Work to Heal the Hurt

My theory is that people who hurt often hurt other people. Sometimes they hurt others intentionally, sometimes unintentionally. But in either case, the suffering is frequently contagious. This can create a chain of pain that continues for generations.

I think that we can help to slowly wear away at that pattern of pain within our small circles each time that we meet anger, contempt, cruelty, selfishness, irrationality, prejudice, etc. with as much solicitude and compassion as possible. We can slowly patch up the broken hearts and gradually melt the hard hearts by being merciful, kind, sympathetic/empathetic, forgiving, and loving, etc.- instead of treating people in like kind or giving them what they deserve. We can listen. We can try to understand what got them to this place, what wounds they carry, and why they are behaving the way that they are. And essentially, as my mother (may she rest in peace) said to me many times during my childhood, we can "give them the benefit of the doubt."

I didn't think my mom's response was fair when I was an immature kid hoping she'd address some grievance of mine. And maybe it wasn't. But life isn't fair. And in my middle age I can see the wisdom of her words. Giving people the benefit of the doubt (instead of assuming the worst motive for their actions) and treating them with more respect than they have earned is, in my opinion, the loving thing to do. It's also incredibly difficult. After all, those who are hurt most deeply are probably the people who are the meanest.

Yes, people can be truly evil. Yes, there are things worth physically fighting for. No, I may not make a difference or change others' hearts or ease their pain. But in continually trying to meet ugly and cold behavior with as much warmth and big-heartedness as I can muster, hopefully I will have at least changed MY heart. I can do my best to pass the least amount of pain and hurt along to those I interact with. And really, that's all someone as insignificant as myself can hope to do. 

In my more optimistic moments, I like to think that I'm not the only fool to feel this way. I imagine that there are lots of people who do their best to swallow the pain and unpleasantness that they are faced with, and in return, spill out charitableness. And if that is true, perhaps some day, generations from now, our little circles may overlap and the world will be a more peaceful, reasonable place. I can dream, can't I?

Happiness is Like a Morning Glory

Happiness is like a morning glory. 

Only today's flowers can be enjoyed today. 

Yesterday's blooms have faded. 

Tomorrow's blooms haven't opened yet. 

If you learn how to find a bit of beauty in the current moment, 

you'll see it always, 

and then you will regularly experience happiness.

Resilient like Robins

I've been fighting depression lately. 

One of my tactics is to seek out solace in nature. 

I actively look for beauty each day as I go about my tasks. 

Sometimes, I even take a short break from them to find that moment of loveliness to tide me over.

 In the last week or so I've enjoyed a young rabbit eating dandelions, 

frolicking in the flower beds, tearing circles in the sand box, and lazing in the sun. 

I've savored the sight of sun shining through its ears

and the way its whiskers wiggled as it nibbled.

I've smiled at the endearing way it kicked up its heels, leaping for the sheer joy of life, 

and the way it nestled into the grass, 

hunkering down to enjoy the dappling shade and cool breeze with drowsy eyes.

I've taken in parts of stunning sunsets while sitting on our deck on chilly, windy evenings as my hair whipped my face and the air motion across the bottle top I was holding made it "sing".

I've smelled the roses (literally) on our half-dead, deer-eaten rose bush, 

and admired the way the light illuminated their petals.

I've listened to the bees and hornets hum in the weedy flower beds.

I've gone for a hike with my grumbling kids in the mountains to enjoy greenery and spring waterfalls.

And I've stayed up most of a night 

to watch an amazing lightning display 

during a booming thunderstorm.

All this has carried me through.

The beauty of creation never fails to lighten my load.

I've also been keeping my eye on a pair of robins as they tend their young for the past several weeks.

They built their nest in a barbed wire wreathe on the side of my house.

The mother faithfully kept the three eggs and nestlings warm...

I've heard the frantic peeping and looked out the window to see a meal delivered.

I've smiled knowingly as the parents looked more and more bedraggled and harried each day.

Periodically I've checked in to see how the babies were growing

and have enjoyed their still stares, bright blinking eyes, and the way they nestled together so tightly. 

Today as I was weeding the patio, I took a peek at the fledglings. 

They were larger and more fully feathered. 

As I knelt on the pavers, their parents cheeped insistently and incessantly in the tree above me. I thought that they were scolding me. It struck me as odd that they suddenly found my presence so disturbing. They had seemed quite used to my family's noise and my periodic visits previously.

Soon I heard a flutter overhead. I assumed one of them had arrived at the nest to feed their young. A minute later, to my surprise, a fledgling fluttered down in a flurry of flapping and landed clumsily in front of me. I watched it in awe, afraid to move until it did.

