Luckybeans

100% chance

It has done nothing but rain, and with a new storm system overhead, there is nothing but rain promised for the next week (that 100% chance holds through Tuesday at least). I feel a bit like a broken record, complaining about the rain, but I think this is because I am quite shocked by just how deeply the lack of sun affects me. it isn't that I truly mind the grey on one level, but then when the sun does come out, I am surprised by how much energy and optimism I suddenly possess. I have become a tropical sort of person, I suppose-- a greenhouse flower. And now I must go and research full spectrum lights to see if that will help carry me through.

This week passed in a blur of raindrops punctuated by a day trip to the (very cold and windy) coast, and another day trip to the water park courtesy of my mum. Oh my goodness, was that an experience! Sliding down into total darkness with no idea what to expect-- I couldn't even scream. It was absolutely packed, and we vowed that if we ever return, it would be on a day when we cut class and everyone else remained at school. I did not take any photos.  

We went for a picnic (with lots of tea-- everyone had their own flask).

Played with plastic bubbles.

Set up a rather plain nature table (it just seemed right).

And then today, trudging home from paying my tuition and loading up with the next round of text books, I noticed that really, everything looks quite lovely spangled with these drops of rain. It cannot rain forever. Can it?

 

 

Lambs.

Well, first of all, my thanks to those of you who commented or sent me emails on my last post. I am grateful for the opportunity to have real discussion, and for the many thoughtful perspectives and insights so many of you have shared.

But here we are, back to the weather and lambs. They came out today, as the weather warmed up and the snow melted away. There were even lovely cherry blossoms (in the other direction-- lambs and cherry blossoms in the same frame might be a wee bit much, even for me).

This one was especially endearing:

Although, I must confess I plan on cooking this for dinner tomorrow. So there you are.

I spent three glorious hours cleaning out some of the raised beds this afternoon. No deep analysis of theories or literature or memorization-- just earth and sun and thoughts of growing and planning and eating and my grandfather's garden and the summer to come.  I weeded and shovelled and hoed and raked and hauled barrels and bags all over the place (Simon's rhubarb is now planted well and truly). Oh, it felt good. 

My boy even put in his obligatory row of peas while I sowed broccolli, lettuces, radishes and bok choi. Grow seeds, grow. We can't wait to eat you up, too.

No pretty picture.

It is all over the news, and it should be. I haven’t found the words to write about this. I wore my hoody to class yesterday, I signed the petition his family sent around. But really, I want to weep. Really, my heart breaks into a million pieces if this is the state of the country I live in, if this is the measure of how the members of humanity view one another.

And how do I begin to explain this to my children? My sweet, beloved children whom we have worked so hard to raise as educated individuals. They look at me with pure horror in their eyes.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to live as a black man in this society. I know what it feels like to be a minority, when every move you make is watched and judged, when you can never relax and just be. But I do not know what it is like to walk the streets outside my own home and be viewed with fear, mistrust and hatred.

Simon was talking to a friend in DC who told him about living as an African man in the US. There are streets he has learned not to walk down without his white wife accompanying him. Places he cannot go without his family in tow.  He will be walking down the sidewalk on a sunny day, feeling great, smiling, and someone will catch sight of him, draw a sharp breath and scurry back inside behind a closed door. It swallows his laughter, ruins his day.

When Asher was two, we traveled back to the US to visit family. The longer we traveled, the more clingy and nervous he became. I assumed this was due to fatigue and the stress of traveling. We had a long layover in Chicago, so I had the children walking around the airport and running along the moving walkways. Asher suddenly let go of my hand and ran across an open lobby to fling his arms around the knees of a young black man. Asher beamed up at him, delighted. I have never seen a more confused teenager in my life. The guy (and he was very cool) had no idea what to do with an adoring toddler. I shrugged, smiled, said, “Wow, I guess he really likes you!” and laughed. The young man laughed, too, gave Asher an awkward pat on the head, and we carried on our ways.

