Slowing down on Sundays

These spring days have us wandering barefoot in the grass, lots of invitations of my kids one to another, "You wanna play tag?" and just plain lingering afternoons.  Seeing my 12 year old out there swinging with my 5 year old between subjects reminded me of the need to give them slow space.  Space to be a person, a human and not be told what to do, where to be, how to act, or led in play or entertained.

This seems to be getting harder and harder for parents of this day and age.  Gone are the days of roaming around the neighborhood for hours on a bike, in and out of friends homes, like I grew up.  I remember making slime burgers with Leigh Rooker in her creek for hours on multiple summer days.  But what do we parents do to keep them occupied today?    We sign them up earlier and earlier for organized sports & activities.  We cram their every waking hour. We patrol them, hoard over their beings to make sure they are safe and developing appropriately.   And then when playdates are organized we parents have to patrol their time between their aching desires to play on a screen together and go play outside.  Dag nabit.

I don't have the answer to this place we find ourselves in, though I do have my own ways of dealing with the issue.  Some days I feel successful and lots of days... not so much.  Yet, I am growing ever more passionate about one thing.  Children (young & older) need space and time to just 'be'.  They need time to get bored and not have it figured out for them.  Time to lay in the grass and watch the moving clouds, wonder over things, sounds, birds chirping, the lush colors of spring, time to sing random songs on the swing ALONE.  Time to make up games, to believe they can make a ...... and go for it!  But how risky it feels as a parent to step off the cliff of "What sport is your child playing?  What are y'all into?" and into "We are being present and playing a lot these days."  

Sundays are a great place to start incorporating more of this.  I go hard all week.  Work, school, reading lots of books out loud  meal prep, lots of clean up, dealing with tiffs, correcting attitudes, shaping souls, running errands, washing tinkly sheets, having friends over, prepping another meal, taking kids to swimming, my days are non stop really.  All with purposeful, seemingly necessary things, but full none the less.  

The further down this road called life I walk, I hear Fathers whispers to receive the gift of Sabbath, which is a word telling us that God ceased from his work.  God told the Isrealites to follow his pattern of 6 days of work and 1 of rest.  It was a command.  How cool is that?  Do you argue with your boss telling you to take an afternoon off?  Heck, no!  You welcome it, you receive it, you walk in it with gratitude.  Just as your mouth waters when your about to bite into some delicious watermelon, so we should desire our day of rest.

I recently read a wonderful book by a family friend in our community, Fred Bahnson.  This quote captured my experience of Sundays over the last years as I have sought to make Sundays a different day for all in our home.

What has happened to our Sundays?  

What is the Sabbath anyway?

The Sabbath is not just a day; it is an aura,

 a spiritual force that infuses everything with the gentle and feminine light of Shekhinah.  "The seventh day is like a palace in time with a kingdom for all," Heschel wrote.  "It is not a date but an atmosphere...the Sabbath sends out its presence over the fields, into our homes, into our hearts.  It is a moment of resurrection of the dormant spirit in our souls."

Soil and Sacrament  by Fred Bahnson

Beauty Hunters

Come now, My Love, My Lovely One, Come,

For you, the winter has passed,

The snows are over and gone, the flowers appear in the land,

The season of joyful songs has come.

The cooing of the turtledove is 

Heard in our land,

Come now, My Love, My Lovely One,

Come,

Let me see your face, and let me hear

Your voice, for your voice is sweet

and your face is beautiful,

Come now, my love, my lovely one,

Come.

Song of Songs 2:10-14

This time of year Abba's whispers lull me outside.  The birds wake me in the morning with the brightness of the sun.  The fresh green grass puts off a smell of freshness, the flowers bring a sense of hope to my winterized heart of chill.  New life behooves me to hop on my bike.

And ride with wind in my face, sweat down my back, balancing in the curves making me feel like I am 8 years old again.  Only this time I'm surrounded by a flock of kids soaking up the adventure with me, beating hearts pumping blood to all the extremities.  Gosh it feels good to be alive in spring time! 