I stood to peer into the nest and saw that there was only one bird left inside. I realized that the fluttering I heard must have been the first fledgling flying forth. The second baby bird had landed near me. I felt blessed to have been so close to this miracle of nature. 

Awkwardly the little ones hopped and flew in short trips around my patio. I smiled as I noted their short stumpy tails, speckled bellies, and the few fuzzy feathers that remained on their heads. 

The robin parents kept up their endless cheeping- begging, demanding, and encouraging their last baby to take to its wings. I went back to my weeding, listening to their shrill chirps and to the drone of buzzing bees 'round me. I marveled at having been graced to witness those few short minutes when birds leave the warmth and security of their nest to gain freedom and face danger, especially since I am only outside for such short intervals. 

Soon, black billed magpies joined in the noise making of the pair of robins. I looked up to see if the magpie pair and the robins were having another battle in their ongoing turf war. The magpies have a nest full of raucous squawkers high in the nearby pine tree. I'd seen the robins harass them and chase them off a number of times in the past, but the birds were not near the magpie nest nor the robin nest. 

I followed the noise and walked around the corner of the house to find the four birds in a tree scolding and screaming at a large red tailed hawk! The hawk clutched a fledgling in its talons and flew awkwardly and lopsidedly away, calling out triumphantly and defiantly in piercing shrieks a few times before disappearing beyond the stable.

I was stunned. The majestic hawk had been so close at hand. The adversaries had joined forces to face a bigger threat. The newly launched robin was already gone.

The ongoing struggle of life and death made my heart ache. And I contemplated how soon my oldest would launch out on his own. I stared at the bees in the flowers at my feet feeling heartbroken for those robin parents. They had worked so hard for nothing.

I began reasoning with myself. Birds of prey have to eat too. In essence, the robins had worked hard to make a meal for a hawk. Technically their work wasn't wasted. And the hawk was magnificent and resplendent. Hawks eat other things not nearly as endearing as robin chicks, like snakes and rodents, and most people don't think twice. How could I begrudge a hawk its meal? 

Still, I thought about the cruel harshness of life. I contemplated how all beauty is mixed with some prick of pain, how the poignant moments increase our capacity for enjoyment, of reveling in things we would otherwise gloss over. How could I resent death and pain when it is an integral part of life? Knowing this did not relieve the gnawing ache in my chest or the tightness in my throat though.

The robin's calls interrupted my thoughts. Again they were insistently crying out. I returned numbly to the patio, engrossed in my thoughts, and found that they had again taken up positions in the tree across from the nest. Again they pleaded and cajoled their last hatchling to set forth.

I was astonished. This loss had not caused them to shelter their last fledgling just a little longer. It did not deter them from their instinct, their duty. They did not give up or even pause, but continued to valiantly fill their role in the complicated and exquisite web of life.

I mulled this over for a few more minutes as I tended my children. Eventually I trudged inside to make dinner for them. It dawned on me as I did this that people reflect this reality too. No matter how hard we try to avoid reality, people die. Tragedies happen. Things hurt. Difficulties continually arise. No matter how much we want to stop the clock, wallow in sadness, or expect life to be forever unenjoyable after such occurrences, it goes on. We still need to do the basics, like eat. We still fall back into our routine, our duties.

This knowledge had previously made me very very sad (the fact that life went on) but for a minute or two as I stood over the stove stirring, I found an odd comfort in it. It meant that life is worth living. Previously I had resented sometimes that life kept swirling around me and dragging me on. I wished to slow down, wished that outward things were different and reflected the great loss, the great hurt that I felt. What I failed to see was that what mattered was that I was different after the difficult experience. If I had not chosen the path of self-pity, in the end I was more compassionate, less prideful, more resilient, and more appreciative of the the many little good things in my life, etc. 

Yes, nearly all of us get on with life. It's not as though we are denying what happened and is happening, are callous, or don't feel the pangs. But we persist despite the tenderness of our hearts. We struggle to keep going, to keep pushing through the myriad of obstacles, to keep trusting in providence, to keep living, because life is hard, but life is good. And in a weird way, the fact that most of us keep persevering.... it's heroic in a small way... just as the robins seemed to be.

