Friendly Heart Man

Friendly Heart Man has been waving to us from the ceiling for going on, well, at least since this weekend.  I didn't witness his ascent, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get up there by himself.

Hippity Hoppity Easter's On Its Waa-ay!

Inhale  .  .  .  nothin' like the aroma of Easter lilies!

 The hunt at Pap & Grandma Cluver's in Watseka (w/ cousin Lilah)

Cracking open the treasure (w/ cousin Allie)

And the mellow man in his solo nook for taking stock.

Here also with cousins Brooks (dark shirt) and Hagen (plaid).

They never did resolve the lively pre-Easter dilemna about the Easter bunny  .  .  . 

once you've got the holiday goods, maybe it doesn't matter who left them for you.

Big Memory, Sweet Heart

"All the other kids my other mom (in Haiti) make are all grown up.

Beatha (Anna) and I are the only ones little. 

I am the littlest."

I've heard Jameson use the word "make" or "made" before in reference to having children, when he said that one of his brothers is big and he "made a girl" (had a daughter).  I thought it was interesting terminology, as it is at once a matter of a young English language learner still adding to his vocabulary and having yet to refine his word selections and also a fairly Haitian style of thinking and communicating (as far as my limited studies and experience leads me to believe) -- a more honest take on birth, death, and the life that comes in between.  Human babies come from adult humans.  And it is messy and painful. 

It was unusually beautiful to hear his direct commentary on this most primary of relationships -- a child and the woman whose womb and blood gave to him life.

And it reminded me that, yes, I have in my care the littlest of her babies.  A precious lad with sweet eyes and a disarming smile. 

I will do my best for him, Mama Bonithe. 

My best for you. 

Japan Culture Day

Decatur Sister Cities Committee hosted this event, as you've likely already guessed, to raise funds for the tsunami relief efforts in Japan.  We stayed for four hours, arriving just in time to watch the first Ikebana (flower arranging) demonstration -- five completely different and gorgeous floral designs (but no luck at winning the raffle to take one home).  The Ikebana expert was great fun, however, and watching her work was indeed relaxing. "You know, today will never happen again. Today is the only day we'll be here, like this." Hm. Stop and breathe. Thank you flower lady! I needed that.



The sushi and curry rice were both delicious -- courtesy of Fuji Restaurant (going to have to make a visit there for dinner sometime soon)!

Kimono fitting, Kanje name-writing (on bookmarks), origami (simpler ones to do and more complex designs to purchase), Kanje face-painting (or hand-painting)  .  .  .

"Japan"

"Friendship"

"Jesus"

Anna and I also perched upon the tatami mat (shoeless) to enjoy a traditional Japanese tea ceremony (as Baylor looked on; she declined my multiple nudges to give it a try).  It was a frothy green tea for which the leaves are powdered and then whisked into the hot water.  I wish I had pictures of it all!  The small sweet (in my case, a chocolate cream sandwhich cookie/cake) is eaten first, and then the unsweetened tea follows.  I even gave a meager attempt to use an item learned from my friend, Haruko, when she visited my Geography classes -- "Aligato" (sp?), which is Japanese for "Thank you."  I'm a sucker for trying new cultural things, and I'm not too proud to risk messing up.  Putting on airs is a game I'm guaranteed to lose, and it's not much fun anyway.  I'd rather be the wide-eyed student.  My kids generally seem to enjoy it, as well.

I've Decided

I've decided that comments of stress humor between trusted friends cures a lot.  Like chippy students looking for a challenge at the end of a Monday, or one's own kids turning up their nose at what's for dinner.  And what that doesn't fix, chocolate can. 

Today I saw a most fabulous quote by Tom Stoppard posted at the end of a dear friend's email, "Words are sacred.  They deserve respect.  If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."  This is the present problem.  My "inner Sherry" is utterly inspired by this concise, just-right verbiage about which I agree, totally.  (How's that for not really the right words?)  But my call of duty to "Mommy-ness" is all about nudging a 5th grader to finish some math. 

I've decided that as it's only a Monday and near bedtime, it is time to reconcile that this rotation of energy has been expended.  Another path will be trod tomorrow. 

