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ONE simple question no. 3

One simple question button

I have a lot I need to get done, which subsequently always seems to lead to some sort of procrastination. Tonight it took the form of blog-fussing and the creation of this little button. It's because I really love these simple questions I've been posing to all of you lately. The one of about the library and what methods you use to avoid fines and overdue charges was full of great ideas and advice. (as well as a few of you who commiserated with my "issues".) And I thought it was fascinating to read all of the different approaches to, and styles of family dinners.

slowing down the evening

Tonight, Dan was reading a bedtime story to the girls and I headed outside, just as it was getting dark, to lock the chickens in their coop. We've been trying to get out to them a little earlier these nights because we are getting a little suspicious that there might be some fox activity around here. Last night, we lost a whole nest of eggs that our one female guinea had been sitting on, and then, well….there's Rosie.

After I locked in the chickens, I took the long way home, walking around the back field with a trail of cats and dog bounding along behind me, listening to how deafening the peepers are getting, and straining to recognize the last few birds that were singing in the sycamore trees.

It was a much-needed time for me. I needed to get away for a few moments. Step back.

Tonight, as I often do, I was feeling the press of time on my shoulders. Feeling like our evening was slipping away too quickly. That by the time we were finished at the dinner table, I was already feeling like we were running late for bedtime and stories, and out of time for my planned baths for the girls.

During the work week, Dan gets home at 6:15, (on a good night) and we quickly sit down to dinner. Before we know it we're shuffling the girls upstairs for pajamas, tooth-brushing and stories. And sometimes, it all feels like it's happening too quickly.

So here's my (not so) simple question for all of you:  How do you slow down and savor your evening family time? How do you keep things from feeling rushed? Do you organize or plan your evenings to make more time for enjoying each other?

I really enjoy hearing from all of you and interacting with you through
these questions. I hope you are enjoying hearing from each other and
learning from each other, as much as I am.

One simple question button

I have a lot I need to get done, which subsequently always seems to lead to some sort of procrastination. Tonight it took the form of blog-fussing and the creation of this little button. It's because I really love these simple questions I've been posing to all of you lately. The one of about the library and what methods you use to avoid fines and overdue charges was full of great ideas and advice. (as well as a few of you who commiserated with my "issues".) And I thought it was fascinating to read all of the different approaches to, and styles of family dinners.

slowing down the evening

Tonight, Dan was reading a bedtime story to the girls and I headed outside, just as it was getting dark, to lock the chickens in their coop. We've been trying to get out to them a little earlier these nights because we are getting a little suspicious that there might be some fox activity around here. Last night, we lost a whole nest of eggs that our one female guinea had been sitting on, and then, well….there's Rosie.

After I locked in the chickens, I took the long way home, walking around the back field with a trail of cats and dog bounding along behind me, listening to how deafening the peepers are getting, and straining to recognize the last few birds that were singing in the sycamore trees.

It was a much-needed time for me. I needed to get away for a few moments. Step back.

Tonight, as I often do, I was feeling the press of time on my shoulders. Feeling like our evening was slipping away too quickly. That by the time we were finished at the dinner table, I was already feeling like we were running late for bedtime and stories, and out of time for my planned baths for the girls.

During the work week, Dan gets home at 6:15, (on a good night) and we quickly sit down to dinner. Before we know it we're shuffling the girls upstairs for pajamas, tooth-brushing and stories. And sometimes, it all feels like it's happening too quickly.

So here's my (not so) simple question for all of you:  How do you slow down and savor your evening family time? How do you keep things from feeling rushed? Do you organize or plan your evenings to make more time for enjoying each other?

I really enjoy hearing from all of you and interacting with you through
these questions. I hope you are enjoying hearing from each other and
learning from each other, as much as I am.

67 Comments
animal kingdom / DAILY FARM LIFE

loss, love and miracles

As if we didn't have enough sadness to deal with last week, the girls and I were faced with the strange disappearance of one of our beloved cats, Rosie. Most of you will probably recognize Rosie as the "upside down cat". She was a total sweetheart. The kind of cat you're constantly tripping over as she flops her body down in your path hoping for a rub of the belly or a scratch behind the ears. And she put up with all kinds of loving "abuse" from the girls.

At first, we thought she'd disappeared to have her babies. But I still remained suspicious, knowing it was about two weeks too soon for her to be due. Emma wandered the yard every morning and every evening calling for her. It was heartbreaking. She didn't understand why Rosie would disappear for so long because she always showed up when it was time to eat.

After being gone for two days, I decided it was time for me to check along the roadside and this time when I did, I found the grass littered with clumps of her fur. I can only imagine that she must have gotten carried away by something in the night.