But it made me realize—Asher’s association with a black male teenager was “oh boy! Here’s someone who’s great to play with!” And that was his experience. But this was not at all consistent with American experience.  It made me examine how deep and strong racial prejudices run. How much of our behavior is learned?  Would a white American toddler seek out and run to a black American teenager in joyous relief and recognition? If he had not been raised in Africa, would my son be fearful of black men? Am I fearful of black men?

Now I live in this country, and I am no longer a member of the racial minority. I am privileged. And I have responsibilities. It is not alright that people are mistreated because of the color of their skin. And I don’t care how many excuses people throw at me, because any amount of research will quickly and clearly show just what a bad deal it is to be a black man in this country.  So I need to express that, because here, in this society, my voice as a white person counts more than the voice of a black man. And it shames me deeply to write that; it brings tears of shame to eyes; but I have seen this to be true.

Still, I feel helpless. What can I do? One of the biggest fears I have in this society is trying to reach out to the black community and either being offensive or categorically dismissed. But we need dialogue. We need to hear one another, to know one another, to be able to see and experience and feel from multiple perspectives. And we all need to approach this with respect and commitment (it is hard, it is painful, it is messy and dirty and requires honesty and humility) because it is not an option. My children’s ability to love people from other ethnicities, races and cultures is not an option. My ability to love and respect any and every member of the human race who crosses my path is not an option.

I am not so very good at this. It is much easier and safer to speak about, oh, the Oregon weather. But really, that only gets you so far in life, and I figure this is the only life I get; and I sure as Hell want to go farther than weather.

I look at my parents, my grandparents, my children and nieces and nephews, and I think, “Every decision that we make out of love has effect. Even if we can’t see it now, I can look behind me and see whose shoulders I stand on. I need to make my shoulders strong and worthy enough to bear the ones who are coming next.”  The other day I read Baha’u’llah’s explanation that the greatest form of oppression is ignorance. And so when I look at what happened in Florida, I see the fruit of that ignorance. It shatters my heart, but it also gives me the resolve I need to work harder against my own prejudices and teach my children as best as I can. I don’t know how to do that, but I want to try.

I think I will descend from my soapbox now.

Today I have one last paper to write. And then I think I will stick to the weather.

 

 

Er, Happy Naw Ruz?

Some of you may recall that last year, Naw Ruz greetings meant children outside in front of a lush green field and a crepe party. Ha. Imagine having time to take photos of children. Imagine lush green outside. Imagine being able to take a day off.

This year, we are buried beneath an avalance of exams and end of term papers, and snow. Yes, this Naw Ruz you get a snowman, not quince blossoms. 

A while ago, there were a few patches of sunshine. Enough to give us glimpses of violets and bursts of gold forsythia. But this week has been keep your head down and bundle up well cold, bitter wind and biting sleet, and of couse (lest we forget) snow. 

I had thought to get photos of the sweet new lambs for you today. But they are clever and have not been out in the field all week. Far cleverer than some of us who have endlessly trudged back and forth to library and class in such foul weather.

But still. There is a little boy who has read his first chapter book all by himself, and snuggled up next to his daddy by the fire to hear more.

It is the season of ghastly chocolate bunny rabbit marshmallows.

Our candles (just!) lasted through to the last day of Fast.

And we did manage to fill our cones and bring a wee bit of colour and joy inside.

It is spring and a new year. Anything is possible. I have only one more paper to write. Simon didn't have to go to Ghana after all this week (no visas to be had). And March may have roared in like a lion, and remained stubbornly leonine thus far, but lambs have been born and the weather may change yet...

Blessings

Well. That little spot of sunshine did not last for long. We are back into days of snow and slush, sleet, hail, rain, mist, strong wind and all-around cold and grey. Dreary, dismal, dull. I think you understand. (Just to coincide with the Fast and finals, I am certain).

However, Simon gets home tonight for two whole days (we take what we can get). I am on my last two papers, two presentations and final exams. Seven more days of school, but who is counting?

This girl has been playing her heart out. She has gotten good. As in, it sounds like music now and is enjoyable. Especially when she tunes it beforehand. And yes, she does usually have a pencil in her hair and mud on her knees.