Thursday Night Lights

Sitting beside me on the bleachers at Baylor's softball practice, Anna stops me from reading to her to comment, "Mom, this is a fun place.  There are kids playing over there (motioning to the playground surrounded by mature trees), and kids learning there (tipping her head toward the ball field).  Why do I know so many people here?" 

"Because we're in Forsyth, and all the kids who go to your school live in either Maroa or Forsyth."  In addition to younger kids coming off of or heading onto various fields that knew her from the sitter's or because of Baylor or Jameson, there were a few teachers and some of her classmates, as well, all out at the park for evening activities.  

She looked around with a gentle smile of realization on her face.  She is home.

 

Lights of the Day

A dear family friend returns home safe and healed after a run to the emergency room for a matter that could have turned horribly serious.

Jameson now hugs me every morning when I drop him off at Colleen's.

A friend was comfortable calling me for help on short notice.

On this day of sunshine, the kids had little to no homework and enjoyed a couple of hours playing outside after dinner.

Our "legs" family portrait (see image in "Say Cheese" post about Woods Photography 7 below) ordered in size 12 x 24 was framed, matted, and ready to pick up from Hobby Lobby this evening.  It now hangs in our upstairs hallway.

Bunny rabbit sugar cookies at school lunch with lots of pink sugar sprinkles.

It's before 10 o'clock, and I'm going to bed.

Unbidden

In slow, yellow light

before toddlers creep,

magnolia blossoms look in at me

dead on

through broken slats in mini-blind.

Today they burst.

First spring for us in this aged home

botanic flesh thrusts open.

Thick petals pushed forward to be squeezed

and bruised,

edges turning brown at the mercy of little hands.

but on the tree plump,
soft pink,

  delicate white.

Jumping for the branches and landing with fists full,

we galloped and shoved our way to lunch.

Lenten rice bowls and solemn purple Fridays

gave way to light and warmth.

Tote bags for long "a" and hard "g."

Handwriting practice.

Bowl haircut smacked forehead,

as I ran the bases in kickball.

Blue, double-knit choir robes,

and "It Only Takes a Spark" to acoustic guitar.

"I believe in Mary Worth" screamed into bathroom mirrors

on a dare.

Parochial girls melded.

Unbidden.

Grabbing, grappling, claiming.

Watching, pushing, pulling.

Finally releasing,
breathing.

Endocrine calmed and heads certain.

Mellowed.

Aged.

Our magnolias bloomed today.

My sisters are here.

In my eyes, and my nose.

In the air.

My neighbor's tree.

Juicy crisp, velvet soft petals

will fall to cider smell.

But this breath is first.

Awake.

First written and mailed to a friend spring 2005 without time for editing. 

This is the revised form, surely in need of further work, still.

Oh,no -- Not give money, again!

As our van approaches the exit to the parking garage near the McLean County Courthouse in downtown Bloomington, Jameson spots the $1.00 in my hand and laments, "Oh, no -- not give money, again."  He smacks his hand against his closed eyes and he hangs his head back in pained resignation.  I tuck into my purse the 35 cents in change, and we head toward our lunch destination.  He worries that "everything pay money."

Another Jamesonism about a week later (6 days to be exact)  .  .  .  he comes into the kitchen with a look of happy urgency beneath his blue bike helmet, "Mom, come, come, come here.  You gotta see there are (and he leads me through the living room by my arm) yellow flowers.  They are really tiny (looking back to make sure I'm still with him as if his grip on my limb wasn't confirmation enough) and cute."  The lad is seriously pleased to show to his flower-loving mother the freshly blossomed yellow petals right near the porch.  Yes, I like blooms, but my excited reaction was really for Jameson's benefit.  The boy takes it to heart to make others happy, and THAT's a most amazing thing.

A few days ago (March 28th-ish) while putting away his clean laundry, Jameson's memory was sparked by his and Baylor's play earlier in the day of pretending to speak Spanish.  "A family in Spanish wanted me."  Chad clarified, "In Spain?"  And Jameson confirmed, "Yes, in Spanish, but it didn't work out."  Chad indicated that he knew about the previous family match that fell through months before the quake.  This boy with a long, tough memory then recounted the day he spent playing with Chad at UPMC in Pittsburgh immediately after their evacuation from Haiti and that he wanted to be in our family.  "I not want another family."  And I think, again, about that worn bear he hugged for the year that he waited, and I anticipate many more talks we'll have over the coming months .  .  .  and years.  When reporters and other writers describe the spirit of Haitians they meet, almost without fail they use the word "resilience," as they should. 