I've been gently trying to warm Emma up to the idea that Rosie might be gone for good. And she's finally embraced the fact that she's not coming back.

loss love and miracles

Though the heartbreak is difficult, I believe these times of loss teach my children a lot. I truly believe they've been able to process and talk with me freely about the death of their great-grandmother because they've experienced death in other forms, since we've lived on the farm. Though no animal is as dear to their heart as my grandmother, I still believe these times have been used for their growth and understanding.

loss, love and miracles

Meanwhile, by the sweet grace of God, there was a kitten in this newest litter of Black Walnut's that is the spitting image of Rosie. It really is miraculous because Black Walnut is, well…black. And the father was a solid, dark grey cat. But somehow in a litter of all black kittens and one grey kitten, there emerged a striped cat, just like Rosie.

I told Emma she could keep her. And Emma's pouring all her energy and love for Rosie, into the new little Rosie.

As if we didn't have enough sadness to deal with last week, the girls and I were faced with the strange disappearance of one of our beloved cats, Rosie. Most of you will probably recognize Rosie as the "upside down cat". She was a total sweetheart. The kind of cat you're constantly tripping over as she flops her body down in your path hoping for a rub of the belly or a scratch behind the ears. And she put up with all kinds of loving "abuse" from the girls.

At first, we thought she'd disappeared to have her babies. But I still remained suspicious, knowing it was about two weeks too soon for her to be due. Emma wandered the yard every morning and every evening calling for her. It was heartbreaking. She didn't understand why Rosie would disappear for so long because she always showed up when it was time to eat.

After being gone for two days, I decided it was time for me to check along the roadside and this time when I did, I found the grass littered with clumps of her fur. I can only imagine that she must have gotten carried away by something in the night.

I've been gently trying to warm Emma up to the idea that Rosie might be gone for good. And she's finally embraced the fact that she's not coming back.

loss love and miracles

Though the heartbreak is difficult, I believe these times of loss teach my children a lot. I truly believe they've been able to process and talk with me freely about the death of their great-grandmother because they've experienced death in other forms, since we've lived on the farm. Though no animal is as dear to their heart as my grandmother, I still believe these times have been used for their growth and understanding.

loss, love and miracles

Meanwhile, by the sweet grace of God, there was a kitten in this newest litter of Black Walnut's that is the spitting image of Rosie. It really is miraculous because Black Walnut is, well…black. And the father was a solid, dark grey cat. But somehow in a litter of all black kittens and one grey kitten, there emerged a striped cat, just like Rosie.

I told Emma she could keep her. And Emma's pouring all her energy and love for Rosie, into the new little Rosie.

28 Comments
family

grateful to the last

I haven't been sure if I was going to write this post. But tonight it feels right, sitting in a quiet house. Rain hitting the window behind the chair I'm sitting in. Dog sleeping soundly across my feet.

My grandmother died last Saturday. It happened very quickly. Which I know was merciful. Just days ago, on Elizabeth's birthday, we sat at the table and I listened as she sang her 'happy birthday'. I remember purposely not joining in, because I wanted to savor the moment. Her voice. Her joy. Her love for my sweet little Elizabeth.

grateful to the last

And I knew she wasn't doing well. But I still held out hope. She was this force in my life who I knew, deep down, wouldn't be there forever. But somewhere, this little child inside me wanted her to be and wouldn't acknowledge it being any other way.

Her passing truly marks the end of an era. Her influence reaches well beyond her fifteen children, her grandchildren, her great grand children and into neighbors, the community, the church, even lives in other parts of the world.

grateful to the last

I hold those two years we lived on her farm close to my heart. I find myself frantically searching my mind for memories, moments we shared. My family, my children became part of her routine–expected for lunch, Sunday dinner, the walk up to feed the kitties, the push-mowing of the driveway, the daily paper laid out beside the telephone.  Having us there became normal.

I learned her routine. If I didn't hear her pull out of the garage for Mass at 8:35, I'd make my way over to the house to find her, make sure everything was okay. If she wasn't home by 9:30, I'd know it was a grocery store day and I'd try my best to be home at 11:00–to help her carry bags into the house.

What I learned from her and what she taught me in those two years is endless and not easily put into words. Some of it is simple, some of it has become such a part of me now, I can't figure out when it wasn't there at all.

There are gifts that she gave to my children, that I hope I can continue to give them.

People ask me how I'm doing. I'm doing okay and I'm not doing okay. I feel blessed to have had my life become intertwined with hers for those two years. I feel blessed that I was able to help with her care, in her last days. That I was able to sing for her. And tell her that I loved her. And that she taught me so much. That I got to kiss her soft cheek many, many times. That I walked to her bedside one evening, and she looked up and said my name, the way she did every time I walked in the door to her kitchen.

I feel blessed.

That one day, we stood shoulder to shoulder and made granola at her counter.

That one day, she told me I was an amazing mother.

That one day, I listened to her tell someone else what wonderful children I have.

That one day, she told me how much she loved hearing me sing and play her piano.

