Secrets of a Bride

Here are a few secrets. I very rarely go to Costco. Never like standing in line with all the other bulging people pushing fat carts. I don't really like it when we Christians say stupid stuff either. I'm twittering and love some of the movies and sights that make fun of the ridiculous things we 'followers' say and do. "Stuff Christians Like" and "Lord Save Us From Your Followers" a movie I can't wait to see. Us is the key word. I'm a follower too. I have and do and will say thoughtless things. Cliches. Have habits that I fall into by default. Empty religious behaviors that need ruthlessly shaved off.

Following is great. We should. We do. But there's more. We're the bride. The girl in the story, the princess, decked out, bejeweled, all eyes on us, stunning. Or we could be if we lived like we believed this part. God wants lovers to love on, but the church pill we have been taking has taken our spiritual libido away. To say that we go to church is as ridiculous as saying, "Let's go to bride".

My husband of almost 21 years loves to please me, treat me, serve me, surprise me and show off for me. I'm his bride. He loves it when I eagerly respond and notice his overtures. I'm his lover and he is mine. Sound familiar?

Think of us as the bride in a spiritual way. Lovers. We need to keep discovering, exploring each other. Craig can't mindlessly rub that spot under my ear that used to tickle. My response is his guide to loving me.

Craig struts when he knows he has completely satisfied me. He can't wait to do that thing again when he knows I'm content and grateful. He feels like a studmuffin when he knows he's my hero. When the kids were little, he would gift me with dishes or let me have a long bubblebath. He has new ways of loving now that fit the context of our 'new normal'.

Giving the lover of my soul mere human attributes might be lessening him, but in the context of being His bride, it won't degrade him.

In "Anna and the King" when Tuptim is given to the King as a gift, a concubine, the first wife reassures her that 'he is a kind and generous lover'.

We have one also. Along with being kind and generous, he's passionate, strong, hungry for us. Like the spanish word quiero. Love like desire, a craving. Think chocolate.

Change out some of the soggy white bread 'christian music' once in a while. Turn on some music, listen to good art. Period. Turn it on LOUD. When your very favorite love song comes on, belt it out to Him at the top of your lungs. Listen with your whole heart and you will hear Him seducing you. Lean in................

At times, it might sound like Bryan Adams or Cyndi Lauper, but don't be confused. It's Him.

Grateful to You!

To the people I follow on twitter.

There is no other way to do this; usually, I send a simple handwritten card with a stamp on it through the UPS when I want to thank someone. I don't even know your real name sometimes, just your twitter handle. And we don't give are addresses to strangers. Pretend this is hand written with a good pen on fine stationary.....and has a stamp on the envelope.

After only a month on Twitter, navigating, translating, decoding and getting accustomed to its strange world, I wanted to tell you all how much my life has changed since "following" you. I could stay embarrassed at the 'mullet' blog I have with it's rough toothed edges, get stuck at ashamed, compare or instead be hungry and thirsty grabbing what you offer, teach, feed, introduce, exhort, caution, coach, inspire, spur and expose me to in your world. Your point of view is changing my point of view.

This is what you've done for me. I'm thankful! It has been one of the most amazing things in my life to be connected to so many other creative thinkers, artists all. I don't feel alone. You have kindled and sparked my spirit, each of you. I know I will grow and get refined as I listen, read and glean all that each new status offers.

Here's some comic relief, the first few days, I clicked on the follow button or subscription button of all of the 213 people I follow. My google reader was busting its seams. I could not keep up, could not sleep and could NOT get rid of the 'word cloud gadget' in my head! To survive the onslaught of stimulating conversations/your blogs, I had to delete and do 1 by 1 from twitter posts.

Sincerely,

Kathleen

Way Beyond

At the intersection where the first half of life and the second half of life meet, it feels like the ride has been way beyond my wildest dreams. A roller coaster ride. The old wooden kind with creaks and groans only hinting at, the next hammering plunge.

Here's the progression, you can literally hear and see "the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift" of the "Hallelujah" timeline in my life.

