As much as I am somewhat of an introvert, a homebody if you will, I have a healthy dose of wanderlust in my blood.  I come by it honestly through a childhood of frequent moves and my own voluntary entry as an adult to a life spent in and around the military.  Having been in our current home over five years, I have been engaged in a raging emotional battle as my internal moving alarm has been persistently jarring me from any sense of domestic complacency.  I know something is amiss when I gaze wistfully at motels as we drive by, yearning for the days when we were reduced to the simplicity of a few suitcases, the preponderance of our earthly possessions tucked away in storage or safely stowed in a moving van.  If I had my druthers, most of our things would be forever in transit, never reaching a final destination.  It would be easier that way.

It’s time to move.  Who needs this two-story home with its high taxes?  I take my husband on weekend drives in older neighborhoods, filled with smaller dwellings that promise a simpler life.  We will sell our house, drastically downsize, and make the move.  It will be better that way.  We even speak with our builder, and he makes us an attractive offer on a smaller home in a nearby subdivision.

In preparation, we have our sun damaged deck replaced and refinished.  Did I tell you that our lot backs up to a dense stand of trees and lush bushes?  We buy a pergola, the better to shade the space and draw in potential buyers.  I decorate with some pretty potted plants, certain to impress.  For the first time ever, we sit in the shade and enjoy breakfast in the cool morning air.  Examining our handiwork, my husband turns to me.  “Where will we find another lot like this?”  I have no answer.  I think of our day lilies enthusiastically budding; they will burst into a profusion of beautiful blooms any day now.   I think of the seasons to come, of the fall pumpkins against the warm brick stairs leading to our red door that will yield to brightly lit Christmas greens in December. “Why are we doing this?” he asks me.  For the life of me, I can’t remember.   We talk about our next project; after five years, a home needs some tender loving care.  We may need to stay a while.

At Home

If the shoe fits...

When I was little, I thought of being big.  When I was little, I thought of my grown-up life and couldn’t wait to get there.  Now that I’m big, I wish I’d spent more time just being little.  It’s never too late, though.  These days I do enjoy just being me, however old or young I may be.  It’s just a little ironic that some of us have to develop cellulite and wrinkles to finally appreciate the joy of just living, but there it is.  To read more of what I think about the search for maturity, check out “When Will I (finally) Grow Up?” under Miscellaneous Musings.  You don’t always have to wear your big girl shoes.

It was only a few months ago that I started writing this blog.  I can’t tell you how exciting it was for me to finally have a consistent place to record my thoughts and hopefully share them with you.  In fact, the past year or so have been a precious gift of time — time for reconnecting, time for rediscovering old passions, time for investing in those pursuits that I have found give me the most joy.

But, I’ve been away for some weeks; my little creative garden has lain fallow.  The why isn’t important — things to do, a new job, etc.  I let fresh demands push away what I truly love, and I have found myself feeling disconnected, although it took me some time to discern what was amiss in my world.  The other day, I ran into an old friend who mentioned he had read my blog and enjoyed it.  “Really?” I responded, feeling that little thrill that comes from someone’s acknowledgement.

So, today, I’m getting back into my garden, thankful that it is still here and waiting.  I’ll pull a few weeds, and at least stop by to say “hello”.  I’ve missed you, and I’m back.  Already, I feel better.  How is your garden?

Renoir's "Young Women Talking"

Are you a mother?  In all deference to Hallmark, I’m not sure I agree with the concept of a mother’s day, especially as narrowly defined in the biological or adoptive sense.  I was blessed to give birth to two wonderful girls; they have brought me great joy and helped me grow as a woman and a mother.  That said, there are women I can think of right now who never had their own children, but are true mothers in my eyes – compassionate, wise, and nurturing (just maybe not quite as crazy).  There are many definitions for the word “mother”;  here are just a few  from the Free Dictionary (www.thefreedictionary.com):

•  A creative source; an origin

• Used as a title for a woman respected for her wisdom and age

• Maternal love and tenderness

•  To give birth to; create and produce.

• To watch over, nourish, and protect maternally

As women, I think we all fit at least one of these descriptions.  As for me, I am thankful for the mothering opportunities God has given me as well as for my own mother and those in my life who have nurtured me.  So, for all women out there, thank you for the invaluable love and support you’ve generously offered family and friends (and strangers) over the years.    I wish you a very happy and blessed mother’s day.

