at how she could be in this elegant repose that she unconsciously assumes, while so earnestly engaged in the task at hand. She's wonderful.

I was mesmerized by her writing and dotting and crossing, then was shaken from my reverie by Adam's chuckle over a book. I looked around and thought, "Here we all are." Naturally. Unconsciously. We could have each been in our own spaces, doing our own things; instead, we all were in one warmly lit room of the house, content to just be near one another.

I love the love we have for one another and the fact that given a choice, we choose each other.

I was given a blessing once that promised I would marvel at the joy that we would have in our children and be in awe of the love in our home.

I do marvel, and I am in awe. And I am so grateful.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Old Timey Playing Christmastime

The kids and I spent yesterday afternoon and evening decorating the house for Christmas. Adam informed me that he wanted to go all out with decorations this year because this will be his last Christmas with us before he heads off on a mission for two years; then college after that; then inevitably that Christmas with the girlfriend's family, nervously trying to make a good impression; then married and "this year, we're having Christmas at the in-laws"....
Well, ok, he only mentioned this would be the last Christmas before his mission - it's I who went the rest of the way down that treacherous road to Christmases future.

Anyway.

His description of how over the top he expected us to go went something along the lines of, "I want it to look like someone vomited Christmas all over the house." (I wish I could remember his exact words, because that paraphrase is really gross.)

I believe we achieved his desire. We have lights strung inside the house, the entertainment center leads one to question whether we have created a shrine to television, we have an "eclectic" array of styles and colors co-mingling (clashing) in our small living spaces, and tea lights everywhere. We even have a corner still filled with pumpkins that need to be baked and pureed - but don't worry, we have lighted garland that will Christmas those gourds right up. Adam strung a couple strands of big colored lights about 8 feet up one of the 6, 30+-foot poplars in front of the house. Somehow, it works.

Mike came home from work and loved it. We saved the Christmas tree for when he arrived so he could be part of it all.

(There has only been one fire so far - it was a small one, and Macy caught it quickly. We have a few burned silk roses, but thankfully, the Christus the candle was warming did not suffer smoke damage.)

The house feels like Christmas, Adam's satisfied, and last night, we finished the Christmas story in Luke, Chapter 2, and it was good. Not sure what we'll be reading for the remaining 11 days of Christmas, but we have many scriptures from which to choose. Like the health care reform bills floating around the Hill these days, we're not lacking in pages.

All this to say, I love when it looks, feels and smells like Christmas. And, I love when it sounds like Christmas, too. Which brings me to the below link. But, first, a long-winded explanation:

I'm a sucker for radio shows and radio programs. I love listening to Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" and "What Do You Know?" when I'm in the car at the right time on the weekend. I absolutely love it when I stumble across an "old timey" radio program, which is why I was happy today when I was sent to the link below. The NPR broadcast isn't technically "old timey," but the narrator's voice sure makes it feel like it.

Here's some of the appeal for me:

• I love radio shows (noted above)
• The narrator says "us youngin's" just the way I remember my Aunt Sue saying it when she'd talk about the life she and my Dad's other 10 siblings lived on the old farm in Kentucky, with their parents
• While some people don't take to the soft, drawling nature of voices like this gentleman's, I get all warm inside because it reminds me of the voices and warm spirits of all of my Dad's brothers, sisters and cousins that I loved to listen to while I was growing up. My memories are of no one ever talking about unhappy things or speaking ill of one another. Stories and conversations were always accompanied by good-natured chuckling and a fair amount of ribbing- no one was loud or crass or cynical. I somehow knew all these people had enjoyed growing up together. Now, my memories are framed, you understand, in holiday visits or family reunions - when feelings are a little softer and reminiscing is steeped in sentiment - but even as a child I knew these were good and kind people. I could hear it in their voices.
• I love that the kids in the story play those silly, ruleless, made-up games and assign them names as if they're real games that everyone has always played, like "Christmastime," "Christmas Gift," and "Go Up to the Kitchen Door and Smell."
• That the little boy notices his parents have an unspoken communication, just like I always sensed when I'd see that certain look pass between my Mom and Dad; and that Mike and I have developed over the years. I'm grateful for that level of knowing someone - and of him knowing me, too. And, I'm so grateful that my parents have had that unspoken magic my whole life, and that they are ever more tightly bound to one another as the years continue to roll by.
• I love that for 10 minutes (it's a long one, make sure you have time to snuggle down and listen before you click the link), I just got lost in the gentle lilting and meaningful pauses as a humble and humbling story was told.

Now, click the link, turn up your volume, cross your ankles, interlace your fingers behind your head and stare off into space.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5028755

Playing Christmastime on the farm,

Teri

Is Your Light Hiding Under a Bushel?

Sitting in a room full of adults one day, I heard something like this, "How many of you in here are great artists?" Everyone looked around awkwardly. No hands were raised. "How many of you are singers?" A tentative hand or two. Again, sheepish looks.