We have become beauty hunters over the years, these kids and I.  Eyes peeled, nature journals open we chronicle the first buds on our trees, the first signs of our hostas pushing up from the earth, the return of humming birds.

Abba Father woos us to dine with him, to laugh and to play in his delightful world with the coming of spring.  I hope you'll don a helmet, borrow a bike or trike or even your walking shoes and get out there and soak up the joyful song being sung all around.  Our Lover calls to us.

Birthing Creativity

As a child emerges through the birth canal, his nerve sensors are woken up.  The act of applying pressure for a few minutes alerts numerous systems of the body to come alive.  Amazing, this birth process beyond words to describe the holy mystery of it all.  

All I know is that I’ve done it five times, pushed skulls & shoulders, bellys & knees and little feeties through my body.  Reached down and brought fully formed little people to my chest even.  Time.  Stands.  Still.  Glory be!

Only once the birth canal couldn’t wake up my son.  His little heart gave out in utero and his spirit went to dance with Jesus, be rocked by all the Mamas in heaven who always wanted a child but for whatever reason never got to Mother one. 

I can’t begin to tell you what that did to my heart to birth something dead.  The heave of each wave of contraction insurmountable knowing his eyes wouldn’t open to meet mine.  He would never nurse and coo at my breast.  Knowing I’d never play itsy bitsy spider with him smiling joy over his pop belly only to have him cackle at the end like his big brother did.  Who knew a baby could unlock so much room for love in a womans heart?  Or grief.

A part of me died with him that day.  Retreated.  Slunk into the shadows.

We named him William, which bore great significance for both my husband and I.  William Shakespeare for me since I completed an 8 year journey to finish my college education the day before he died.  I decided to quit college after too many unsuccessful majors and took a class not for credits but for my heart upon my dads concern and prompting and chose a writing class.  

Cathy Smith Bowers taught in a way that made my heart swell with possibility.  I made my  first ever A in a college class and went on to major in English with an emphafiasis on creative writing.  I wish you could see the way I just spelled emphasis.  Emphafiasis.  I laugh now and just move on.  But for years it haunted me with shame the backwards way I do things, pulling words that aren’t right but have the same first sound, not  remembering passwords, names.  I was on a stage last week telling David Wilcox a story so he could sing me a song and upon being asked how old my husband and I were, I claimed myself a whole year older than I really am.  Oh my!

Now though, thanks to my 3^rd child coming out wired like I am, I know that I’m dyslexic.  And I’ve spent the last year letting lots of shame come to light and be healed.  Waves of anger, sadness, confusion and acceptance have come over me at the oddest of times. 

Ultimately tho, it feels like I’ve been in that birth canal wayyyy toooooooo looooong trying my darndest to wake up my authentic self to have the courage to come out into the world.  And offer something. 

My heart.

When you’ve offered and gotten shut down or laughed at in front of others during formative years for truly trying but getting it way wrong, it doesn’t take long to figure out how to be quiet and just not offer.  To play it safe.  To hide.  To be safe.

But that’s not where we find true life, hiding in the shadows.  “Hide it under a bussell, NO! I’m gonna let it shine.”  I can sing it.  But I struggle to live it.

Yet, Abba is inviting me to step deeper into parts of me and offer and I want to say YES! with gusto and throw off the mask of caring what others think, if anyone even reads the writing, likes or shows up to hear me speak.  A tree was made to grow leaves.  I was made to nurture life, to write, to speak, to create with my heart and craft words that bring life and health to souls and bodies alive.  I want to do that. 

My husband and I talk about what it looks like to ‘train up each of our kids in the way that they are bent.’  “Jed is bent towards caring for living things and the environment, how can we best set him up to have what he needs to succeed in that way as an adult?”

