Scenes from Christmas

We just returned from a quick trip to see the in-laws for Christmas. We hadn't planned to make the drive this year, but a family reunion fell into place. We couldn't miss the party! All 37 members of the family, including the 4 newest toddlers, gathered for Christmas Eve Mass and Christmas day festivities. One of my husband's sisters lives in Newfoundland; a brother lives in upstate New York; we came from California with his other brother, and his other two siblings and their families live in Oklahoma.  It has been almost three years since all of us were together.  I'm always impressed with how well my husband's siblings get along.  They truly enjoy each other's company. And the cousins all seem to enjoy playing together, too.  It's a good thing, when we gather at my in-laws' house, which is not large. Fortunately, the weather was mild, so the kids could spill out onto the screened porch and into the yard.  We stayed at a hotel this time, although our older boys slept in Gram and Pop's camping trailer.  The drive is 20 hours; on the way out we broke the trip into two days. On the way home, we raced Winter Storm Goliath, and drove the entire trip in one go, since it took us 15 hours to get to a location where the storm cleared. Our oldest son, home from college, did some of the driving.  And the toddler was a great passenger. As long as I held her hand, she was happy. So my arm was a little sore when we returned.

The visit itself seemed to fly faster than the driving. We spent one morning at the zoo with all the littles.  The bigger kids went to see the new Star Wars movie.  We did some crafts: loom knitting and  cutting out paper dolls.  We ate a lot: Gram made 9 pies, which lasted a couple of days.  She also made her traditional cookies: sand tarts, pecan tassies, peanut butter balls and truffles, butterscotch birds' nests.  And Pop made sure everyone's favorite flavors of Braums ice cream were on hand.  Lots of wine and coffee were consumed.  The siblings have exchanged names for Christmas for many years, but this was the first we got to see everyone open their gifts. My sister-in-law is crocheting a beautiful blanket for me, but she didn't finish because I commissioned her to make Baby a rabbit and my other sister-in-law a sweater.  Instead of gifts for all the nieces and nephews, each family brought stocking stuffers for the twenty-three kids' stockings, which are felted designs my mother-in-law made. Our own kids just received a book, an outfit, and "gift cards" (slips of paper with a note) for one special gift each that they received back at home - 2 upsized new bikes, money towards a new laptop, a winter coat, a guinea pig, and fancy boots. We also played Rummikub and cards and watched Christmas movies.  We also brought the California norovirus that is making the rounds - the Christmas gift that keeps on giving!  We all were sick the week before, so I thought we were over our contagious stage, but later, after half the family had been struck down, including one nephew who suffered an attack in Mass, I read an article that this virus can live up to two weeks on a host.  I feel awful about sharing that!

Now for some visual highlights of the trip. I didn't get many good pictures because I was too busy talking to use the camera.

Tree decorating on the fourth Sunday of Advent

A lazy bear at the zoo

We took up four pews at church - arrived an hour early for the family Mass.

Volunteer photographer missed the mark. Fortunately, a different volunteer photographer got a much better shot.

Waiting to check out the loot.

Modelling gifts from the oldest brother. My tee may be my favorite gift of the day.  Also loved the start of my blanket. And the giant sausage from my brother. And my new raincoat from my husband. And my new calendar - every year Gram makes a calendar for each family with all the birthdays and anniversaries already notated.

Running from Winter Storm Goliath. Snow in southern New Mexico.

Merry Christmas!

The Wexford Carol - Lyrics

Good people all, this Christmas time,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done
In sending his beloved son
With Mary holy we should pray,
To God with love this Christmas Day
In Bethlehem upon that morn,
There was a blessed Messiah born

The night before that happy tide
The noble Virgin and her guide
Were long time seeking up and down
To find a lodging in the town
But mark right well what came to pass
From every door repelled, alas
As was foretold, their refuge all
Was but a humble ox's stall

Near Bethlehem did shepherds keep
Their flocks of lambs and feeding sheep
To whom God's angel did appear
Which put the shepherds in great fear
Arise and go, the angels said
To Bethlehem, be not afraid
For there you'll find, this happy morn
A princely babe, sweet Jesus, born

With thankful heart and joyful mind
The shepherds went the babe to find
And as God's angel had foretold
They did our Saviour Christ behold
Within a manger he was laid
And by his side a virgin maid
Attending on the Lord of Life
Who came on earth to end all strife

There were three wise men from afar
Directed by a glorious star
And on they wandered night and day
Until they came where Jesus lay
And when they came unto that place
Where our beloved Messiah lay
They humbly cast them at his feet
With gifts of gold and incense sweet.

