On Unplugging

Most of my blog posts are written alongside a clothesline.

Maybe it's the soft, sweet breeze,

Or the moments of solitude,

Or the deliberate, methodical act of placing of clothes and pins that refuses to be rushed that gives time and makes space for thoughts to blend and meld and make music worth sharing.

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My sister told me a few days back about this game on Facebook called "FarmTown". In this game you grow crops, harvest crops, earn money. Online.

I have not signed up (she and I laugh, I have my own crops to harvest). Although, it should be noted that I have yet to harvest potatoes after one day, nor have they ever brought me monetary gain. (So maybe I'm playing the wrong game?)

I hear about a game such as this and I can barely help but shake my head at how disconnected we become from real life. Not because anyone playing really thinks it takes a few hours to raise crops, but that it becomes more important than those things happening outside the screen.

And I shake my head, but in some ways, some days, I find myself guilty of just such misplaced affections. My relationships are buoyed not by heart to heart talks, but by sentence-long updates. My plans for being a better mom are delayed by the desire to read more ideas on being a better mom. The fountain of overflowing knowledge is delightful, and also quite distracting.

Delightful in that it creates community that I never knew could exist- kindred spirits hundreds of miles away. Delightful in that I have found inspiration and mentoring for those roles in which I long to excel. Some of those ideas are, well, amazing. And of course, delightful in that it does pull me closer to those I love who are so far away.

And yet distracting in that it is never-ending. It pulls on my brain throughout the day; I long to be here, learning and gleaning, instead of out there- living and being.

And so my real life crops over-ripen in the fields and my kids feel second to this little box and I am off-kilter and know it.

So...because it's nearly fall, with visitors and harvest and a myriad of projects to complete before snow flies...

And because I have a list a mile long of things that I want to do and be (that involve real -life action)

I'm taking a vacation from the Internet...to spend more time out by the swing, and in the sprinkler, and in front of the sewing machine, and curled up with a laundry-basket of library books and two sun-weary, dirt-laden boys ready for adventure of another kind.

I long to make that clothesline-like space in more places in my life, allowing quiet so that thoughts can meld into things worth sharing.

Jess from Making Home decided to take a similar net-break earlier this summer, and for her reasoning, she mentioned that she desired to "neither overestimate the importance of online activities, nor underestimate the resources, wisdom, and camaraderie available here...Time away helps me to rightly value what's here, and rightly value what's NOT here."

May we always try and keep that perspective.

What would you do without the pull of media? What would that quiet space allow in your life- just for a week or two?

(And of course, though I will not have the Internet in my house for a few weeks, I will still check on emails at the library once a week or so...so if you comment, know that I will get it, it just might take me a few days to respond.)

The Making of Memories

This morning Phil stated looking back at some of our old posts here. Oh, the trips down memory lane! Though I have always used this blog as a way to connect with people back in Washington, the secondary reasons of chronicling our lives here has always been a side-benefit I could look forward to.
But what a journey to recall where we have been. We read this, which was my first post on this blog. And marvelled at this, our three year old back when he was only one. We remembered crock-pot eating for three months and total room transformations. Traveling down memory lane we laughed at Millie, our large, bossy two year old sheep when she was just a bottle lamb. All this and we were just scratching the surface.
This three year journey has been a wild one. And, truly, continues to be. What a gift to look back and reminisce. And, what encouragement to continue writing about this journey.