Later, while continuing to contemplate the encounter with the robins, it struck me that like the proverbial gold tested in fire, the heartache we traverse can purify us. We can be stripped of selfishness, blindness, and apathy- if we allow ourselves to be. All hardship is an opportunity for growth and understanding. It is an obstacle course that can strengthen us and make us more beautiful. It is suffering, yes, but unless we are self-absorbed and therefore consumed by our pain and unable to look beyond it (and beyond ourselves) suffering and loss do have a purpose, the aforementioned being one purpose. So, now I am trying to be resilient like the robins, to keep going, to not let discouragement and hurt stop me from loving, growing, enjoying, and being faithful to my family, duties, my potential, and God.

Front Range

taken from our back deck

In my last post I mentioned views of the Front Range. 

We have a pretty nice view of the eastern foothills... 

and the mountains behind them. 

They line the horizon to the west.

We're about 35 miles "as the crow flies" from the foothills. 

Due to the low humidity here, 

we often have very clear views of the mountains out of the back windows of our house. 

With a 30x zoom lens you can see snow blowing off of peaks, 

clouds forming, trees on the slopes, and shadows in the ravines.

Devilshead

Our view starts just north of Pike's Peak 

(which is behind the ridge next to us) 

and just south of Devilshead. 

It continues all the way up past Denver. We can see see skyscrapers and cityscapes too.

The city twinkles nicely below us at night, 

but I haven't figured out how to photograph it yet.

We get a fair amount of fogs as well, as I mentioned in my first post this year. 

Some of them are quite "thick." 

Many of them cause fantastic hoarfrost. 

Some of them are thinner and it's more like being in a wispy cloud. 

On foggy days, our view (or lack there of) can be nice too.

Metal

Every house we have owned 

(THREE now!) 

has had trash and brush strewn about the property when we bought it. 

The first was because it was so old and things had accumulated over time. 

It was built between 1860 and 1890. 

It was also incredibly overgrown. 

You couldn't even walk to the front door when we purchased the place! 

We spent 12 years fixing it up 

(or should I say, saving it.)

It was a "fixer-upper" in every way, in and out, 

but I still love that home with an irrational love.

What can I say? 

It was always flooded in light.

The ceilings were high. 

It was full of angles, decorative touches, and color.

There were tons of "old lady flowers", 

like lilacs, peonies, daffodils, roses, and hostas.

There was room for chickens, a goat, and gardens.

Three of my children were born there,

and a fourth lies in the little cemetery nearby.

Our second home was also a jungle of sorts when we purchased it. 

Multiple kinds of ivy, autumn and Russian olives, and saplings and undergrowth from the encroaching woods had taken it over. No one had trimmed the bushes in years. 

A tree leaned on the house. Waist-high weeds were left standing in the yard. 

A deep carpet of leaves blanketed everything.

Farm and other inexplicable trash was strewn everywhere, things like baby pools, hog sheds, broken-down fencing, balls, toys, sports equipment, trash, food containers, articles of clothing, medicine blister packs, writing utensils, animal bowls, etc.
And the house was full of junk too. 

But the privacy, wildlife, and space were well worth it all. 

And we "christened" that house with the birth of our youngest.

After our five years there, it was very near to being a little piece of paradise.

This time of year I long to hear the sandhill cranes calling to each other as they fly over.

I want to hear the geese splash down on the pond as I wash the dishes.

I want to stand in the twilight near the waterfall, 

watching the sun set through the trees.

I want to hear the spring peepers in chorus 

as I sit in the screened porch after collecting eggs.

I want to see the giant forsythia hedge and many daffodils in bloom 

when I look out the window in the morning.

Obviously I'm posting "after" pictures... 

because I'm homesick for Indiana. 

But to get to the subject at hand, 

our latest home in Colorado has it's share of grunge and trash too. 

It's even overgrown in places- in its own Colorado way. 

Although, our larger problem will be establishing turf. 

There is a lot of bare earth. 

We're consistently foolish... or in this case, 

desperate to be settled as soon as possible,

and brave enough to dive into a place like this.

listing picture from three years ago

There are bits of broken plastic, pieces of dog toys, broken pottery, ripped up stuffed animals, remnants of shoes, crushed beer and soda cans (some chopped up by a mower), ruined books, broken glass, water bottles, floor mats, old fence parts, bailing straps, parts of broken lawn furniture, broken birdhouses, food containers, scraps of carpeting, cigarette butts, bits of grocery and garbage bags, pieces of broken irrigation, large "river rocks",  etc. strewn all over. 

I spent over three hours this afternoon
picking up the comparatively small section behind the house 

and filled a large garbage bag with junk!