That one day, she brought over six baby chicks in the back of her car and handed them to my little girls.

That one day, she stood against a fence post and watched my daughter ride.

That one day, she told me I was looking particularly lovely.

That one day, we sat on the edge of her bed and watched derby races.

That one day, we worked in her garden.

There were many, many days.

I feel blessed. I will miss her dearly. But I know we'll see each other again, in a much better place.

Until then, I'll see her in others, in her gardens, in my father, in my children, in myself.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“We measure time by its deaths, yes, and by its births. For time is told also by life. As some depart, others come. The hand opened in farewell remains open in welcome. I, who once had grandparents and parents, now have children and grandchildren. Like the flowing river that is yet always present, time that is always going is always coming. And time that is told by death and birth is held and redeemed by love, which is always present. Time, then is told by love’s losses, and by the coming of love, and by love continuing in gratitude for what is lost. It is folded and enfolded and unfolded forever and ever, the love by which the dead are alive and the unborn welcomed into the womb. The question for the old and the dying, I think, is not if they have loved and been loved enough, but if they have been grateful enough for love received and given, however much. No one who has gratitude is the onliest one. Let us pray to be grateful to the last.”

{Wendell Berry :: Andy Catlett}

I haven't been sure if I was going to write this post. But tonight it feels right, sitting in a quiet house. Rain hitting the window behind the chair I'm sitting in. Dog sleeping soundly across my feet.

My grandmother died last Saturday. It happened very quickly. Which I know was merciful. Just days ago, on Elizabeth's birthday, we sat at the table and I listened as she sang her 'happy birthday'. I remember purposely not joining in, because I wanted to savor the moment. Her voice. Her joy. Her love for my sweet little Elizabeth.

grateful to the last

And I knew she wasn't doing well. But I still held out hope. She was this force in my life who I knew, deep down, wouldn't be there forever. But somewhere, this little child inside me wanted her to be and wouldn't acknowledge it being any other way.

Her passing truly marks the end of an era. Her influence reaches well beyond her fifteen children, her grandchildren, her great grand children and into neighbors, the community, the church, even lives in other parts of the world.

grateful to the last

I hold those two years we lived on her farm close to my heart. I find myself frantically searching my mind for memories, moments we shared. My family, my children became part of her routine–expected for lunch, Sunday dinner, the walk up to feed the kitties, the push-mowing of the driveway, the daily paper laid out beside the telephone.  Having us there became normal.

I learned her routine. If I didn't hear her pull out of the garage for Mass at 8:35, I'd make my way over to the house to find her, make sure everything was okay. If she wasn't home by 9:30, I'd know it was a grocery store day and I'd try my best to be home at 11:00–to help her carry bags into the house.

What I learned from her and what she taught me in those two years is endless and not easily put into words. Some of it is simple, some of it has become such a part of me now, I can't figure out when it wasn't there at all.

There are gifts that she gave to my children, that I hope I can continue to give them.

People ask me how I'm doing. I'm doing okay and I'm not doing okay. I feel blessed to have had my life become intertwined with hers for those two years. I feel blessed that I was able to help with her care, in her last days. That I was able to sing for her. And tell her that I loved her. And that she taught me so much. That I got to kiss her soft cheek many, many times. That I walked to her bedside one evening, and she looked up and said my name, the way she did every time I walked in the door to her kitchen.

I feel blessed.

That one day, we stood shoulder to shoulder and made granola at her counter.

That one day, she told me I was an amazing mother.

That one day, I listened to her tell someone else what wonderful children I have.

That one day, she told me how much she loved hearing me sing and play her piano.

That one day, she brought over six baby chicks in the back of her car and handed them to my little girls.

That one day, she stood against a fence post and watched my daughter ride.

That one day, she told me I was looking particularly lovely.

That one day, we sat on the edge of her bed and watched derby races.

That one day, we worked in her garden.

There were many, many days.

I feel blessed. I will miss her dearly. But I know we'll see each other again, in a much better place.

Until then, I'll see her in others, in her gardens, in my father, in my children, in myself.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“We measure time by its deaths, yes, and by its births. For time is told also by life. As some depart, others come. The hand opened in farewell remains open in welcome. I, who once had grandparents and parents, now have children and grandchildren. Like the flowing river that is yet always present, time that is always going is always coming. And time that is told by death and birth is held and redeemed by love, which is always present. Time, then is told by love’s losses, and by the coming of love, and by love continuing in gratitude for what is lost. It is folded and enfolded and unfolded forever and ever, the love by which the dead are alive and the unborn welcomed into the womb. The question for the old and the dying, I think, is not if they have loved and been loved enough, but if they have been grateful enough for love received and given, however much. No one who has gratitude is the onliest one. Let us pray to be grateful to the last.”

{Wendell Berry :: Andy Catlett}

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