Five-Minute Friday: Real

I retreat sometimes into words I was fed as a child:

If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. 

It's advice that's served me well for the most part, encouragement to tame my tongue before my tongue tames me

But I find myself quiet here in this space when I'm drowning in weeks that have dumped heaviness, weariness on my back or I find myself striving to glimpse the bigger picture amid the suckfest that's unfolded right before my eyes.

It's a way of thinking, taking all thoughts captive, remembering the bigger picture, and that's served me well.

But.

The hurt, the pains, the hardships -- the not so nice parts of life need voice, too.

And I find myself struggling for balance.

Struggling to be real about being real.

Because the reality of this week is that it's been hard.

Yes, I see hope wound tightly, wrapped beautifully in the Bigger Picture. And, yes, I hold fierce tight to the gift of Eternal Summer He's given so graciously.

But the truth of the matter is that I cried wet tears, almost choking on grief last night while thinking about the sweet babies to whom our friends have said untimely goodbyes.

Thinking about the tiny lives nestled deep in my womb to whom we've bid farewell too soon.

And thinking about how much I hate that death ever sauntered into the scene disguised as knowledge and life.

The not-so-nice stuff.

But as real as it gets

and it gets its five minutes today.  

Marriage: Six Years of Tennis Shorts on Saturday Night

As hours-old newlyweds, the first thing John and I did upon arriving at our posh Chicago hotel for our honeymoon was ditch the fancy clothes -- the shoes and the hose and the jewelry -- and dive head first into worn cotton t-shirts and soft mesh tennis shorts.

The second thing?

We ordered a pizza -- we were starved from not actually having eaten much dinner during our reception.

As we spread our feet out before us while perched atop the fluffy white down-covered hotel bed, devouring deep-dish pizza, our eyes locked, we grinned like idiots and he said what we were both thinking:

"We get to do this for the rest of our lives."

I laughed.

"What?" I'd said. "Throw a helluva party and then retreat back to our creature comforts and crash together?"

"Yeah," he'd smiled. "Exactly that."

****

We arrive home from a small dinner date in celebration of our sixth wedding anniversary.

We know how to dress for the occasion of dinner at an old-world-style Italian restaurant -- him in a blue-checkered collared shirt and dark-washed fitted jeans; me in apple-red high heels, black tight-as-a-glove fitted ankle-length pants and a white sweater.


 We nosh on delicious food, enjoy the patio-view and the September-blooming flowers and laugh when a little boy, about age four, races to the edge of the pond, comes to a dead halt and proceeds to pee into the pond, his parents chasing wildly behind him, only to find him at water's edge mid-pee.

We pitstop at Whole Foods and while picking up a few essentials come across coconut milk ice cream; we buy some with full intent on it being our date-night dessert upon arriving home.

No sooner than I arrive at our house after driving the babysitter home while John had wrangled the boys into Buzz Lightyear pajamas, do we both race into the bedroom to ditch our lovely threads and slide into soft cotton t-shirts and tennis shorts.

We settle the boys in between their flannel sheets, pull a fluffy down comforter over their feet and snuggle little bodies to sleep before slipping out the creaky door.

Quietly, we sneak down the stairs, sink into the couch, one spoon for two mouths in one coconut ice cream container and begin talking about the boys, our life, our day, our wedding.


 And here we are -- six years later to do the day and date -- at the after-party, wrapped up in soft clothing, our shoulders pressed together as we sit-side-by-side on the couch giggling and sharing dessert.

And while the meal du jour has changed from pizza to delicious coconut ice cream and the clothing threads of old tennishorts, perfectly worn and soft against our skin, are different and our cush landing has changed from a fluffy bed to a couch, my best creature comfort, John, remains the same.

The best creature comfort I have is you.

Happy anniversary, John. I love you. 

Bigger Picture Moments: Sometimes it's really just about Jacques Cousteau and Chickens

It's not always philosophical thought, deep conversation and poetic prose tumbling around in my mind.

In the spirit of genuine and full disclosure, I just thought that you should know that mostly, around this house and in my head, it's a lot of talk about my deep, personal feelings toward chickens in relation to my loved ones as well as debate about whether Jacques Costeau {whoever he is} is actually dead or alive and if he wore really cool outfits and spoke with a French accent like his name would have you think.