Well, Abba invited me (through a mac daddy friend) to take a writing class this past winter.  I jumped, literally at the invitation.  It was called a Fearless Writing Workshop for Women.  We ate salty, almond chocolate, told stories, wrote them and read aloud.  It was the best part of my week for 6 weeks.  But I kept not writing.  Rather, sitting safely in the shadows reading Ann Voskamp, Mary Oliver, Sarah Bessy, Anne Lamott, Barbra Brown Taylor, Windell Berry, Sally Clarkson.  Souls that craft words in a beautiful  way that daily guide me, heros that have become friends I’ve read so much of their writing.  But, me?  Am I really old enough to really offer something?  Does it even matter?  So many words out there, blogs, books, websites, we live in information overload, I told myself.  “No one needs my stories.” 

"The essence of creativity is essentially risk, believing enough to leap into the yet unseen.  The theological terms for this is faith."            -Ann Voskamp

And then, I turned around to grin at her after picking her up from preschool and I felt like the last 4 years had slipped through my fingers it went so fast.    

It hurt in the deep middle of my ribs.  This realization of my littlest growing up.  Turning 5 next month.  5.  And this realization that I want to write more.  For her.  For them to have words and stories to look back on one day.

Then and there I drew a line in the sand telling myself I’m going to chronicle these crazy, messy beautiful days of home educating, shaping 4 healthy souls, reading galore, baking fresh, eating whole food, growing tender plants, having dance parties, living the ‘slow life’,  building chicken coops, going on bike rides, sleeping a consistent 11 hours a night….the kids that is.  But also the messy parts, the hard groans.

So, here goes nothin’.

A Woven Life...My Messy Beautiful

http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior

I almost missed this day.

Our 15th wedding anniversary, April 10, 2014.

Bullheaded, brokenhearted, and enraged I fumed out the door after hastily packing my bag.  Smashing my wedding picture on the corner of our bedpost leaving a million little pieces of glass for him to deal with along with our 4 sleeping children 10 & under to feed, nurture, do laundry, drive to soccer, make sure they use soap in the shower and to read to and tuck in bed each night. 

 I was done.  Or was I undone?  Used up.  Withered.

Sampson, my first Toyota truck, an 89' stick shift that my Dad still has was more than a mode of transportation for my passionate, introspective 16 year old self.  It was a think tank, a solace for my romantic heart allowing me long country drives with music blaring.  

Dad always said, "A car is a tool to get safely from point A to point B" and "change the oil & take care of it & you'll get tired of that car long before it will tire out on you."  I love my Dad.  He was right about so many things I would never admit then but will now.  

But for me, even now at 37 years old, my car is sacred space.  Mountain drives beside creeks, through woods and wide open spaces push up the sadness I sometimes don't even know is there, nature safely absorbing my emotions, hard questions, distraught soul.  I get clear about things in the car.  I dance, I belch out my favorite tunes, I feel safe to scream out my anger & disappointments, and I cry....

So this dark night of the soul was rightly spent driving around in my car talking & feeling at the same time like my counselor was teaching me to do.  Easy when I'm alone.  Hard when real faces are staring back at me.  Abba was with me, he heard.  After the death of my son I learned God was big enough to handle my anger.  Ever since, I bring it to him straight up.  

After driving for hours in the dark, spent by tears, exhausted, I stopped to get a hotel room.  "Were booked Mam and so are all the hotels within 10 miles of here, leaf season you know."  The one night of my life I decide I'm walking away from my marriage happens to be the beginning of peak leaf weekend here in the blue ridge mountains.  Great.

Forced to knock on a dear friends door at 3am and curl up on her couch, I found solace in a prayerful friend who loved me without asking too many questions I wasn't ready to answer.  Sleep whispered to me but never came.  I walked through what my life would like to start over, without him.  I saw pain in each choice.  I felt it like the beginning of a heart attack.  