Left to deal with are a bunch of carpentry scraps dumped next to the driveway by the house (probably for firewood since neither the thermostat or pellet stove worked when we moved in.) There's an overgrown, tumbled-down wood pile full of painted boards with nails in them! There's trash, fasteners, whirligigs, wire mesh, fence posts, and other leavings where a greenhouse once stood (and then a makeshift enclosed garden was.) Someone let their horse roam at will, so there are huge piles of "horse apples" all over the property, even next to the house and deck. Speaking of horses, the horse barn is full of junk- in fact one stall is full of tires, storage drums, etc. And the interior of the house- well I won't bore you any further with those descriptions.

On a recent Saturday I wanted to look at the pastures and the tumbled-down fence 

(which I hadn't yet had a chance to do) 

and to be outside. 

I set out with my middle boy. 

At the first corner that I came to, 

even with the end of our driveway and kitty corner to the road, 

we hit a snag. 

There is a copse of little scrub oaks along the fence. 

My boy decided to walk through them. 

I decided to walk around them and meet him on the other side. 

When I turned on my heel, I noticed a large, rusty screw on the ground. 

I bent to pick it up... and noticed several more near it. 

Then I realized that there was rusty metal all over the ground around me. 

I picked up what I could easily reach and soon had a large pile.

We fetched a garbage bag and a magnet bar and went to work. I didn't want to ruin any tires whenever it was that we would have to mow the sparse vegetation.

Every pass with the magnet roller yielded many rusty items.

For a long time, there seemed to be a never-ending supply.

But the day was beautiful, my husband was fixing the kitchen faucet which had broken, 

and my youngest was happily playing with his oldest sister. 

So we just picked up as much as we could.

the view from the corner where we collected (The driveway is between the wooden fences.)

There was SO much rusty metal. 

The bag wasn't strong enough to hold it all. 

I had to carry it up to the house in something else.

When I weighed it, there was over 6 ½ lbs. of metal!

I found a nail embedded in a piece of melted glass when we were getting started, 

so eventually I formulated a theory. 

I think that after the greenhouse 

(which I saw in an old satellite photo) 

was ruined in the hail storm that my husband heard about from the insurance agent 

(who knew about it because the roof and solar panels were replaced because of it)

they hauled all of its framing to the corner of the property and burned it. 

What we were picking up was left after the burn. 

This would explain the high concentration of 

hinges, brackets, bolts, nails, corner braces, wire, screws, etc. 

I had already picked up a ton of metal around the fire ring and behind the workshop. 

I picked up quite a few rusty screws and nails in the back yard today too. 

Hopefully I've hit the worst of it, 

but I'll have to haul the magnet bar out there soon to make sure.

Whatever the case, I'm sure I'll come to love it here just as much as I've loved my previous homes. I'm already learning to appreciate the aridity, sunshine, and wind. And no one can complain about a view of the front range, especially when the sun sets behind it. Plus, the house is large, unconventional, and quirky. Those are all good qualities for a sizable family like ours.

Keeping it Real

This morning was unproductive... at least physically. I got up at 6:20 with my youngest two. They always begin their day early and are soon whining for food. I usually try to hold breakfast off until the girls wake. I made a batch of French toast for breakfast this morning when they did.

As I made a steady stream of pieces, two at a time, the children bickered and whined about how the next one should be for them as I poured syrup and cut bite sized pieces for the littlest between flips. Eventually their hunger was assuaged and after wiping off sticky faces and fingers, they trotted off to get ready for the day and to play until things were cleaned up.

Finally the dishes were cleared, the syrup was wiped up, etc. But just as I turned the corner to walk out of the kitchen, my oldest walked in. Lately I feed my husband after the kids and then my oldest either joins in at the end of his father's breakfast or he eats breakfast leftovers whenever he wakes up while I am busy schooling the other children.

This is a new development, as he was always in the kitchen for breakfast by 8:30 sharp in the past. But seeing as I only have a handful of months left with him before he leaves for college, he's been traveling a great deal, working hard to maintain his grades this last semester, up late with activities many nights, and devoting countless hours to his robotics team, I've felt indulgent and let him sleep. After all, nobody skates through when earning an engineering degree, and he IS currently pursuing admission to the Webb institute where in 4 years you earn a double major in marine engineering and naval architecture, as well as graduate with 8 months of on-the-job work experience after 4 internships. He'd better get all the sleep he can get now.

Anyway, as I fired up the skillet and whipped up a new batch of French toast, my youngest daughter called down that she was going to get my youngest child dressed for me if that was okay. I called back my thanks and proceeded to feed my young giant. When breakfast was cleared up for the second time, I stopped by the laundry room on the way upstairs. I had a load of laundry to switch before getting the rest of the day rolling.