This girl has always had a love for bright colours on her person. Some things never change, and her latest finds do make me smile. I remember walking past piles of clothes in the sala ula markets in Zambia and Malawi and squinting. I would then bee-line for the brightest colours, just for her. It still works, except now we are Goodwill and find Mexican embroidered tops instead of oilily dresses. 

I suppose we are always surrounded by things that ought to remind us to be happy (raspberries in porridge are always good, no?). And I think I have been much more aware of that this week than I could have been. Although I will say that having my mother come down this past Saturday and whip both my house and my children into shape with her sunshine-self has serious repercussions. Good ones.

And although the Fast is always so hard, as we light a candle for each day before supper and say a prayer together, my heart feels full and I know we are all ok. We are more than ok. We are happy, we are good.

Blessings. 

And All Around, Brightness

Bright frost on clear mornings when I can hear the birds singing as we drink tea before we head to the bus stop.

 

Bright sun in the forest, on tender leaves, on still-verdant ferns.

 

Bright river glinting through the copse (the water is so cold, she says!).

 

Bright moon in the evening while frogs call and we snuggle into bed and read comic books or Dickens or Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie society or poems (the comics were mine).

 

Bright spring that edges slowly in and eases winter's dreary days.

And where would I be without these moments of brightness? Someplace very dim indeed, lost beneath the weight of obligation and expectation, spiraling ever inward and forgetting to look up and out, to laugh and delight and savor.

When I am my most exhausted, ugliest self, all the world and my own children conspire towards beauty, in the light of dappled flowers, the fluid wash of river, and the construction of a pile of dirt.

How could we survive if this were not so? What greater grace exists? Surely, if we are given this, we are blessed. Surely, we can find a place of this same grace within our own reserves and greet the grey dawn of tomorrow with a brightly shining face.

 

 

 

 

Where It All Stands

It snowed. Just two days ago, we woke up to a wet, white, slushy world.

And then it melted, and left us with those first promises that things will soon change again.

This arrived in the mail. It leaves me both delighted and Most Puzzled (who sent it? do tell!).

Today was a beautiful, balmy, blue sky, dig your toes in deep moss day. We revelled in it, drank it in. The earth is tilting. Warmth wil come again. We can see it in the greening and the very first tender growing, smell it in the dirt, hear it in the calls of birds and frogs.

Today I also wrote six pages for my linguistics class, and another three for literary analysis. It is the last two weeks of term now, and there are mountains of work to be done. I am trying to face it with grace. I am trying. A full day "off" is a distant three weeks away, if I keep abreast of it all.

But this moment right now I have a custard to remove from the oven to cool for breakfast, Ana is playing her guitar with her brother and sister singing along, and the children are waiting for me to finish this entry so that they can please watch the next episode of "Life on a Victorian Farm." Right now is all anyone can really ask for, isn't it?

 

 

Gift Giving

We live in such a materialistic society and age, I always struggle with gift giving.

I try to focus on giving to others, and then to make what gifts we do give smaller, and either meaningful, practical, or just plain silly (like mustaches on sticks; although Asher appreciated his Calvin and Hobbes, too--thanks!). I used to try to make many of their gifts, but this year all I managed was glueing buttons onto pushpins. However, I do set quite strict budgets for myself, and do not break them. This year the children each received an activity-based gift, something to wear, a book to read, a prayer book and new lunch bags from us. The lovely thing is how satisfied and happy they were with these simple gifts. They were just as eager and focused on giving to others as they were on what they received themselves. And by far the prevailing emotion was joyful gratitude, no matter the gift. Which I found somehow extremely reaffirming. Having opportunities to both express and be the recipient of generosity is an important aspect of life!

One of the absolute best gifts was a microscope set from my dad. With slides!

The other gift I wanted to share was the making of a photo book that I did. I took our digital photos from our last year in Zambia and compiled a photo book (with help from the blog archives! May 2006 to May 2007) on Viovio. It was slow, and a lot of work. But it was very very worth it. I didn't include text, as I wanted the children to generate their own discussions and memories. I also only started from that point because that was when we got a decent digital camera, and it just wasn't worth the previously poor quality. I hope they enjoy it. I hope it helps them to remember one of the most wonderful, richest, happiest times of our shared lives. One year down. How many more to go?