Pains do not hold a marriage together.  It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.  That's what makes a marriage last- more than passion or even sex.
                                                                                                            -Simone Signoret

Numb from the shock of what I was truly contemplating, I folded the blanket over me, slipped on my shoes, left a thank you note for my friend and tiptoed with hardwoods creaking out the front door.  One step. At. A. Time.  I drove home in the budding morning light haze straight faced.  It was a Sunday morning.  Pulling into the driveway I saw him through the window sitting at the kitchen table, light on, a book open.  The hardest few steps of my life from the car to the front door.  My feet like heavy bags of compost.  

Choosing the road less traveled rarely is easy you know.

But I did.  We did.  After both of us saying those two humbling words, "I'm sorry", we choose to walk back into our life together, one day, one hour, one minute at a time. 

And yesterday, we celebrated 15 years of marriage.  I spent hours planning for our kids to be cared for by dear friends, packing bags, organizing details while he asked for a day off work, found a snazzy hotel overlooking the mountains, bought tickets to hear some great music, wine & cheese for the hotel room.  Truly, our lives are woven one decision after another.  Nothing glamorous.  Just messy, beautiful daily life lived with a touch of intention.  "Brutaful" my friend Wendy calls it...brutal and beautiful at the same time.

Lingering over spicy Indian food last night we celebrated large and loud.  We lingered over each other and our imperfect lives speaking gratitude to one another for choosing to keep loving, keep forgiving, keep learning how to do this thing called marriage and conflict and raise healthy souls, my Lord no one ever told us it would be this grueling at times.  Did my romantic idealist self just miss that talk that everyone else got, or what!?!

Don't get me wrong,The Professor and I have chapter books of scrumptious memories...glorious family waterfall hikes, lingering wonderful moments in our peaceful home reading and writing together, tasting delicious food, wrestling with our kids, playing board games, reading out loud while eating popcorn, jumping wildly on the trampoline.  We do have a good time together.

But, but marriage has also viscously exposed our selfish hearts...our wounds from the past....our lack of this or that...and our lack of skills or knowledge in some cases of how to truly love and serve.  Yet, today as I sip a latte at a book store and glory in no time constraints or responsibilities my heart swells with deep satisfaction and thankfulness that we made it to here as well as hope that we will make it to there.

Marriage is God's greatest tool for transforming the human heart.
                                                                                                           -Mike Mason

For the ones who have gone before us that have shown us bits and pieces of how to do it and given us courage to keep going and shared the not so great parts of our journey we are grateful...Laura & Matt Parker, Elizabeth & Fred Bahnson, Karin & Mike Abbott.  Thank you for giving us courage to keep walking towards each other.

Having the intimate community of family is truly one of life's greatest gift to humans.  The Professor and I appreciate the commitment of marriage in both our families.  I will mention here tho the sweetness of my two sisters whom we all share anniversaries in April.  Our resolve is somehow strengthened by yours.  Thank you!  We celebrate you, Brice & Jeff Melton- of 20 years and Ash & Tom Stahlschmidt of 9 years.  

Most of all, we appreciate the role model my parents are in our lives.  We realize with each passing year the impact of your choices upon us and we are truly grateful.  Humbled actually.  The large oak of your marriage has provided love, nurture, wisdom and hope for us.  Thank you, Pat & David Jones celebrating 45 years of marriage this year. 

A Dinner Gathering

My husband told me our 4 year old said, "Shoot a damn monkey" tonight.  "I'll let you deal with that one, babe" with a smirk and a chuckle is all he said as we sat under stitches of a quilt wandering through the halls of the day.

With my firstborn I would of freaked out or felt tremendous guilt & vowed to never say it again, these words first patched together by my own mom and now come tumbling from my lips as I slice my finger in the kitchen, can't find a pencil for the millionth time or am just feeling lost in this world and the walls are closing in on me.  Please tell me you have some of those moments.