Morning

I am called.
It started out with one day.
David wakes up at 4am, body clock set specifically, and alarm unfailingly sounds. I am pulled, unwillingly at first, from deep sleep, wondering if it is possible that the time has actually come. Unsteadily and blurry-eyed I stumble to his room and comfort. He reaches those hands up, smiles through tears at my entrance, and his relief is palpable. He knew I would come. I always come. But still he rewards me with sweet thankfulness. And when he is calm, nourished, and tucked cozy under covers once again, I, instead of scurrying back to my own bed, slip downstairs.
The house is still dark, silent except for the steady hum of the furnace, warming the house. Though my body is still tired, my mind still in a haze, I push the button on the coffee maker and promise myself hot, creamy coffee. The house has chilled a bit, the fire burning through the night but having to battle against much stronger winds and colder temperatures. I walk down the back steps and push open the door into the breezeway- cold, dark, and silent, and sneak a few pieces of wood from the wheelbarrow-full from last night’s trip to the wood pile. I walk stocking-footed down to the furnace and open to see the warm bed of coals within. Always replenishing- the hallmark of winter in this house is the steady tending of home fires, the stitching hemming in our days, calling us always back home.
The furnace is large and forgiving: the wood, piled haphazardly, will burn well despite my lack of fire-building expertise. I head back upstairs to fill my mug, the coffee now ready, and sit in dark, in silence. And here, unhurried by expectation or distraction,
I type. I write here, or email friends in far-off lands. And I read: read and reflect on thoughts which, when read with a backdrop of squeals and stories and climbing and crashing towers, are not fully or appropriately internalized. I sit and read and write and feel the slow rejuvenation of my soul, waking and rousing, ready to give for another day.
An hour, then another, pass quickly, and the sky in front of me starts to lighten; sweet hues of crimson blend with that dark of night. The world, like me, wakes slowly. First, the faint silhouettes of trees come into focus, a still painting. Then, a grove of trees beyond the next field, slowly, assuredly, darkness becomes light; the obscure comes into focus.
Still, I am in awe of a simple sunrise, stretching brilliance across the sky, bringing light into a world darkened for rest. In contrast to our light switch, it comes gently, slowly. It is intentional and gradual, this turning on of the light of the world. And I know, you scientists remind, it’s because the earth is turning…can one not be in awe, reminded of simply that?
And that sun: it always raises, always sets. How many generations has it seen? What fullness of life has lived out beneath its rays? What tragedy? Wars. Hunger. Laughter. Happiness. Grief. In this context, I can begin to grasp that life for us on earth is so fleeting and small. I am reminded of the vastness of eternity, and in contrast, the brevity of life; that each day is but a whisper in a grand, unending story: a tiny stroke of the brush on the world’s canvas. And yet, this life composed of a pearl-string of days is astoundingly precious.
But I digress.
I am thankful.
This morning, I am rewarded with a gift, both small and brilliant. I watch the world come alive again, and I am renewed.

The call of the ocean

Unfortunately, I fear, the desire to swim is unavoidable.
The bright morning sun streaming through my windows as the day dawns tries to lure me into cheerfulness. Come, it beckons, there is more today. Each day deserves your heart.
The warm, steaming, creamy coffee draws me close and comforts. Come, it says, take heart and renew your spirit.
Boys with light steps and rosy cheeks beckon me. Come, they say, build towers to the sky! Crash them down and build again and again! Create and dream with us!
Harvest time calls with its cozy hues. Come, it beckons, delight in the blessings bestowed! Bring thanksgiving for all you have been given!
And then, to overshadow all of those quiet, sweet voices, comes the loud crashes of ocean waves. Stay, it says, long for what cannot be. Wade in deep waters and let the ache wash over you. And that water, though warm and familiar, slows. Feet that were made to run freely are pulled down relentlessly by the strong ocean currents. I know this. Muscles, though toned and ready, burn under the force and resistance of the waves. The water wasn't made for running.

Come, they beckon. Come and live wholeheartedly! Rejuvenate and renew! Play, dream, and dance! Let gratefulness and gladness overflow!
I hear them loudly now, and I want to be there. But that water, oh, with its deep blue recesses and rolling waves that touch the horizon lures me. Stay...
But the chorus of quiet voices still sings. Come, they call to my heart, be with us! Come, they beckon from the grassy knoll above me, run unhindered the race set before you.
And I stand on that sandy shore, toes sinking slowly into the warm, silky sand. Tiny waves wash over my feet, waiting for my heart to decide. I hesitate, not fully ready to choose either path, as it will mean leaving the other behind.
In the rythym of it all, if I listen closely, another voice resonates.
Be still, he quiets my heart, once frantic for clear direction. For it is not from within you that you pull this strength you desire. This endurance comes from Me. Be still, set your heart with Me. Only then will you be able to run the race set before you.

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I have a story about a crazy/amazing chicken to share following this post. You will laugh. In the meantime, thank you for indulging me in these not-so-lighthearted posts- they are quite therapeutic for me.