Spiritually, most of my life was moving sideways from the frying pan into the fire into a forge. They wore different costumes and different names. Each time I stepped sideways, I thought I was stepping up. At some lonely unmarked junction, I took a turn for freedom. Nothing has been the same since.

The forge experience melted me and formed me, tempered me. The strongest iron is heated, bent, sometimes folded, pounded and finally baptised in cold water where it coughs and sputters breathlessy in shock. The process is worked and repeated over again, until the instinct of the blacksmith knows it is finished. Tempered. Tempering is what makes it strong, reliable and usable. Elastic. Resilient. Not easily cracked or broken. A reliable and usable tool.

Colorbook Masterpieces

With only an over sized princess coloring book, a big box of color crayons and anticipation for the morning, I'm almost ready to leave the house. We don't have grandchildren yet so I entice my friends to share theirs.

My grandmother was an artist who infused me with the creative urge. If a coloring book was well crafted, she would often color a page with me. The details she added, the shading she used, the color combinations and perfect way she laid on the color was enviable. I wanted to color just like her but at 49 haven't yet reached that caliber. I keep at it......

Grandma drew lovely things with pencil, charcoal and painted with acrylics. She artistically made pie and biscuits that evoked emotion deep enough to make you cry. But she is a celebrity in my mind most, for her coloring book masterpieces. I've never seen their equal.

Today, as I go fill in the black outlines of princesses in a coloring book worthy of our best, I want to color a masterpiece like her. I want my little miniature girlfriend to want to color one too. Contagious creativity. I wonder if the memory is so beautiful because someone wanted to spend time with me sharing and enjoying the same box of color.

Gratefulness Go Round

Our twenty year old daughter, who thankfully still lives at home, gave us an edible gift. Supper.

She picked out a recipe from her favorite Jamie Oliver cookbook, followed his instructions to the letter, even when she questioned him. He said that taking the time to scald/peel the cherry tomatoes would make a difference. It did indeed!

She bought all the groceries, prepped and cooked everything. We enjoyed gourmet lemonade in goblets to drink, along with pumpkin pie crowned with thick whipped cream for dessert.

We felt like we had crawled into a movie set as extras from Chocolat, Babbette's Feast or Like Water for Chocolate. Food really is love. In eastern cultures, breaking bread with each other is becoming one.

There is a wonderful two way street going on with our grown children that money can't buy. They have become our friends. They reciprocate. They are generous with us. Gratefulness going round and round isn't making us dizzy. This part of life has an ease and rhythm that feels like we're all swinging in a big hammock. Together. When it slows or comes to a stop, someone invests in the 'we' and gets us going again. We get love dripped on us which makes us full enough to drip over onto someone else.

Yesterday, I was planting 350 tulip and daffodil bulbs around the yard for spring. By the time I opened the last bag of 90, my energy, by back and my digging arm were played out. I

asked Brita if she would help me finish. She cheerfully came out and partnered with me to finish the job. I couldn't have done it on my own. When I asked for help, she responded willingly. It blessed me. It was a gift. She will be part of the color burst next spring.

The View Outside

Grape vine dying on arbor looks stunning as she blushes,

embarrassed by the many colors

of a brutal bruise.

Trick Carrots, Not Treats

We all succumb to the package of 'easy' when we shop. For the last 3-4 years those slimy, mangled, uniformly small snacking carrots have been thoughtlessly grabbed. They are convenient, and you get used to the cardboard nothingness. I think our minds are tricked, as we remember what a real carrot tastes like from the garden. Isn't this uniform little 'trick' we're eating technically a carrot? It is not a 'treat', however.

The other night, thoughts of an old fashioned pot roast made me salivate. It was drizzly and cold. Pot roast would be just the thing to warm us up, comfort us.

When I went grocery shopping, this loose mountain of bright orange carrots flaunted themselves shamelessly. The 'other' carrots had little appeal. I found such pleasure in picking out and bagging the perfect carrots,red peppers, and papery dry yellow onions.

