Something I really, really need to keep saying these days

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love
Where there is injury, let me sow pardon
Where there is doubt, let me sow faith
Where there is despair, let me sow hope
Where there is darkness, let me sow light
And where there is sadness, let me sow joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand
To be loved, as to love.
For it is giving that we receive
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi

Scrape Her Off the Pavement, Lads!

Today is my sweet sister's birthday. Ten years ago today, we were on the lash in Galway city: my sister, our younger brother, and myself. On. The. LASH. It was raining, but not hard, and it was a weekend night anyhow, so nobody cared. We were dressed up, actual dresses, fancy looking shoes that weren't made for walking far in, sparkly purses, the lot. The theme for the evening, however, was 'Scrape Her Off the Pavement, Lads!' Didn't really match the outfits, did it? We shouted the theme as often as we could, and nobody paid attention, which is one of the best things about living in Ireland. Eventually, many pints in, my brother ran away from us towards the end of Cross Street and disappeared around the corner. He was fairly slippery, sneaking off when we were turned in the opposite direction. He didn't come back for a while, but when he did, he had a beer smirk on his face, cradling a paper tray full of chips and curry. Bastard. Then he shared. Ah, lovely brother. We perched on a shop window ledge next to half full pint glasses and ate. Messy and silly and carefree.

It was my last night out in Galway, really. My last night in Ireland before emigrating. Re-emigrating? De-emigrating? What is it when you move back to the place you were born, but you were born to an immigrant anyhow? The gray spaces are there, for sure. What I remember of that night is the laughter, the looseness of all of us, the rain falling on our faces and necks, strangely not cold for the north Atlantic, and the joy of shouting out into the street full of people out enjoying the misty summer night.

Now my sister is married, the mother of three teeny children with rosy cheeks and ready laughs. We never did have to scrape her off the pavement, even though that was the goal that night. It's probably for the best.

When your kid is sick, you will get sick.

This is us right now. Presenting at work? Terrible cough! Packing for a conference? Pink eye! Fingers crossed that thirteen days of a ridiculous, hanging-on, day after day, hack-up-a-tonsil cold paired with three, yes, three cases of pink eye is almost gone.

Having lived and worked in North Dakota for several years, missing consecutive days of work feels like a cardinal sin. This is a place where the ultimate compliment a person can receive is to be called 'a hard worker,' so missing work hints at a character flaw.

But really, what can you do? Spread the wealth and make everyone else miserable? That's not much of a character strength, in my opinion. So blankets, couch, medicine and tea it is.

Now go wash your hands, this post is probably contagious.

Shameful Saturday

There's nothing quite like waking up at 5 am, finding oneself still fully clothed in yesterday's work outfit, laying face to face with an infant. Oops, I did it again.

Also, if it's true that the state of your home is a reflection of your inner self, I'm the emotional equivalent of pile of junk mail and unfolded laundry, with baby toys and wet towels scattered around the perimeter.

That reminds me of a guided meditation we had to do in secondary school years ago. All of us gerruls jammed into the refrectory at the convent, a sea of green wool jumpers and knobbly knees. It was meant to be a treat - a break from the stress of exam prep. We were told to close our eyes and imagine ourselves walking in the woods. Along our way, we were told to find some kind of drinking container, and an animal. It was up to us to decide what those items looked like.

The drinking container I imagined was a partly-crushed plastic water bottle with dirt mushed into the creases, and I could see that there was some grit rattling around inside in the small amount of water that was left. I didn't imagine myself drinking from the bottle (would YOU?) The animal I pictured was a deer.  I didn't pet it because I could see that it had ticks crawling on its body. Realistic, right?

At the end, we were asked to share what we'd imagined. The other girls had not grown up in North Dakota. Irish-born, they had spent their childhoods frolicking on blue flag beaches and mixing with organic farmers from Germany, so they had imagined beautiful stone bowls and chalices filled with spring water, noble elk pausing in the distance or remarkably tame horses who came up for a nuzzle.

Heh. Cute. Then the home ec. teacher shared the meaning of our imagined objects. I think you know how this is going to go... The animal represented how one imagined oneself, and the drinking container was how one envisioned love.

Ah. Righteo, then.

With that, it's Saturday. The sun is shining, and the baby is yodeling at his father. Bring on the coffee!

a toddlery morning

I don't know that there's anything more joyful than running in a big field with a toddler. Little kids have the best grins, the biggest laughs, and the most willingness to have a rollicking fun time. And when they fall down, they laugh harder.

You can probably guess how I spent part of my morning. It was great.

Fall has been my favorite season for a long time, and being able to scamper outside through piles of leaves with a laughing munchkin makes it a zillion times better.

The crickets are singing.

The sound of crickets singing in the early evening is one of the most comforting things, like the smell of warmed honey or peony roses in summer. It's the sound of childhood nights: the window cracked open, a mercifully cool breeze finally starting to blow, clean feet tucked under the sheets, their day's worth of dust washed off in the old claw foot tub, and comic books pushed down the side of the mattress.

It's a sound I didn't hear for many years while living abroad. Another little thing in life to enjoy.

Goodbye, tree.

The box elder is coming down.

After a series of storms that have left its limbs broken, hanging and scraggly, the 50 foot box elder tree that hides between our garage and the neighbor's fence is coming down.

Sure, last year it dropped thousands of seeds all over our yard and clogged the gutters. Ok, the summer before that, it drew thousands of box elder bugs to our yard, and an entire side of the house turned red and black, blanketed with their soft little bodies. And, all right, some of them snuck in the windows. Yeah, and the whole thing is probably a hazard, ready to clunk down on the garage in the next wild windstorm that races through town.

It's just that it's such a pity to cut down a tree, especially on the prairie.

As a friend said the other night: the best times to plant a tree are 40 years ago, and today. It's time to think about planting.