More little poems

It's interesting to compare the Eskimo poem with the sentimental Victorian Poems that follow.  Taskes


The Mother's Song

IT is so still in the house.
There is a calm in the house;
The snowstorm wails out there,
And the dogs are rolled up with snouts under the tail.
My little boy is sleeping on the ledge,
On his back he lies, breathing through his open mouth.
His little stomach is bulging roud -
Is it strange if I start to cry with joy?

  -Eskimo
Translated from Peter Fruechen
From The Oxford Book of Christmas Poems, OUP: Oxford. 1984

*****************************************************
Keeping Christmas
How will you your Christmas keep?
Feasting, fasting, or asleep?
Will you laugh or will you pray,
Or will you forget the day?

Be it kept with joy or pray'r
Keep of either some to spare;
Watsoever brings the day,
Do not keep but give away.
         -Eleanor Farjeon

Hang Up The Baby's Stocking


Hang up the baby's stocking Be sure you don't forget! The dear little dimpled darling, She never saw Christmas yet! But I've told her all about it, And she opened her big blue eyes; And I'm sure she understood it- She looked so funny and wise.
Dear, what a tiny stocking! It doesn't take much to hold Such little pink toe's as baby's Away from the frost and the cold But then, for the baby's Christmas, It will never do at all. Why! Santa wouldn't be looking For anything half so small.


I know what I will do for the baby. I've thought of the very best plan. I'll borrow a stocking of Grandma's, The longest that ever I can And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother, Right here in the corner so! And leave a letter to Santa, And fasten it in the toe.
Write-this is the baby's stocking, That hangs in the corner here. You never have seen her, Santa, For she only came this year But she's just the blessed'st baby. And now before you go, Just cram her stocking with goodies, From the top clean down to the toe!
-Emily Huntington Miller

Three poems for Advent

I had the Oxford Book of Christmas Poems out from the library last week. Here are some that I enjoyed, - also found on the internet:

ADVENT: A CAROL

What did you hear?
Said stone to echo:
All that you told me,
Said echo to stone.

Tidings, said echo,
Tidings, said stone,
Tidings of wonder,
Said echo to stone.

Who then shall hear them?
Said stone to echo:
All people on earth,
Said echo to stone.

Turned into one,
Echo and stone,
The word for all coming
Turned into one.

~ Patric Dickinson (1914-1994), English poet and translator

*******************************

Advent 1955

The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It’s dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver pale
The world seems travelling into space,
And travelling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound –
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out ‘Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.’

And how, in fact, do we prepare
The great day that waits us there –
For the twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards, And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know –
They’d sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.

We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell’d go extremely well
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defence is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
‘The time draws near the birth of Christ’.
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.

John Betjeman (1906-1984)

**********************************************

B. C.: A. D.

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future’s
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

~ U. A. Fanthorpe (1929-2009), English poet

Book joke

While going through old files, I found this email someone had forwarded to me. These days it would have been shared via Facebook or become a meme, and maybe it is still floating around the interweb, but I received it in 2004. Yes, I know, it is time to clean out old files that just keep getting copied onto new hard drives, but then I wouldn't find chuckles like this:

How many of these are true for you?  Most of them were for me!

> SELF-TEST FOR LITERATURE ABUSERS 

> How many of these apply to you? 

> 

> 1. I have read fiction when I was depressed, or to cheer myself up. 

> 2. I have gone on reading binges of an entire book or more in a  day. 

> 3. I read rapidly, often 'gulping' chapters. 

> 4. I have sometimes read early in the morning or before work. 

> 5. I have hidden books in different places to sneak a chapter without being seen. 

> 6. Sometimes I avoid friends or family obligations in order to read novels. 

> 7. Sometimes I re-write film or television dialog as the characters speak. 

> 8. I am unable to enjoy myself with others unless there is a book nearby. 

> 9. At a party, I will often slip off unnoticed to read. 

> 10. Reading has made me seek haunts and companions which I would otherwise avoid. 