To Light

"  .  .  .  ever this day be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule, to guide.  Amen."  So concludes the prayer, "Angel of God," that I learned as a young child, alongside "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep," "Hail Mary," "Glory Be," and "Our Father" as I was tucked in at 826 South Park Blvd.  Every night before bed, this was my Catholic Finch Family prayer cycle. 

As an adult, however, I'd start my day with the routine, as I'd oft fall to slumber in the pm before I could conclude, and, quite frankly, because as a person in my twenties, and then thirties, I found my days in need of a jump start to move me toward productiveness and away from the singular thought of wishing for more sleep. 

Over time, I've delegated the sequence of rote language for certain, special times of reflection and have clung only to the brief and focused words at the start of this blog for the sunrise -- a humble admission of my shortcomings and need for clarity, a request for wisdom.  Or at least a minimal gift of calm and common sense for the day. 

And on many, MANY clumsy starts to a weekday, it is specifically the "be at my side to light" that keeps me from crawling back under the covers. 

Deep breath in, "light." 

Think about the positives from the previous day, "light." 

Consider what there is to look forward to in this new day, "light." 

Ahhh.  Okay, I can tolerate turning off the hot water of the shower and face the world of kids bickering over turns in the bathroom, and a phone call to the car dealership about an urgent repair, and explaining to students how to construct focused notes during their readings on Mesopotamia, and scavenging the fridge for a patchwork dinner, and Bogey's allergy pills hidden into smooshed clumps of soft dog food (twice a day)  .  .  . 

And, finally getting to my point, the lights that buoyed me today include:

After getting through our morning routine with relative ease, the kids and I made our way quietly to the sitter's.  Minor annoyances leaving us with the desire to stay in our individual morning shells, each child hopped out of the van without much to say.  First Baylor, then Anna, then Hunter.  Jameson exited, but before jogging up the steps to Colleen's front door, he turned toward me, looked up at my face, and then lunged in for a bear hug.  From his cheerful expression and confident stance, it was obvious that he didn't need the hug, but sensed that I did. 

I always feel like I'm playing grown-up when I do car stuff -- you know, like handing the keys to the oil change guy and saying, "Just the basic lube, oil, and filter, please" or dialing up Baum Chevrolet and asking for the service department.  This is totally old people stuff.  Where are my parents -- this is their gig.  When did I turn 38?  But there IS a most fabulous gentleman who has been answering our calls and questions at Baum's service desk for as long as we've lived here, and every time I have to do boring big people things and pretend to know about scheduling a van repair, this fellow reminds me that customer service still exists.  It makes things a little less unpleasant.  Ya actually feel taken care of.  Nice.

Jimmy John's Vito sandwich.

Gas stations that have flavor syrup options (vanilla!) for their fountain sodas.

A daughter not only earns a good score on a big test, but is excited about it.  She values learning.  A lot.

A son plays his first organized soccer game, and his hard-earned skills from years of pick-up games in Haiti pay off.

Another son, this one p r e t t y mel-low, has a healthy fire of competition lit under him after seeing younger brother do so well.

Fresh fruit and sweet yogurt dip.

Two weeks until Easter, and I can finally have COFFEE.  No, it's not even a caffeine thing -- I drink decaf.  And, yes, I know I'm supposed to bear my Lenten cross privately.  Rich, dark, bitter, milky, sweet, luxurious beverage of which I am presently deprived -- you're killin' me!  (Evil laugh.  I don't think this is what the Church intended.)  Oh, I mean, the positive thought for which I am grateful IS that I've made it 4 weeks -- and the light is at the end of the tunnel.  : )  (See, I put a smiley face thingy.)

More "lights" later.  Time for nigh-night so that my cheerful birds-chirping alarm doesn't get it's snooze button whacked too many times.  Nice nature sounds alarm, nice alarm, no harm intended  .  .  . 

Zzzz z z  z  z    z .  .  .