And it's also quite a bit of giggling over conversations when my unsuspecting husband exasperatedly exclaims for our preschooler to stop stealing his brother's balls and share.

Oh, and sometimes there's just endless banter about really important things like if John's hippie name would be Keirajong or if we should take a cue from my former boss and put poetry in our bathrooms to help its guests relax when they enter so they can easily get down to business.

I guess I better dig out the road map and outline the trip before I totally am in Africa and you all are still in Chicago wondering what the heck this blog post is going and what the heck I used to spike my tea tonight.

Last night, the Bigger Picture Blogs girls and I had a hangout on Google+ to plan out BPB's fall happenings {exciting things ahead!}.

The conversation slipped away from productivity and straight down a steep hill of silly after I asked the girls a question about partnerships that center around visiting Illinois farmers and cows and chickens, oh my.

And as I was explaining my deep desire to engage in such a partnership {chickens, how I love thee and their farm-fresh eggs!}, I apparently confessed that if my lovely friends had any reservations about it that I would totally abandon ship because I love them more than I love chickens.

Which, apparently, isn't a normal thing to express to your friends.

Thus, that burst of giggles was the straw that broke the camels back, leading to many, many more fits of laughter that centered discussion around our imaginary computer hacker and destroyer, Ivan, and debate about whether Jacques Cousteau -- apparently the guy is quite famous, as spellcheck corrected my mispelling of his last name -- is actually alive anymore.

All of this randomness? It's totally par for the course around my house and my brain.

But apparently that doesn't always transfer over to my blog, I realized after reading one of Melissa's really sweet tweets last night after our Google+ Hangout ended: "Everyone should have a little @HyacynthW in their life, she's really not as cerebral as her blog would have you think, shes kind of giggly."

And that? That is tragic!

You all should totally know that I laugh. A lot. And sometimes I say really random, really weird things out loud that make complete sense in my head but actually sound quite ridiculous when given air time. And I use the word "like" a lot. And I often giggle like I've had too much wine even when I've had no wine at all. A lot.

I guess after spending all the live-long day, almost daily laughing about bodily functions with my boys and conversing about the intricacies of worm poop, I come here aching to spill the words that have been soaking in my mind and heart all day --so much so that I forget that part of the recognizing the bigger pictures is showing and documenting the whole picture in it's entirety.

My life is very much an intentional journey filled with epiphanies and struggles and beauty and learning and prose-worthy moments -- but it's also inundated with deep-seeded chicken-parenting envy, random conversations about poetry in the bathroom, lots of attempts at humor and laced with numerous successful giggling fits.

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Five-Minute Friday: Welcome

There's nothing tidy about this well-lived in space we call home.

It's almost always dusted with little pieces of Earth around the doorways, signs that small feet have shuffled in and out at least a dozen or more times during the morning hours.

Almost always there are toys strewn across the wooden floors, carpeting and stairs alike, little crumb trails from two busy worker ants who've been hard a play all afternoon.

The bathroom vanity bulbs are forever on, shedding light across the scattered toothbrushes and various toothpastes.

At least a small pile of dishes always lines one edge of the counter, glasses branded and marked with small fingerprints.

Tall prairie grasses always line the flower beds, sharing space with bright yellow lillies, trying to disguise the fact they are weeds.

And chairs are never all perfectly placed around the table because two tiny people are constantly rearranging and transforming the furniture into more useful things, like ladders.

I've struggled with all but shutting and locking the doors to the outside world, weary of welcoming anyone into this space where I spend more time living and enjoying than I spend cleaning and organizing.

But as the days pass, and the children grow older, morph and all the dust and dirt stay the same as it's always been, I've pushed myself to invite despite the mess.

Because, I have to imagine, nothing says hello, lays out the welcome mat for acceptance and friendship, quite like simply being who we are.

And, right now, who we are is loud. And laughter-filled. And passionate. And emotional {for better or worse}. And messy.

Thinking, that's All: Beginnings and Ends

Much to my irritation, I unwillingly left yesterday's post unsettled and uncapped because I didn't have a cap with which to seal it.

Today, I do.

Aunt Flo showed up eight days late, unpacked her bags and didn't even appologize for not giving a courtesy call about being MIA for more than a week.

{If none of that makes sense to you, you'll most likely need to press rewind by one day.}

That arrival pretty much puts the brakes on thoughts of having a new arrival in nine or so months.

