Small Town Girl

I grew up in a town of 1,200 mostly Mennonite farmers. Those who weren't Mennonite were probably Lutheran and those that weren't farmer's probably worked at a bank, convenience/grocery store, hospital/nursing home, or school. Our track was the school parking lot or county road. Sometimes our coach would drive us 3 miles into the country and make us run to town. Freeman's entire city limits was in 1 square mile.

To contrast, my kids are growing up in the 2nd largest city in Kentucky (a city twice the size of Sioux Falls, SD - the largest city in my beloved home state). It can take up to 45 minutes to get from one side of Lexington to the other and I am thankful my phone has GPS. I always pat myself on the back (and sometimes call to brag to an ever patient Roy) if I can find my way to a place in Lexington that I've never been without having to consult a map.

Crowds make my stop in my tracks.

Seeing the local news anchors in the grocery store slightly elevates my pulse.

I continue to hope and pray for a random Johnny Depp sighting. (It's NOT out of the realm of possibility.)

But there are somethings that I just won't (can't, don't want to) get used to.

Yesterday a young man jumped off a building directly next door to my place of work. Some of my coworkers were among the first on the scene. Horror doesn't begin to describe it.

Roy and I had a conversation about the middle school Sophie (and Miller) will go to, unless she tests into the Quest (gifted) program. Or gets into SCAPA (fine arts). Or we move. Or send her to private school. And of all the middle schools in Lexington, this is not the one we want to send our children to. So we must find her 'talent' and help lead her there. Or move. Or find a ridiculous sum of money to send her to private school. Moving would be cheaper.

Did I mention that the Middle School testing decision has to be made next fall? In 2nd grade?

Last week, Sophie's bike was stolen out of our front yard. Who steals a kid's bike?

I love living in Lexington. I love the old buildings and the narrow streets. I love the two new breweries and amazing Farmer's Market and the energy that's here right now. My gosh!

And I know these problems exist in small town America. Gratitude in that I don't have a personal connection to the victim. Gratitude in that I have a choice about the school to send my kids to. Gratitude in that my amazing friends replaced Sophie's bike within 24 hours.

But today, as I look at faces that have seen too much. As I ponder the future of my children's education. As I shake my head at the audacity of some people...

Any jobs in Freeman?

Good Stuff

Oh where to start? Do I begin with my 10 year wedding anniversary to this guy:

seen here ranting on the evils of baby pockets, fortified with bourbon and encouraged (discouraged?) by friends who have seen/heard this diatribe on many occasion. Alas, there are always a few baby pocket virgins in the crowd.

And oh, how we've come to this happy place.

Or do I begin with the every-five-year reunion my parents hold with their MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) unit (1970-1972) in Cincinnati, OH. We are fortunate to live only an hour south, so it's a quick jaunt up to socialize with this fine group of human beings.

And spend some unstructured time with each other

Perhaps I begin with this little girl who is rapidly becoming not so little.

Or this little guy who drips personality. (and is hard to capture on film.)

Or maybe I start at the beginning, with the picture that now graces the top of my blog, an impromptu hike in the woods of Natural Bridge State Park (less than an hour east of Lexington) which will clear your head and replenish your soul every time.

We may fail at times. We may not get it all in, or get it done right, or eat a balanced meal or quite reach our goals. Maybe we forget our vitamins or have a bad day or run short on patience and long on selfishness. But what a blessed life. A blessed life indeed.

staying on my line

Last Sunday night I met my priest for beers at one of the local breweries. Mother Laurie (or as I more often refer to her, Laurie) has become someone (dare I say a friend?) that I enjoy hanging out with outside of church and I've been pleased to be able to separate Mother Laurie from just Laurie.

While we were taking, she used the phrase, staying on your line. This phrase is used by repellers (of which I am not) to mean keeping your line centered behind you. If it gets off to the right or left, you as the repeller can get all wonky and unbalanced an off your line. I immediately told her I was stealing that phrase.

She said that her goal in life is to stay on her line. Another priest (this time, Catholic) once told a very young 19 year old me, that being passionate about life was a cop out. 'Passion' had to be more directed - nuclear disarmament or equal rights or something noble and strong. While Father Frank certainly made an impact on my life, I think I'll go with Mother Laurie on this one. I don't think passion for life, or the desire to stay on your line, is a cop out. I think it's noble and strong.

Lately I've been thinking about my life. I'll be 33 next month. I'm not afraid of getting older, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me that I won't be able to do everything in this life. I probably won't live in Switzerland or go to culinary school or learn to bake bread from a master baker. I won't have a lover in the south of France or live in a quiet cottage with few possessions and brew tea from plants that grow wild in the forest. If some of those things happen in this life, great! But the direction my life has taken doesn't follow that path. And the truth is, I wouldn't change a damn thing to make it so.

I mean really when it comes down to it, if we could fit everything into one life, wouldn't we just end up bored?

So now, while I work toward many things that my path does seem to lead - a farm, chickens, big garden, a big family, and maybe I can learn to bake bread from a master baker - I will strive to stay on my line. Because that is noble. And strong.

June

I had grand notions of writing June Parts 1-3 in all separate posts. Beautiful pictures, cropped and edited. Words that fall lyrically and would perfectly encapsulate my incredible month. But let's be real: I haven't been able to catch up on housework in 4 weeks, I fall asleep on the couch regularly at 9:00 and there's this little thing called work that keeps interfering with my summer off.

As Sophie was counting down the last days of school I couldn't help but get wrapped up in it, too. I consciously knew that I didn't get a summer break, but somehow it didn't matter. My subconscious was all - HELLS YES!