It’s a familiar scenario.  I’ve woken up, groggy and disoriented.  Slowly, I boot up, more slowly than my ancient laptop – wash, take my little assortment of morning pills, brush my teeth, put on makeup (with the vital assistance of the really big magnifying mirror), dress, undress, dress again, tweak outfit, put on earrings, take off earrings, choose another pair, settle on first earring selection after all, find a matched pair of shoes out of the footwear jungle that is my closet floor.  Where’s my purse?  It must be downstairs.  Oh, no, I don’t see it.  Back upstairs again.  Where is it?  Mild panic sets in.  I mean, my purse holds my life in its ample confines – my IDs, my credit cards, more credit cards, various rewards cards, my money, my glasses, my car keys, lipstick, hand sanitizer, pens, notebook, and on.   Where could it be?  Clean and finally dressed as I may be, I am lost, looking in every nook and cranny.  Oh, thank God, there it is, by the piano where I put it down to play a song last night before going to bed.  The chaos around me rights itself, my breathing becomes normal.

I think you can tell a lot about a woman by her purse.  I can’t tell you everything that I put in mine, but its heft is impressive; over the years of bearing the weight via a shoulder strap (often supplemented with various other bags), I can see a permanent groove in my right shoulder.  At times, I’ve tried to organize – putting everything neatly in place, clearing out old receipts, little pieces of trash, hard candy wrappers and the like, but it’s not long before the jumbled mess returns.  How did I get four of my husband’s handkerchiefs, all in various stages of use?  Need a receipt?  I won’t find it, but there’s that Schnuck’s receipt from 2006.  It amazes me that I can lose such large items such as key rings and my cell phone in the cavernous reaches of my bag.  That said, it gives me irrational comfort.  With it, I can face the world, I can function.  Without it, I am hamstrung, frozen.

The other day I was so proud of myself.  Not wanting to tote the monster, I transferred a few necessities into a small, compact “purselet” (nothing that small should have the full designation).  It was a thing of beauty, light as a feather and perfectly organized, and it threw the next day into chaos.  While my trusty purse was right in the corner, the tiny black bag and its key contents were not.  I embarked on a longer and more far-reaching search than normal, even retracing my previous day.  Finally I found it in the house.  I promptly stripped the usurper of its contents and short-lived “in use” status.  It now sits on that shelf in my closet that houses other abandoned accessories.  Forget tiny; I’m a big girl.

It never ceases to amaze me how a single decision can set you on a totally different path.  It’s like those decision trees, go off to the right and the options opened up are totally different from those if you had stayed on your current track.  It’s difficult to see all that is opening up before you when you decide to take those risks — usually you are only seeing one or two steps ahead, but looking back, it all becomes clear.  We wouldn’t be where we are right now if it hadn’t been for that one pivotal decision to say “yes” and veer off the safe and wide avenue to a curving narrow side street labeled “Turkey” (an apt analogy you will find).  Our two years in Turkey were an experience I will always treasure, but it certainly didn’t start out that way.  If you’d like to go along with us on that journey, start with “Strangers in a Strange Land”, Part I, under the new category of “My Air Force Life” (where I’ve also put my previous series, “Suzanne Joins the Air Force” and “How the Binary Theory Saved My Life”).  Is your passport ready?

Those of you who live in our area understand the vagaries of our local weather (I know every locale claims the most variable of climes, but the Midwest is its own entity).  We’ve had more than our share of unstable storm systems spewing out incredible energy in the form of lightning, thunder, winds, hail, and the dreaded tornado.  Last night was memorable; we watched the television screen in rapt attention as Technicolor bands marched across the area, undulating with barely suppressed rage.  Tornadoes touched down mere miles from our house, and I swore I could feel the static electricity in the air.  As was inevitable, we heard our local warning siren faintly wailing through the rushing wind.  It was time to leave the comfort of our first floor family room and venture down into the cluttered wilderness that is our basement.  The area we have staked out is behind our furnace, about 10 feet from a set of double steel doors leading to our backyard.  There, tucked among packing boxes and various odds and ends are an old patio lounger and the poor rocking chair that I mercilessly sponge painted in shades of pink and green many years ago.  My husband and I corral our two cowardly dogs and head to the basement stairs.  What I find interesting are the items I need to take with me in order to feel relatively secure.  First, I grab my purse, then my violin, followed by a laptop computer to hopefully keep us connected to the outside world.   When I think about it, these items represent a tiny part of what we possess.  Sitting in the mostly dark basement, listening to the sharp sound of hail against the metal doors, with my husband next to me and the dogs intertwined under our feet, I don’t feel worried.  I have what I need.

As a woman, not to mention, mother, wife, and sister, I am the fount of wisdom and knowledge.  Combined with my talent for managing other people’s lives much more effectively than my own, I offer only the best guidance and advice.  Presented with any sign of distress or disruption, I have beautiful words and encouragement designed to be the perfect balm.

Yesterday, my husband and I traveled to see our youngest, a college senior in the midst of wrapping up four years of a dizzying schedule, juggling a part-time job, full-time school, and her creative passion as a key member of a drama troupe on campus.  She is not yet sure of what she wants to do after graduation and has yet to mount a full-time job search.  As her parents, and with my background as a job search coach, we have been maintaining a mental list of what she needs to do, including following up on some interests she has already expressed.  Of course, it wasn’t long before we decided to give her the significant benefit of our experience and insight into her situation.  Everything we said was absolutely true, and dead wrong.