The browned pot roast was cradled tenderly all day in the arms of my red crock pot. It met the needs of our bodies and souls. The silence, broken by sighs and a few little moans of satisfied pleasure while we scraped our plates clean, proved it.

There isn't a scented candle in the world to compare with the steamy aroma twirling out from under the lid of a pot roast smothered in onions, peppers, Montreal Steak Seasoning, potatoes and sweet caramelized chunks of real carrots.

Ugly Skis

At 14, a shy, scared, wanna-be-adventurous, determined girl learned to ski. Against all odds; financial, cultural, practical and probable. Me.

Because I was so sure about it, and my poverty stricken mother sacrificed to make it happen, it became possible. An odd sport to choose, but it provided years of fun, fellowship, exercise, pleasure and adventure.

In our small eccentric world, we ice skated in dresses, played sandlot baseball, volleyball, roller skated and even wore a dress over pants in P.E. Grandma wanted me to wear a dress over my old fashioned Goodwill warm ups, I refused. First meaningful boundary which mom supported. Rebellious, sinful, beginning skiier! (Instead of picturing a Norman Rockwell, go back about a hundred years to Currier and Ives. Our church was stuck in a legalistic moment we couldn't get out of. Who stopped the clock at 1897?)

My leather tie-up, antique ski boots were from a ski swap. So were my skis. Antique. We had a trendy friend who volunteered to fix me up with some state-of-the-art bindings and somehow retrofitted them so my boots would work properly. Outdated boots, outmoded skis, with really smooth, slick bindings.

Shaking in fear and anticipation, I signed up for 6 weeks of lessons at Soldier Mountain. Every Saturday mom would drop me off at the school's ski bus. The lively 'goings on' in that bus were outside of my experience. A little shocking, but fascinating.

Miraculously found myself in a small class with a kind teacher. I didn't talk to one person or engage with anyone for the entire 6 weeks. Absorbing every word, practicing, risking, falling, learning, watching, stretching to the next level each week allowed me to "graduate". Every Saturday for the entire winter; pure freedom. I looked forward to my meager brown sack lunch in the lodge by the fire, by myself. Other than that and a few potty breaks, every minute was used skiing. I loved the wind in my hair, the speed, the lovely whiteness and the sound of skis cutting in. Glorious freedom!

When I lived in Anchorage, a group of us young'uns would pile in some one's pickup. Sit on each other's laps crowded as toothpicks, and sing out blustering songs louder than the radio.

Being mostly broke even then, I skied once more with ugly skis! There are perks to ugly equipment, however! A rich friend was on his 3rd pair of stylin' skis because the first 2 pairs were stolen outside the lodge. When he bought his 3rd pair, he took them out in the garage and spray painted them black, layered a little red on top then proceeded to furiously 'distress' the top, making them as ugly as ugly can be.

He and I would casually stick ours criscrossed in a snowbank while we walked into the lodge to warm up. Worry free. We couldn't have paid any one to steal them!

My snow gear wasn't ever very cool or in style because scrounging money for the ski pass was a challenge in itself. The lodge was frequently full of really cool people dressed in full fashion runway gear. They spent most of time inside displaying it.

In those days, I felt so out of my league, dowdy, unsophisticated and not part of the cool inner circle. Yet, the freedom and fun, one run after the other, trumps that feeling every time.

Now, I'd on purpose ski with ugly skis. Wonder if I should make my sweet silky blue bike ugly enough to have that same freedom? I can't. I just can't!

Blogger Mullet

It is with a strong mixture of fear, dread, embarrassment, sheepishness, audacity and shame that a new button or gadget gets added to this blog. Adding anything to the HTML code takes me forever, as it is greek to me.

I dread it because seasoned bloggers have moved light years beyond the simple gadget I'm just now adding. It's like I'm wearing a blogger mullet......

It's embarrassing to nakedly expose the fact that a post doesn't have one response or comment.

I'm sheepish for hoping a twitter follower likes what they read and will retweet it. What a glorious thought! Or a seasoned blogger would comment?!?!?!

I feel audacious for thinking the same could/would ever happen.

Then the shame happens as the blank spaces talk.