To my surprise, I nearly wiped out. My foot shot out from under me and I found myself hydroplaning on about 2 inches of laundry detergent. Here's what happened. My thoughtful daughter was trying to help out, so she stripped my youngest of his PJs, took off his wet pull-up, and proceeded to get him dressed. (Side note: I am currently failing at potty training my fifth kid.) Then, considerate child that she is, she trotted the wet diaper down to the laundry room where I put soiled diapers in a special can.

Unfortunately, I had set a new container of laundry detergent on the trash can lid the night before after using up the previous jug. (The can is next to the washer.) My daughter lifted it off and put it on top of the running washing machine to put the pull-up in the can. She left the laundry soap on the washer. When the machine hit the spin cycle, it shook the container (a large one for a family of 7) off. It fell to the floor and exploded. The lid and the spout popped off, splattering detergent all up the wall, on unpacked boxes of filing that were waiting in an out-of-the-way place, and onto a box of tools that I keep handy for small household jobs. Then the detergent glugged out- all of it!

So I spent the rest of the morning cleaning it up. I started by scooping up big dustpans-full, as if the dustpan was a shovel, and dumping them into my mopping bucket. This took a lot of "doing." And rinsing it out of the bucket and off of the dustpan was no small task either. It was concentrated detergent for our HE machine.

After that joy, I began wiping up what I could with paper towels, as it would take too long to rinse and wring out cloths, and it was too much to just throw into the washer, which had warnings about not using too much detergent. Luckily I had just purchased a huge pack of paper towel! Soap had seeped under the washer and dryer, under the trash can, under the cardboard file boxes. It had splashed onto a drill battery and charger, onto tools, on the baseboard, wall, and appliance fronts. I used every roll but one.

After that I had to rinse everything and wipe it down, repeatedly, until the lathering stopped. In some places the remaining detergent had begun to dry in thick, clotted streaks. So I spent hours either on my knees, or trotting to the wash tub in the basement to rinse.

Eventually, I had remediated the disaster as best as I could. It was nearly noon. I headed upstairs to smell that my youngest had pooped in his new pull-up already. He had proceeded to sit in his own filth playing. He was alone in his room happily modifying a lovely Duplo house with multiple stories. I assumed that since I was hearing all of the kids' voices and that they had asked for crayons, that they were coloring together. Plus, they knew what I was doing and were old enough to entertain a 4 year old.

"Didn't you notice that he had pooped?" I asked.

"Yes," replied my oldest daughter disgustedly, "Why do you think we're all out here?!"

-And yet she did not think to tell me. This statement pretty much sums up her usual attitude, which is why I let my younger daughter, who is thoughtful, although inept, try her hand at helping me.

When changing my littlest's diaper, I found that my silly girl had put the pull-up on crooked, so all of the feces had been forced out of a leg hole and had become embedded in his pants leg, etc. It was another disaster that put cleaning up a detergent spill into context, and made it seem much more pleasant in retrospect.

When the poo-splosion was all cleaned up and the room aired out, it was time to start cooking lunch. This, folks, is why I get so little help at home. It usually turns out badly. Hopefully you have enjoyed the humorous word-pictures that I have painted for you. I, on the other hand, although I DO see the humor, am enjoying the lovely citrus scent of detergent that is still lingering in my home and the very, very clean laundry room floor. (My little son's bum is no longer clean, however. I am not enjoying that.)  :)

Freezing Fog

Things have been an endless onslaught since moving to Colorado. It's a little un-real really. But I will spare you the crazy details of our move and home purchase, the litany of hardships and tasks, and the boring details that will come off as kvetching. Instead, I will share with you an afternoon's beauty.

Up here at over 6400 feet elevation, we often get freezing fogs. I headed out with my middle boy for a brief walkabout one afternoon after one such fog. We marveled at the crystal encrusted scenery. 

The grass was coated in ice.

The frost slipped off of each blade, a frozen straw.

In the moments when the sun slipped through the clouds, everything shimmered and sparkled.

The wild, unkempt yard glittered.

Everything was covered in a shiny, sugar-like glaze. 

Each drop of fog was frozen like a pearl and melded to the frozen droplets next to it.

The broken-down fences filmed with frozen fog were shining silver in the sunlight.  

Small icicles were strung on their drooping wires like sparkling Christmas lights.

Leaning weeds were luminescent.

Wide-bladed grasses were furry with frost. 

Old, sagging gates in overgrown pastures and adorned with rusty barbed wire wreathes were made lovely. 

Even the little ramshackle workshop was picturesque when framed with silvery branches.