Looking at the moon

I can see the lunar eclipse from my balcony tonight. The bright part of the blood moon is just a fingernail sliver against a brown circle in the dark sky. It’s not all that dark even, because I live in a city now. But it’s clearly visible. Palladium windows alight in neighboring apartments echo the theme of partial circles.

Listen – is that chirping crickets or something that sounds like them? Traffic noise pulses too – or is that my own pulse in my ears?

Snips of muffled conversations drift up from the apartment above me, no real words but clearly human. Are they looking outside from time to time too? Are children being allowed to stay up later than normal on this school night so they can see the eclipse for themselves? Are parents explaining to them how it works? Perfect learning opportunities happen sometimes in pajamas. Not just something in a book, but real life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love books. I learn voraciously from books. But I’ve been reading a lot lately about the damage to children, in their learning and physical health and emotional wellbeing, because they are so totally scheduled and supervised that they have no time to just play and learn from the real world. Ho did we come to not understand this in our guts?

Yeah, I realize that most kids today are so conditioned to fast movement and electronics that their attention spans probably don’t last through an eclipse. Heck, I’m not sitting out there watching the whole thing. But bravo to any parent who is at least letting their children stay up to have a look at it and hopefully even enjoying it with them.

Of course this requires looking away from TV and all other devices. Ah, well, one can hope.

I have moved. I am in a new place in a different state. With the help of family — this move brought me closer to my children — and friends, moving out of my house and into an apartment happened remarkably smoothly, for which I’m grateful.

Paper clutter is still my bane, and even after clearing out before the move, some followed me and now must be disposed of or kept. . . somewhere. One piece is a printout called “How to Build Community” that I found online several years ago. How fitting. I need these suggestions as I settle in to a new location. Maybe they’ll benefit you or your community as well. Here it is. You’re welcome.And now I can throw the paper one away.

I still miss my mom most of the time. My grandmothers too. My female heritage is strong. Not flashy, not radical, not even feminist. But strong. As in hardy, hearty, use your brain and use your body, can the green beans and peaches, save nickels to buy a hot water heater, come home from work and put on an apron, drill your daughter on state capitals while you iron, read classic kiddy lit to the kiddies at lunch time, trust in God, keep going when life gets hard, because it will and it does and it did.

My dad’s mother lived with us all the time I was growing up. Every Saturday before Mother’s Day, Dad would bring home corsages for Mom and Grandma to wear to church the next day and put them in the refrigerator in their little cellophane bags. Red flowers for Mom because her mother was living. White flowers for Grandma because her mother was not. That tradition has not continued, but today I decided to buy myself a white flower.

I’m a mom and a grandmom myself. I live a thousand miles away from my family, so on Mother’s Day I miss all the people I’m connected to mother-wise. I will get to see them all soon, though, so I focus on that. I ask myself how my children and grandchildren will view me, what legacy they will feel they received, what memories they will have of me when it’s their turn to get the white flowers.

Today, it is for me to live as true to myself and to God as I can, to love my dear ones and others as best I can, to invest myself in living out grace and justice and mercy the best I can, and leave the question of legacy to the future. That’s what Mom and the Grandmothers did. So, onward.

To my kiddos and grandkiddos, to the other younger adults/families who seem to like to hang out with me and treat me like family, to Mom and the Grandmothers — I love you all and I’m thankful for you.

Almost 3 weeks into my month without wheat or sugar. Have I had slip-ups? Sure.

First there was Easter. What are you going to do when there is strawberry mango pie? I figured it was a feast day and enjoyed it thoroughly. Then some little things like the tapioca pudding in the box lunch at a workshop I went to, and the breading on the chicken in my salad Saturday. On purpose I put wheat bran in the granola I made Sunday.

The chocolate covered dried cherries did me in, although I stretched them out just a few a day. Two Saturdays ago a couple of us were working on a very stressful project at work, and when someone offered to get a pizza, I was in. There were also fun-sized dark-chocolate Mounds bars. On the plus side, I’m allowing maple syrup to replace sugar, in the granola and in my homemade plain yogurt.

Fresh fruit dipped in yogurt is just as good and better for me than that caramel apple dip. I could eat sweet potato wedges coated in olive oil, mustard, and spices, and roasted, every day, but I won’t. The chicken soup thick with veggies I made tonight is pretty darn good and will carry me through several days. A breakfast of an egg, leftover brown rice, and an orange is pretty good. I don’t have to have toast.

Am I feeling better? I think so. I am noticing that when I indulge in candy or pie, I feel sluggish. Can’t afford that. Also my gut is happier without the wheat.

On the spiritual side, I had envisioned myself deep in study of scriptures about bread and the sweetness of God’s love. Must say that has not been the case as much as I thought. And yet it does feel like God is moving in me and for me. I’m just too tired tonight to tie it to my food fast in some deep and meaningful way. So I’ll take it by faith and go to bed.

I’m trying an experiment. It’s inspired by Jen Hatmaker’s book, 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess, in which she chronicles her journey of a different kind of fast for each of seven months. Why would she do such a thing? Isn’t that kinda crazy and extreme? She writes that her decision came out of the question, ” Where have I substituted The American Dream for God’s kingdom?” Her plan for 7 was to be “an exercise in simplicity with one goal: to create space for God’s kingdom to break through.”