But tonight, I chuckled and owned it.  Her.  And all the ways she soaks me up that blue eyed Walters girl who lives at a decible above us all.  She is a mirror of me.  It only took birthing 5 children to get one that looks just.  like. me.  All but the blue eyes.  Those are from her Mama Jo.

At first I grinned and said thank you and ahhh, isn't that sweet as people commented on her resembling me.  Slowly tho, I have awakened unto the glory of this sacred thing called mothering and imprinting souls, having little shadows that look to me...are watching, modeling.

And just today as I gave her and her sister beaded little purses fit for evening gowns my mom just passed on to me for them, this pistol pot of a girly girl said, "Bye kids, I'm going on a date, be good for Miss Johannah."  Her purse swinging down by her feet.  I grinned and played along talking into the story.  Then I whispered, "I think I remember Nana putting this long chain in the purse and then tucking it under her armpit like this."  Smiling large and loud the way my own Mom does espically around my Dad I walked out of the house, blew kisses.

She carried that purse under her arm all. day. long.  To the dentist as well as the grocery for a few forgotten ingredients for the crazy dinner party of 12 ladies I was hosting tonight and feeling unprepared for yet that I needed like I need water & sleep & air.  A penny, dime, lipgloss and an old camera tucked inside her purse.  Though she is playing at being grown up today, I know all too soon she will be.

I called my Dad this past Sunday at the kitchen sink over a broken garbage disposal with tons of dirty dishes to wash and a trundle bed of the boys that broke that morning.  Tears weren't far behind my eyes as I asked if there was any way he could pop up the mountain to help with some projects.  Servant that he is, he was being the passenger while my 15 year old nephew got some driving time in.  "Isn't being all grown up fun!?!"  My Dad chuckled and I could see his grin and feel his love so tight around me the tears squirted out. "You wanted to be all grown up so bad."

And I did.  And now she does, this precious little girl child who has me all on my left foot in my parenting grooves.  Keeps me humbled, this fourth Walters blessing.  And when she does grow up, you know what?  I think she will be like me in ways that will both humble and heal her.

Tonight I hosted a dinner party of women who mostly didn't know each other.  Women whose eyeballs I get to look into now and then, some more than others and who have been a part of Abbas wooing me to sink my teeth into things that are tangible tho they don't know it.  A creshendo of sorts of the 4 month journey I've been on of being mostly unplugged, off facebook.  Women that I admire deeply, who lead my kids godly play sunday school class telling the stories of old, breaking bread and letting the little ones pray for their cats & friends & boo-boo's.  Women who said yes to my wild idea of a monthly Mom Heart group where we read through a book together, pray for one another once a month.  Women who lead magical childhood memory camps, finish Acupuncture school, fight cancer, home educate 5 kids while supporting the family, live simply and happily with 3 kids & a husband in a 2 bedroom house.  Women who I see around my little town, but barely "know"and who I'd like to know more.

Yes, brave souls gathered around my table tonight and I was deeply nourished.  I cooked from Bread & Wine 'a love letter to life around the table with recipes' by Shauna Niequist.  Bacon-Wrapped Dates, Mango Chicken Curry and Blueberry Crisp my 11 year old son made as I chopped, set out & gathered all the dishes.  It was holy work, brave work walking into new waters with food prep.  I walk around my life feeling stupid more than I'd like to admit.  Seeing more of what I can't do than what I can.  The wounds of failure in the classroom as a child follow me everywhere.  And even tonight as Sherri offered to stay & wash up the last dishes with me I confessed I wonder if I'll ever be a professional.  More feel like and be professional at anything.  Just because I have a degree and a Health Coach Certification hasn't made me feel grown up or competent or given me legs to stand in the world and offer something.  Like have a real salary.  Maybe that comes at 40???  I still have a few years, right?

