Beauty (Enough)

"We need beauty because it makes us ache to be worthy of it." --Mary Oliver

Lewis Carroll once wrote about thinking seven impossible things before breakfast (in Alice in Wonderland, of course) I have been thinking lately about seven beautiful things with breakfast.  Since my mornings have been slow and reflective, I find I have different eyes to see what is all ready around me.  I have learned: the thing about beauty is not just in the eyes of the beholder, but also in the experience of the beholding. It is not just a thing, not something beyond the self, it is a kind of noticing, appreciating and praying.  Beauty and noticing it is as much of a practice as chewing or breathing-- though I suppose its a bit of both those things.  You don't notice mostly how you're chewing or how you're breathing, it's just a doing.  Could Beauty-breathing-chewing-noticing be the same?

Seven beautiful things while breakfast:

• Zinnias in a mason jar, cut from an abundant garden after a lovely dinner.  With scissors in hand, mud still on the blades, I waded through the newly dewed grass in the gathering dusk to pick from among a hedge of beauty just enough blossoms for two jars.  To look at them now reminds me of the gorgeousness of that evening.  And also of a day about a year ago now, when zinnias in mason jars were on vintage table cloths, friends and family gathered as I married Darling Husband.  The bright blossoms exhuberating a joy of a year, and a joy in beginning new.
• The smorgasbord of flavors in today's morning coffee.  Having just run out of usual beans, we supplemented with the flavored coffee (not usually my thing) gifted to us last Christmas, plus some grounds "borrowed" from the church kitchen next door.  On first sip, it was strong enough to chew and explosive in Frankenstein-ish flavors.  An interesting delight in making due.
• A bowl of very ripe tomatoes.  Which I normally would not eat, being squishy in consistency, they are lovely to behold.  This morning I see possibility and confidence in new skills.  Maybe I could make and can them to be salsa or spaghetti sauce.  Possibility is a beauty to behold.
• A new day of sunshine glowing golden on the trees in my backyard.
• The rumble of nerves in my stomach in facing new challenges-- today an undertaking of work in a new setting, caring for kids in their daily in between: school and home life.  Beauty in accompany and anticipated play.  I hope they like me.
• My father's birthday celebrated just yesterday.  A beautiful thing to be 60 years and one day.
• The blossoming capacity to see graces of beauty in this day.  (Which is sort of cheating, but the practice itself is a noble and worthwhile enough to hold beauty of its own)

Could you name seven?  May your mornings, noons, afternoons, and evenings be full to the noticing of beauty abundant.  Be very well, friends.
 

Day in the Life of an Emerging Prairie Woman

For the first time ever I was asked, "Do you work outside the home?" Having never planned to be a house-worker and finding this only as a default setting-- I wasn't sure how to answer such a question. I wanted to answer, "Not on purpose," but thought it impertinent.  But it brought on a question about how to best notice the beauty in my in-between time. Gentle readers, here is what my between work-working looks like in our new North Dakota home, I present a day in the life of an emerging prairie woman.

Here's where the day begins.  I have been waking up with Darling Husband as he gets ready for his day.  There is some talking, but there is mostly coffee and gentle tip-tapping.  He for emails, me (guilty) cruising the pins on Pinterest.  We conspire about our days ahead: we set goals, we make plans, we slowly work to make this new place feel like home.

For this day it is laundry.  Which is a bit of a trick since our laundry room is not yet assembled.  It means a walk down the street to the laundromat where I read National Geographic as the clothes spin in avocado green machines.  I put the prairie summer sunshine to work with me as I hang the clothes on the line.  When I step back to look at our work, I think the hanging clothes look very much like prayer flags.  I begin to bless, thank, and pray as I pin each one.  "Thank you sunshine for your help.  Thank you kind prairie winds." "Bless this shirt to shield my shoulders."  "Thank you for this dress, and the chance to bless wedding love when I wore it last."  "Thank you for the grace of clean clothes ready to begin again."
 
For this day it is also new skills.  Every prairie woman must know how to can the goodness and bounty of their garden, and so I am determined to learn.  I use my sister's recipe, shared through my mother, as explained to me by Darling Husband; for Dilly Beans. These are delectable: crisp and crunchy, both slightly sweet and spicy. Since we moved just this summer, we do not yet have a garden to produce such goodness.  Luckily our neighbors have some to share.  They are anxious to welcome in the form of vegetables, still warm from the sun.  I dance round the kitchen as the beans pickle and seal in their new homes, and I dance with gratitude for free gifts graciously given.  I think of ways to share the pickled bounty forward still-- I envision potlucks or dinner parties, good conversations or giving jars back to those who first gave us the beans.  In simple things, I have been graced and blessed. 

A day full of simple things, really.  Simple and beautiful things.  Gracious and free things ready to give and give again.  Thanks be for the summer to work, the prairie sun to join, and the Creator who makes it shine. 

Joys of Moving. Or the Tragedy of not being able to locate the Coffee Mugs.

Oh if I had a dollar for all the times I have uttered: "It's in a box somewhere."...

My Darling Husband has been ordained.  Together we have embarked on a new adventure: living and thriving in rural North Dakota.  We now live in a community of 250, and we are their newest plus 2.

I am sure, gentle readers, that our new small town and our living here will be the subject of many blog postings to come.  For now, a couple of thoughts about relocation.

Generally, I hate it.

Or, more positively, it's not my favorite thing.  My family moved often when I was a kid, and "it's in a box somewhere" might just have to appear on my family crest.  Every time I utter it now, I still shudder with the chill of uprooted-ness.  I like feeling rooted, settled, and comfortable.  I am trying, with my Darling Husband's urging, to embrace the gypsy-spirit of moving.  He craves the newness and the stacked boxes do not seem to faze him.  Each box still packed gives me a queasy, anxious feeling as if their fullness might devour me.

I am trying.  And I am finding small ways to make myself more comfortable.  Like packing the coffee- pot and bean-grinder along for one of our first trips to our new house.  They were like a familiar friend sitting next to me on the seat, enjoying with me the sunflower streaked roads which wound round to our new home.

Now if only I could locate my coffee cups.