I must say, despite the regular work (which I love AND gives us a steady paycheck and good health insurance hallelujah amen), I was able to enjoy the first month of summer with my Sophie. An impromptu afternoon excursion to the pool, Saturday morning yoga - free at the park just up the road! - and regular trips to the Farmer's Market make it feel like summer vacation, even if the 'vacation' part is lacking.

June started with a bang when my dear friend Adam got married. We've known each other since we were 5 or 6 and this was the coolest, happiest wedding. I love Adam. I love his bride, Annie. And I love that I got to see so many amazing people.

Since I moved to Kentucky in 2000, the second weekend of June has been held captive by The Festival of the Bluegrass. Now that Roy and I are doing the bulk of the work for this event, the second weekend of June is more like the bottom of a mud covered hill that we have just slid indelicately down and are now buried in muck. Okay, so maybe it's not that bad. The metaphor kind of got away from me there. All I mean is that by the time the Festival rolls around, the heavy lifting is pretty much done and Roy and I are able to see our hard work paying off. And seeing folks enjoy themselves - friends, family, strangers - is a beautiful reward.

I have few pictures, so I suggest checking out our friend Marc's photos. He has captured the spirit of the Festival beautifully. But this is one Roy's aunt took of Sophie and Cousin Aiden.

Miller turned 2 on June 26 so we went to the Bluegrass Railroad Museum in Versailles. This kid LOVES trains. I mean jumps up and down on the couch and screams CHOO CHOO when he sees one. So we had an absolute ball. He got to climb on trains, run around a real caboose, and we took a train on a 5 1/2 mile ride through the county. The excursion was fun on its own, but watching Miller was awesome.

  

 

And then there's his birthday present. What kid DOESN'T need a big wheel?? If only his feet could reach the pedals....

my little bird

For me, one of the best parts of being a mom is watching my children grow up.

First words, first steps, first laughs, smiles, friends.

I have amazing parents who taught me by example the concept of roots and wings. So that's what I'm trying to do - grow roots.

 I love watering Sophie's passions - music. play. art. running. thinking. imagination.

I love listening to hear read, a level of surprise in her voice that she's actually doing it!

Having deep conversations about life and death

and her saying, "Oh, so it's a life cycle!" without fear.

My girl. Next year is first grade. And while I water those roots, I watch those wings start to grow.

I may cry, but I am not sad. I am so, so proud of the person she is.

out of doors

Roy works most evenings during the week and after a day full of work, I am more grateful than ever for beautiful weather and places to enjoy it.

Our routine is home - Miller watches an episode of Thomas the Train while I prep dinner - we eat - we go outside until it's nearly Miller's bedtime (7:30).

We walk up and down the street, sometimes we head around the block, mostly we end up at the park at the end of our street.

With plenty of grass, slides and swings nearby we rarely venture out in the car, but last week we went to the Arboretum at UKs campus. It was so worth the drive.

This one loves to run, a hobby I hope to cultivate. Soon she'll be old enough to do Girls on the Run, but in the meantime, we'll find time to jog.

The other one loves his sister, and the fish at the Arboretum. I could not pull him away and a few times I thought he was going to tumble head first into the pond.

Yesterday I told him he needed to come inside. He said no. Sophie said no. He walked to Sophie, took her hand, and they walked in the opposite direction together.

I am so screwed.

Every day I am tired. Every day I work so incredibly hard. And every day I come home to these kids and they make me happier than I ever knew possible.

They are so amazing. 

The Holy Mystery

As a teen and pre-teen I would kneel (figuratively) before God (usually as a result of guilt or peer pressure) and confess my sins and ask for forgiveness and promise to give up lustful thoughts and jealousy and hateful feelings and pray every day and be a good little Christian and even give up swearing, which was the absolute WORST part about those short-lived religious explosions.

At the little Christian High School I attended, there were many, many discussions on the importance of having Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.  Hell was a place I was sure to end up (along with the rest of my heathen family) for all my wicked thinking about boys and the cussing and all my evilness. Oh and the conversations with one school-mate who insisted that Gandhi was in hell because he was Hindu.  The "speaking in tongues" hubbub my Junior year sent underclass boys and girls (and even me, by that time a disgusted and rebellious near Buddhist) into tailspins of self doubt.

During those same years I remember a conversation with an older, wiser friend who, when I confessed my fear of hell, laughed a great, deep belly laugh at me - "you are not going to hell" he told me. I looked at him, shocked. "I'm not?" I said. Somehow, that's really all I needed to hear.

After leaving home, I settled into a comfortable existence of believing in God (most of the time) and being "spiritual but not religious" and when the religious right political movement really took off I about lost my shit.

So to come - 15 years later - to where I am now is all at once completely expected and a total surprise.

Most Sunday mornings I find myself looking forward to the time that I can get on my knees (literally) and pray. To thank God and call forth those names so present in my heart. Sometimes I light a candle. I hear Mother Laurie preach the refrain, "God loves you anyway" and know my daughter is getting her religious instruction from her. I take the weekly Eucharist with people who are black, white, gay, straight, single, married, old and young and we are all equal and unjudged. During the peace I am met with hand shakes and hugs and peace signs.

The religious fervor of yore that I experienced in high school still exists in some circles, and hey - that's great. You go with your bad selves. But that's not where God speaks to me. And that's okay, too. Some friends find God when they're in nature. Others don't find him at all. That's okay. God loves you anyway.

On May 16, I will become a confirmed Episcopalian. I will never lose my Mennonite roots, but this inclusive church has brought me back. I have fallen in love with its history, its tradition, its public statement of tolerance, and its Book of Common Prayer. It is where I have rediscovered God.