My Mom is a deeply professional woman.  She invites respect and a listening ear.  She loves deeply, she prays for us, her 3 daughters, our husbands, her 8 grandchildren as she swims an ungodly amount of laps in her Master Swim class.  She has survived much in her lifetime.  Conquered fears, walked into new territory and figured it out starting with just a VW bus and a bit of pocket money her and my Dad. Living in Canada in a tent.  Getting both of them through graduate school.  Hosting parties, celebrating us and those we love along the way in a warm, loving home.

She is the one I watched.  And she is the one that I find myself immulating in these days of healing from what I do not know, of seeking to find footing in this fastly changing internet, screen relationship world. Invite others in.  Give a big hug at the door.  Smile.  Food.  Put on music.  Clean the house.  Wine, beer and water.  Explain the flow of the meal, pray and let go.  Talk & guide but not too much.

I fell asleep whispering thank you, father...thank you.

For in him we live and move and have our being.  In him we are being made whole.  In him, I am gaining confidence to live my one life well.  In him I am coming alive again as I ask a friend for help with my clothes in my room that are in piles and eating me up, as I raise my hand and ask.  invite.  seek a different way.  not perfect, just more whole.  More real, tangible like figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon and baked to a crisp.

I pray that you too, today will sink your teeth into something real, something yummy.  And sit down when you do.  And if you feel even more courageous, invite someone to share it with you.  Who knows, you may be a part of their healing journey to wholeness as well???

Shalom,

Amanda 

The Day I Raised the Flag

Fall was coming.  A decision loomed.  Do I try again to home school this my 7 year old boy, my second son?  Or do I hand him over to the so called, 'experts'? 

 The year before, his 1st grade year, I enrolled him in a charter school half way through the year with a heap of guilt and sadness.  Teaching this bright, quiet, inquisitive, nature loving child to read was leaving me in a schizophrenic panic.  24 hours after one reading lesson I would seek to build upon it a new concept.  A novel idea, huh?  Yet, this precious child  sitting there at the table truly could not remember the lesson from the previous day.  I was baffled.  Patient at first, yes.  Then pure frustrated and eventually a puddle of a mess with both he and I in tears.  

So, I bought the school uniform of green shirts and khaki pants and off he went to experience a classroom with a loving teacher. And he better come home reading dag nab it because I felt a bit of a failure for not being able to lead him to a love of reading as I had my first child so easily.  

Yet, two months into it, his teacher told me that he would need to be held back next year.  That he was making progress, but struggled too much with seat work.  A kind friend sitting beside him often read his directions for him to help him prod along doing quiet work at his desk.  Yet, yet, he was lost in the masses.  And even as she spoke it, my mama heart knew that something deeper was going on and holding him back a year was not the answer.  Yet, I was intimidated by 'the system' as well as all the onlookers in our world- parents, friends ect.  So, I asked for him to be tested for any learning issues but was told it was too close to the end of the year to do the paper work and start that process.  This left me exploring private options and looking to summer reading plans to slowly keep building.

Summer time reminded me why we ever started this crazy journey of home education in the first place.  Organic learning.  Time to 'ignite a fire' instead of 'fill the bucket.'  Slow pace.  Rhythms of daily life that anchor us to the land and to each other do not have a price tag.  Nourishing food.  

Yet, Walmart was putting out their school supplies.  My blood pressure was rising.  A school decision needed to be made.  We chose not to hold him back and send him back to the institution.  We chose instead to keep him learning at 'The Walters' Greenhouse.' 

There is something to be said for a Mama's intuition.  Like 'knowing' when it is time to go to the doctor, or go cuddle, read and put that child down for a nap before a massive melt down occurs.  And my Mamas intuition was cluing into something that was blocking this child from soaring.  And so I did the hard thing.

I raised my hand.  I asked for help two months into the school year.  Financial help from family to send him to a Montoursi school down the road.  And as I did this I called the school system to ask for my home educated son who would now going to a private school to be tested for learning differences.  I was told this is called 'flagging' a child.  