Now, in many respects I’m already Ms. Simple. Some of Jen’s fasts wouldn’t make sense for me. Clothes, for instance. She writes about how appalled she was when she actually inventoried her wardrobe and was faced with how obscenely abundant her clothing options and therefore her clothing spending were. I, on the other hand, for example own three pair of jeans: one paint-spattered and holey, one blue denim, and one black denim. I’m still wearing my husband’s black socks to work, and he died six years ago. Hey, they’re warm, have worn like iron, and mostly don’t show under my slacks. No, they don’t work with dress shoes, but I barely ever wear dress shoes. Bunions and hammer toes are not welcome in my life. Just sayin’.

But going on this kind of a journey, opening up space for growth and movement with God, really appeals to me. Maybe my frugal nature will mean that my discipline somewhere along the way will be to add something instead of taking it away. I don’t have it all figured out yet. But I’m starting with food.

Jen carefully chose seven whole foods to limit herself to for a month. I already eat very little processed food and meat, enjoy lots of fruits and vegetables, and major on whole grains instead of highly refined. My goal will be to go without wheat or sugar this month. April 1 was the first day, and my first challenge came within hours, when my colleague Sean delivered to my desk the bag of dark-chocolate covered dried cherries I’d ordered maybe a month ago from his daughter’s high school band fundraiser and then forgotten about. “After this,” I told myself, and opened the bag. So good. I’ve had some each day. Until today. Because I felt so sluggish yesterday after I indulged in some. So they’re going away. Then my dear friend/cousin/soul-sister Becky and I decided to share Easter dinner, and the first thing out of my mouth was “Let’s just order pizza.” As good as that sounds, we’ve made a different plan. My part is to bring broccoli salad from the deli. It probably has sugar in the dressing. I’m at peace with that. it’s Easter after all.

Along with the dietary change, I want to see what exploring the concepts of bread, wheat, and sweetness, metaphorically speaking, reveals to me.

Today I read Psalm 81 because my concordance told me it has a reference to wheat in it. Just starting simple, you see. And by golly, it speaks to sweetness too. Sweet music, specifically, expressing joy and praise. So hmm, what if when I get the urge for chocolate or pie, I at least turn on music or better yet make some? Take a joy break? Consider the sweetness of God’s love for me?

Further in the psalm God says he desires to feed his people with the finest of wheat. That set me to wondering what the finest of wheat was in Biblical times. Thank you, Google, for filling me in. Given how different modern wheat is from ancient grains and how it’s prepared now, it makes sense that the vast majority of the types of carbs we eat have such an adverse affect on our health. We are settling for dust — too often contaminated dust at that.

I’m also on a quest to find raw, unfiltered, local honey.

I hope you’ll read Jen’s book, but be warned, it could shake you up. And that’s a good thing.

I’ll let you know how this goes.

‘Tis the Season

I’m thankful today for:

Spring air and birdsong and the sight of grass again.

Music and space at my house to move around to it. Raises my spirits every time. Why don’t I remember to do this every day?

Ingredients for granola, an oven to make it in, and the snacking all weekend on it. It’s not just for breakfast, you know.

Paint left over from an earlier project in a color that worked for the wall in the guest bedroom that had to be patched. Looks pretty good if I do say so.

God communicating to me through a constellation of scripture and current authors, stirring my heart about justice and mercy, hope in the face of despair. Love and grace win, and I’m entrusted to live that out. Excited to see what all that means in the future.

Rebirth. Refreshing. Awakening. ‘Tis the season. Bring it on.


I like the actual physical act of writing with a pen, if it’s a decent pen. And I keep a journal in addition to blogging. As I’ve been writing with a fountain pen in my journal, I’ve noticed something interesting. I’m observing the right margin again. See, for years I’ve ignored it in the interest of making the book last longer. Ever the good steward, that’s me. Thrifty. Don’t waste paper and all that. But fountain pen writing slows me down, and the look of the page seems to matter more. Why is this?

Margins set off the words like matting sets off the picture in a frame. Is it that the act of writing with actual ink awakens the artist? I wonder.

I’ve been pondering those margins. Too much of my life is running clear to the edge, ignoring the need for margins. Hence life lacks a certain attractiveness and I crave beauty. Too much is crammed onto each line, or into each day, and I feel mentally messy and chaotic and exhausted. Burnout is a lack of white space.

Good steward, did I say? Hmm, maybe of paper. But not so much of myself. Which is more valuable? (That’s a rhetorical question, just to be perfectly clear.) Will I ever finish learning that lesson?

There is something to be said for living full out. I have written many times in my journal that that is my desire, made it my prayer. And yet. I must also create new margins in my life and rediscover the beauty of old ones in order to sustain a full out life.

in The Way We’re Working Isn’t Working, Tony Schwartz has written that we are made to pulse, not to run continuously like machines. Full out, then rest and play. Repeat.

Sounds like margins to me.


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