Then perspective kicks in. After writing for almost a year every single day, like I promised to do, my raw, unfiltered, rough posts have slowly been smoothed a bit. Practice is making them more composed. I'm able to get my thoughts through with less words. Polished? Not. Better? Overall, yes. The shame turns into gratefulness that I don't have a critic doing a review. The blankness is better than that!

I look at hundreds of blogs and websites. They are so sophisticated with enticing custom headers, eye catching buttons, ads, gadgets and widgets which I don't even know about. They are intimidating and interesting. Beautiful reflections of their authors. No two the same. Dizzying in appeal and originality. True savvy talent, lighting up the 'brand' or stamping a cool 'makers mark' on their art, writing, etc.

I don't aspire to be one of the big boy bloggers with 243,000 followers/subscriptions. But if I don't put a gadget on for people who want to follow, how can they? If I don't put a retweet button on a post, how can someone click it someday in the future if it's worth a tweet?

Reminded me of something I believe strongly, and was reminded of last Sunday........

Set the frame work for blessing!

Once, for a backyard ladies tea for 40, even though it looked cloudy, overcast and the report was predicting rain, I prayed/asked for a clear afternoon then promptly put out the decorations, gift bags and set tables.......just in case my prayer was answered. It was.

Another time, Tess had a bunch of kids over for a bonfire. Craig got the fire pit set and ready to light, got a pile of wood, then quickly covered the benches, fire pit and wood as it started raining. We prayed/asked for clear skies for the kids when they arrived a couple hours later. It rained up until they showed up. Whipping the tarp off, they had dry wood, dry benches and a dry, ready to go fire. As soon as they broke up to go home it started pouring again.

Set the table. Build it and they will come. Set the framework for blessing! Leave the door open for God to come through in that specific way if'n He wants to.

Gooey House

A friend of mine went to help her son move. He was moving to a duplex he owned. His previous, troublesome renters were off the charts in the messiness realm. He wondered if they ever took their dogs out to the bathroom. Then he wondered if any person ever used the bathroom. My friend helped him clean, prep and paint after the carpet was hauled away and the hardwood floors redone.

With big eyes and her gag reflex almost taking over, she regaled me with the horrid details. Not only were the burner linings on the stove hopeless, but there was at least an inch of gore under the top when lifted. The oven after 3 hours hadn't improved. Cooked on slime, melted cheese, drips, gross sides and a thick layer on the bottom made the decision to just get a new stove easy.

When she tackled the fridge, she said she didn't know how some of the food could have arrived in that location. BBQ sauce, mold, stickiness and rot everywhere. Fridges being spendy, she plugged away till it was presentable. It took hours. Every piece had to be taken apart and soaked.

As she talked about it, I was trying to capture how my stove and fridge looked at the moment. What I imagined, scared me! Seeing it through her eyes terrified me!

I have a serious handicap. I don't see the broken fence, I see the flowers. I don't see the sock on the floor, but the candlelight. The clothes piled on the love seat hide behind the lovely pictures of my children covering the wall. Dishes in the sink are camouflaged by the cuttings rooting in the window. The kitchen table is unusable because of a creative moment. Many times in the garden I simply don't see the weeds, as the flowers dazzle me. I see the dewdrops on the pines out my window, instead of the streaks on the window.

It is a blessing and a curse. I never usually apologize when someone comes unexpectedly; however, I do warn them as I clear a trail, offer them a blankie and a cup of something hot. It's a curse because I love neat and tidy and organized, but just don't notice the mess! My mother is a neat freak and has never understood why I want to live like this. I don't! The blessing is that there have been years and years of beautiful messes at our house. People with magazine picture houses don't let 30 kids pull taffy, make gingerbread houses, have hair dying parties, etc. Being creative, letting others be creative, having fun and easy fellowship means you can't worry too much about how pretty your house is before, during or after. I want people to leave feeling like they have been well loved, full and with a memory or something in their hand as we wave them off from the porch.

I do hope no one gets food poisoning, diphtheria or typhoid at our house though!