Mrs. Brigid was a breath of fresh air and healing balm to my sons school experience.  Her small classroom of 1-3rd graders was a quiet haven of learning and curiosity.  I liked the loving atmosphere, bring your water bottle thing, healthy eating and outside time daily.  There were many parts of Jed's day that seemed to nourish him.  But deep down, I felt like a failure.  The second year in a row I changed schools for him for heavens sake!

Mrs. Rousou was a delight to work with and walked me through the process several times on the phone.  She said the state required we do this testing in a certain time frame from when the child is first flagged.  This meant all the evaluations had to be done, written up and communicated with me by February.  

The chilly, gloomy, winter day I drove to the nearest elementary school to sit in a conference room with 5 school professionals that had all had a hand in testing my son is etched in stone.  My Dad came up to keep my other kids so I could go alone.  His clear eyes looking in mine before I left were enough to pull out the fragility of my reality.  How did he know I needed him there that day? 

 I was about to 'know.'  To really know if my boy had learning issues that were blocking him from success, from reading fluently and being socially confident.  I wanted to know, but I didn't.  The tension was heavy.  It was a mix between, "Dear Lord, please let a little something show up to prove I'm not crazy in switching schools & not being able to teach him to read" and "Oh man, please Lord don't let there be anything wrong with my boy."  I was weary from this 2 year journey.

The School Psychologist went first.  She described the page of numbers she put in front of me, telling me about each line.  I was overwhelmed and seeking to make sense of it all which she must of noticed.   She wrote his IQ in the margins & then the number he is actually performing or able to do and subtracted to get a large discrepancy.  Yes, he qualified as having learning differences.  His IQ as well as his verbal skills were off the charts.  Yet, his working memory was slow as a turtle.  Before I knew they were there the tears fell on the paper with all the numbers.  I wanted to scream and kick and turn the damn table over and run out of the room much like I wanted to the day I was diagnosed with a disease.  Yet, my people pleasing, southern grits self stayed calm & kept breathing and even talked confidently of what we would do with this information to help him be successful.  

The meeting was cut abrupt at the end because of a torrential rain storm which was causing flooding in the area.  School was being let out early and faculty were advised over the loud speaker to go home as well.  

Rain has always been a healing balm to me.  A symbol from my Abba Father of his presence, his nourishing love & grace over me.  Truly, this hard, pelting rain spoke volumes to me as I drove off and wept.

Yet, I barely knew just how deeply this information would effect not only my sons life, but my own.  After all, raising flags is not for sissies.

The Year the Farm Ideal Cocooned

I dream in bold, vibrant colors.   And sometimes my reality scrapes the surface of those pictures, those ideals.  Yet often it falls way short.  Slowly, Josh has lost interest in bee keeping.  Two hives died over the winter and one this summer.  Now there is talk of cleaning up the equipment and selling it?!?  Dad can't work them anymore because of a way too close to antaflatic shock sting.  And me.  Well, I have struggled to make the time to enjoy it with him and it feels more like a chore than a fun hobby.  No one ever told me how smeltering hot those suits are in the heat of summer!

And chickens, well...a neighborhood dog ate one last November and we ran out of feed and the chickens were not laying so I sold them on free cycle.  Harsh?  Maybe, but if you don't produce are you worth keeping around?  Besides, our chicken guy, Jed was selling the eggs we did get which left me buying eggs from the store.  hummm.  So plans began to build a bigger coup so to feed us and have an egg business.  But here it is November again and do we have a bigger coup built?  Nope.

The one thing that has been smokin' around here is our Tower Garden.  It fed us the most tasty lettuce I've ever had.  After years of struggling to grow enough lettuce for my crew I am thrilled to be an organic lettuce grower!  Lettuce below took 1/2 the time to get that big compared to my square foot garden.  Yet now the dream is a green house so I can keep producing lettuce throughout the winter.  AND the kids say they will help sell heads at the Farmers Market next spring- heads of lettuce that is along with eggs from our chickens we don't have a home for yet.  And did I mention Abby wants to sell bread that she doesn't know how to make fully on her own yet?  So, plans are in the works of buying 3 more towers and growing even more food.  And dreams are in the blood of all the Walters of making and growing things with our hands that will bless others and deposit some change in these kids bank accounts.  For college, of course.