“Don’t take this badly, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” she said simply.

Normally, I would take this as a sign of my sweet hard-headed baby being obstinate, but something gave me pause.  She was absolutely right.  This was not the time.  She already knew everything we were going to point out, but she had other fish to fry.  What she needed was our vote of confidence and conversation without agenda – a break from her “to do” list, not adding more to it.

Somehow, it reminded me of the time many years ago when I was dispensing my profound wisdom to a roommate with a broken heart.  I expected her gratitude for my caring enough to offer support.  Instead, I heard “Shut up Suzanne.”   Her words, much more effective than my own, accomplished the desired result.  It was not unkind, just the truth.   It was her time to grieve; she had not asked for my advice.

So here’s my best unsolicited advice for you (and me) – when you’re tempted to weigh in on a situation, ask yourself what that person really needs from you.  Sometimes, silence is golden.

I recently returned from a brief trip to my old stomping grounds of New England, an area I think of with great nostalgia.  It is beautiful, replete with tall pines, rolling landscape, and picturesque streams, lakes, and the vast Atlantic.  Spring had not yet taken hold — the trees were still bare, the grass drained of life.  Patches of snow still lingered, a thin rime of ice clinging to the ponds and lakes.  I came home to our flat Midwest landscape to find an explosion of spring — everything is in leaf, from the battered coral bells (our dog’s favorite chew toy) to our lilac bushes.  Even the weeds have pushed through the bare ground with something akin to joy.

“Spring”  evokes so many meanings — elasticity, origin, rebirth, “to rise up”.  It is the fulfillment of a promise that life and beauty will be ours to enjoy again, that what is seemingly lifeless will be reanimated under God’s plan of renewal.  That includes that tree in our front yard, the one that I’ve hated for years, but is still there despite my intentions to root it out.  To read why, check out “The Tree” under “Recent Musings” and find out how I learned  to truly see something, it’s not enough to rely on my own vision.

One way to approach the spring cleaning challenge.

Spring is inevitable.  Despite  fluctuating temperatures, the signs are all around – budding trees, greening grass, that light that seems to bring everything into sharper focus, including the cobwebs on our shutters and the streaks of dirt on the windows.  Looking out on our wrap-around porch with some anticipation, I couldn’t help but notice that the porch pillars were a strange shade of gray rather than beige.  Yep, it’s spring, when thoughts turn to …dirt and clutter.

Some people love the invigorating process of reclaiming their space and cleaning the dickens out of it as the months grow sweet and warm.  I have to admit that I’m not one of them.  It’s not that I wouldn’t love a home that is only filled with essentials, perfectly ordered.  The reality is a little different.  On the surface, our home looks passably neat, but woe to the person that has the temerity to open a drawer or closet (if they can successfully accomplish even that feat).  My hidden areas are jumbles of chaotic contents that defy organization.   Occasionally, I labor over an area and reap the benefits for a few weeks before the inevitable clutter creep.

Maybe I need to think bigger; what happens in my drawers plays out in epic proportions in our basement.  Years of military moves, packing, and storing excess has exploded, as we were forced to take delivery of multiple lots that were the result of sequential shedding as we moved from a rental home to a small base house, then to language school for a year and finally to Turkey.  I have to say I was thrilled with being down to a quarter of our stuff while we were overseas, but seriously depressed when the process reversed itself

In all of this, I do have one bright memory in my long thankless battle with clutter, the week I actually rented a dumpster.  When we left our rental home to move to a small house on base, we traded in a two car garage for a one car carport.  The problem was that our two car garage didn’t house a single automobile, but was filled to the gills with the stuff that didn’t fit into our rather large home.  It was so bad that I admonished my husband and children for even opening the garage door, not willing to expose our excess to the neighbors.  Unfortunately, much of it wasn’t even charity worthy, but nicely qualified as trash.  I had seen dumpsters at offices and construction areas, why not?  Finding the cost reasonable enough, I had our trash company deliver a small dumpster to our driveway one spring morning.  It seemed huge; there was no way we would fill it.  The first object sacrificed to its cavernous hull was a broken sun umbrella; it landed with a loud echoing thud.  The next offerings were tentative; a little here and a little there.  I began to warm to the process.  Pretty soon, the contents of our garage were transferring rapidly to the blue metal container.  With every deposit, I could feel myself growing lighter.  By the time the three days were up, I had filled it to the brim and was still trying to fit more into every nook and cranny.  On schedule, the company took it and the contents we had eagerly contributed away.  It was a beautiful spring day.  I could hear the birds singing.