And I'm OK with it.

Yes, I'm OK that right now is not our new beginning with another new baby.

I most likely wouldn't have been OK with that yesterday morning.

But yesterday when I spilled my heart {and personal bodily affairs} all over my blog, I didn't know what I know now.

A tragedy occured late Monday night/early Tuesday morning, and it marked the end of a beautiful, young friend's time here on Earth.

Tragedy has an outstanding way of shrinking the smaller issues of life that previously seemed huge, untwisting emotions and then retwisting and braiding together new emotions.

What seemed so pressing and paramount -- my desire to simply know if our future was going to be richer by one more blessing at this space in this time -- quickly faded from a giant into a small counryside windmill.

Not that my feelings didn't matter anymore, rather the situation just looked so much more its actual size.

I've spent the day reeeling in my mother's heart, mourning the end of her time here on Earth, weeping for her family and for the loss in our community and church.

And I've spent the day grasping at small {and large} Truths.

Like Jesus' words in John 8: "I tell you the truth. If anyone keeps my word, he will never see death."

And the words of our young friend's friend, sharing how she would certainly be missed but how she also knew there was a party in Heaven now, welcoming our friend to her eternal home where her heart and soul would find itself in the most restful, beautiful, whole peace.

I've been trying to swallow these spoonfuls of perspective.

Yes, it's the end of her life here where we can see her, but it's actually the beginning of Eternity with her Creator.

And what really does that mean? I cannot even begin to imagine the glory or the beauty or the awe.

I wrestle, hard and long, like Jacob with his angel -- sometimes ends seem like only ends even though they are beginnings, too.

And these beginings disguised in only ends are beginnings that I cannot even begin to grasp or entirely see or understand for the life of me.

And sometimes, like now, with both the departure of hope for another new life and the departure of our friend's soul from Earth, sometimes I don't like these end-beginnings or beginning-ends or whatever they are.

I know however I want to word it that nothing erases the grief or sadness {in their very varied levels}.

But it certainly blurs my defintion so very drastically that I'm not sure I can figure out where it all actually does begin or end, and for some reason there's a surreal peace in simply just knowing that I don't have to know or understand or even like it.

Because He does.

He knows the beginning and the end and all of the mishmashed, mixed up, twisted and folded beginning-ends and end-beginnings.

Right now, that's enough for me.

Right now, it's enough that He knows.

Thinking, that's all: Negatives

So, I took not one, not two, but THREE pregnancy test this past week.

And I failed each of them.

Or maybe I passed each one.

I don't really know.

Because we're not actually trying to have another baby right now, so getting negatives would denote passing them.

But we do actually want another baby at some point, so that would mean failing them?

Probably, it seems kind of like a waste of time and energy and money to take an additional {or two} tests after the initial do-not-pass-go, there-will--NOT-be another-baby-in-nine-months negative results. {And by the way, they don't just give you one negative sign now; it's actually TWO because the control window is a negative sign, too -- how's that for subliminal whatever.}

Admittedly, the first negative test was kind of a relief because at first thought of being pregnant, only the logistics raced through my spinning mind: I still have five to ten more pounds to lose; I kind of wanted to be able to saunter not waddle down the aisle at my sister's early September wedding; I like soaking up the sun outside with the boys during the summer instead of moaning on the couch and puking my guts out into the toilet every few hours.

But then more days passed and I began to get ohmyHOLYWOW nauseaous, which inevitably led to thoughts about the fruits of a pregnancy -- a most beautiful, squishy, snugly baby.

All the while, Aunt Flow hasn't even bothered to call to tell me she's running more than a week late, so I'm left wondering {still wondering} if she's really gonna show.

And I'm also left with some serious pangs of hope -- because, you know, whenever there is the prospect of newness, new life, hope and all the promise that is bundled in the package of a new baby -- it kind of burrows itself into the heart's soil and begins to take root.

So much so that despite the many {um, many} variables of an unplanned pregnancy, there's a bit of a sinking feeling that settles into the gut with the third negative test.

So, yeah, I took THREE pregnancy tests this week.

And all I got were three sticks full of pee, no clarity and a cacophony of emotions I'm not sure how to swallow.

Oh, and an irritating {on-going} lesson in patience.