But as I sit here on a crisp fall Saturday morning, it is hard for me to give myself permission to admit I am tired.  Yet, as I reach for food that doesn't satisfy like I thought or seek out girl time that leaves me insecure and teary this week I wonder what it is I really need.  After all what more could a woman living in America, with food, water, a home,  a husband, who has a job, with four healthy souls to raise, a dab of land, her health, family only hours away and friends within reach be groaping for?

Attached to the fencing for the chickens, 4 fences so to rotate them and allow them to be free range of course, we dream of building a fence for 2 sheep as well.  We have the land, so why not?!?  They don't need milking or tear things up like goats, so what could be that hard about it?

 Our hearts are restless until they rest in You, O Lord.  St. Augustine said.  And ya know what, he was on to something.  It was 3 months ago that I unplugged from social media, started turning off my phone for periods of time.  I woke up to my reality and felt the nudges and followed them.  My reality being I was sitting in my chair in the dark of morning with coffee in hand and my Bible, wheeling my thumb through facebook, then email, then checking the weather.  God felt miles away even though I was supposedly sitting there with him, my day felt weighty upon me and despite responding to & encouraging friends on the internet, I felt alone.  Disconnected from my own heart and unsure of how to re-kindle my once optomistic, loving self.  Not to mention, how to re-connect with Father in a way that didn't feel trite and routine.

So what is a girl who has driven to Alaska in college, around the whole US of A in highschool and from WA to NC with 3 kids under 6 do?  She takes to the road!  I packed the kids up & drove 3 hours to my parents cozy little national park of a haven, fit with bikes, fishing rods, kayaks & canoes for a week unplugged, just the kids and I.  Marvelous.  Deep breath.  Amazing how the kids play and laugh and invite each other to run and explore when other distractions are taken away.  Little to no toys, no other friends, no internet.  And we survived.  We even live to tell about it and are better off for it.  I will say, we actually thrived.  I will write about it more fully at some point I know.  We returned refreshed, more connected to each other, rested and with stronger bonds of loyalty and love to one another.  And a ton of silly stories and brave adventures to tell at highschool granduations & wedding rehersals.

Then, 7 days later, I was loading up again for a 10 hour road trip to FL...by myself with the kids.  Alone until James flew in on Wed. to enjoy with us and then drive back as a family on Sunday.  Nervous to say the least, I went overboard with car games, baggies of carrotts, grapes, cucumbers, goldfish, cookies, new books on cd from lamplighter theater.com (fabulous quality, beautiful, funny, character building) as well as movies for when all my tricks ran out.  Stopping only at rest stops for potty breaks and a lunch picnic & soccer game of course, we arrived safely at dark.  We found our condo, gloried in the beauty, gave high fives, brushed teeth and crawled in bed.

It was here that I had a moment.   A teary one, actually.  It was an, "I love my kids" moment.  A "I'm going to be okay" coupled with, "Damn we smoked that road trip- that was actually restful at times, we laughed even.  Like often.  Amid the occasional, "She touched me!" stuff of course."

So, today, this fall of 2013 I wish the coop was built, the bees were warm & cozy in hives & sheep were grazing so our kids could be caring for them, learning both responsibility and building bonds with living things.  I wish I wasn't soul tired, that I was "all better" after a few months of unplugging and ready to re- enter.  But what I think is that once burnout is reached or surfacy, internet, scrolling addicted reality is confessed, it takes time to re-humanize.  To re-surface fully whole and holy full anew with beauty & the persons in ones eyeball world.  As I journey through this reality and allow myself permission to be a bit tired and raw from the bumps of the year, I am thankful for this space to write and hope afresh of living a one piece life.