"Look what happens to us as adults," the teacher said. "We forget our gifts; we become embarrassed."

He continued, "If I were in a class of 25 1st graders and I asked if any of them were artists, I guarantee you, most of the hands would have shot up at once; then the remaining kids would have looked around, and bolstered by their classmates' confidence, sent their hands up, as well. If I asked if they were singers, the same thing. Those 6-yr-olds would be bouncing in their seats, hands waving, starting to yell out their favorite tunes and breaking into song.

Somewhere along the line, as we get older, we become afraid and stop believing in our gifts."

I thought of that last night when I read a note from a woman fighting, and appearing to overcome, a cancer that many people don't overcome. She is feeling survivor guilt, wondering why she "deserves" to be healed when so many people "better" than her, who have lived more virtuous lives or made fewer mistakes, don't recover. When precious children afflicted with the same disease aren't making it, but somehow, she is. She said it kind of feels like we all felt after 9/11, wondering why our fellow Americans back East bore the brunt of the horrors, while we suffered and ached, but far removed from the grit and the smoke.

On a lesser scale, how many of us sometimes wonder how we can possibly deserve the blessings we've received or the gifts we've been given, when there are so many "more deserving" who seem to have so little? How many of us think we have a gift, even once used that gift with joy and confidence, but have become afraid or disbelieve we really do have a talent? And who would care anyway if we just set it aside?

This cancer survivor referenced the following quote by Robert Louis Stevenson, and I just wonder if there are a few among us who might find something in it that rings true.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Shine away, friends. You're beautiful.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Raw Silk

Last night, my heart broke when I read a text that had come in a few hours earlier from a dear friend, letting me know her mother had passed away in Tucson where she had been fighting, and I mean fighting, cancer. I gasped that immediate, tear-invoking "Oh, no!" that we all do when we've just found out that in spite of our earnest prayers, someone we care about - or someone loved fiercely by someone we care about - didn't get to be one of the 20%'ers after all; rather, they had to join the ranks of the 80% who fought valiantly and with spirit, but whose bodies were just too tired after relentless battle.

I had just had the chance to sit down with this friend last week, for the first time in probably 9 months, and we had talked about her mom and my Tan. We were able to laugh, roll our eyes and make what others would probably have thought of as horrifically shocking statements and jokes; unless, of course, those eavesdroppers had dealt with a loved one's critical illness completely standing their lives on end and rearranging every facet of what they had once thought of as "normal." We laughed one minute, railed the next and fought tears a time or two before we laughed again. And, I was so impressed by the strength, courage and perspective I heard coming from this amazing woman.

Today, I was waiting to pick up lunch for Mike, Tanner the Boy On House Arrest, and me, and I was wondering what I could send my friend to let her know I'm thinking of her. My mind settled on a raw silk handkerchief. I could envision giving her this soft, dove grey handkerchief that she could use to dab her eyes during the funeral and feel close to her mom. And I thought that it was ironic that it would have been at an elegant little boutique like the one her mom had once owned in Scottsdale where I could have found the perfect hankie.

Her mom owned a shop called "Valerianne's," and it proffered the finest, most luxuriant linens. There were other beautiful things there, but the linens were what defined the experience. They were exquisite, sometimes fragile in their beauty and of only the finest materials. There was no question they were of highest quality. From the few times I met her, it struck me as entirely appropriate that my friend's mother would spend her time among such beautiful things. She was a beautiful woman. She was one of those rare beauties who are timeless; I would say she reeked of refinement, but there is no way the word "reek" should have been used in a sentence describing her. She simply was refined and gracious. I know from anecdotes my friend would share of family get togethers that she wasn't a shrinking violet, but I'm sure even in repose or at play, or even in a quarrel, she didn't quite shake that indefinable quality that she had.

I thought of raw silk today because in our conversation the other night my friend remarked that here was this woman who had always taken such good care of herself, liked things just so and took great care in her appearance, yet she had long since lost her carefully styled hair, had ports and tubes attached, and wasn't even fully aware of the marring scars from recent surgery. But, this friend told me, "In some ways she isn't the same person right now, but she's still my mom. She's still beautiful."

Silk can certainly be treated to smooth out the wrinkles and imperfections, allowing it to shine and exude its highest levels of refinement. But when it's raw, it has texture and there is beauty in its very being, and in the way the light catches its slightly uneven facets. While finished silk is uniform and smooth, the raw silk reveals nuances and shades in its unvarnished state that cause you to examine it a little more closely and appreciate its complexities.

My friend's mother's name is Gloria. She was beautiful - both when she was able to present herself exactly as she wanted to, and as her life and her appearance became more complex and raw. There was a certain fragility to her beauty that might have obscured her hidden strength from those who didn't know her well; but to those who fought alongside her all these many months, it was the innate beauty of her raw strength that left them in awe.

I don't know if I'll find that raw silk hankie in time for the funeral. But I'm not sure I'll see one again without thinking of my dear friend and her beloved mom.

Love from the farm,
Teri