> 11. I have neglected personal hygiene or household chores until I have finished a novel. 

> 12. I have spent money meant for necessities on books instead. 

> 13. I have attempted to check out more library books than permitted. 

> 14. Most of my friends are heavy fiction readers. 

> 15. I have sometimes passed out from a night of heavy reading. 

> 16. I have suffered 'blackouts' or memory loss from a bout of reading. 

> 17. I have wept, become angry or irrational because of something I read. 

> 18. I have sometimes wished I did not read so much. 

> 19. Sometimes I think my reading is out of control. 

> 

>If you answered 'yes' to three or more of these questions, you may be a literature abuser. Affirmative responses to five or more indicates a serious problem. 

> 

> Once a relatively rare disorder, Literature Abuse, or LA, has risen to new levels due to the accessibility of higher education and increased college enrollment since the end of the Second World War. The number of literature abusers is currently at record levels. 

> 

> SOCIAL COSTS OF LITERARY ABUSE 

>Abusers become withdrawn, uninterested in society or normal relationships. They fantasize, creating alternative worlds to occupy, to the neglect of friends and family. In severe cases they develop bad posture from reading in awkward positions or carrying heavy book bags. In the worst instances, they become cranky reference librarians in small towns. 

> 

>Excessive reading during pregnancy is perhaps the number one cause of moral deformity  among the children of English professors, teachers of English and creative writing.Known as Fetal Fiction Syndrome, this disease also leaves its victims prone to a lifetime of 

nearsightedness, daydreaming and emotional instability. 

> 

> HEREDITY 

> 

> Recent Harvard studies have established that heredity plays a considerable role in determining whether a person will become an abuser of *literature. Most abusers have at least one parent who abused literature, often *beginning at an early age and progressing into adulthood. Many spouses of an abuser become abusers themselves. 

> 

> OTHER PREDISPOSING FACTORS 

>Fathers or mothers who are English teachers, professors, or heavy fiction readers; parents who do not encourage children to play games, participate in healthy sports, or watch 

television in the evening. 

> 

> PREVENTION 

> 

> Pre-marital screening and counseling, referral to adoption agencies in order to break the chain of abuse.English teachers in particular should seek partners active in other 

fields. Children  should be encouraged to seek physical activity and to avoid isolation and morbid introspection. 

> 

> DECLINE AND FALL: THE ENGLISH MAJOR 

> Within the sordid world of literature abuse, the lowest circle belongs to those sufferers who have thrown their lives and hopes away to study literature in our colleges.*Parents

should look for signs that their children are taking the wrong path--don't expect your 

teenager to approach you and say, "I can't stop reading Spenser." By the time you visit her dorm room and find the secret stash of the Paris Review, it may already be too late. 

> 

> What to do if you suspect your child is becoming an English major: 

> 

> 1. *Talk to your child in a loving way. Show your concern. Let her know you won't abandon her--but that you aren't spending a hundred grand to put her through Stanford so she can clerk at Waldenbooks, either. But remember that she may not be able to make a decision without help; perhaps she has just finished Madame Bovary and is dying of arsenic poisoning. 

> 

> 2. *Face the issue: Tell her what you know, and how: "I found this book in your purse.

How long has this been going on?" Ask the hard question--Who is this Count Vronsky? 

> 

> 3.Show her another way. Move the television set into her room. Introduce her to frat boys

>

> 4. *Do what you have to do. Tear up her library card. Make her stop signing her letters as 'Emma.' Force her to take a math class, or minor in Spanish. Transfer her to a Florida

college. You may be dealing with a life-threatening problem if one or more of the following applies: 

> 

> * *She can tell you how and when Thomas Chatterton died. 

> 

> * *She names one or more of her cats after a Romantic poet. 

> 

> * *Next to her bed is a picture of: Lord Byron, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner or any scene 

from the Lake District. 

> 

> Most important, remember, you are not alone. To seek help for yourself or someone you 

love, contact the nearest chapter of the  American Literature Abuse Society, or look under 

ALAS in your telephone directory.

Suffering and mindfulness

The other day my middle son asked for help with a paper. He was comparing Frankenstein with designer babies and was struggling to put into words how the will of Victor Frankenstein to create life was similar to the will of the scientists who are experimenting with the genetic code to eliminate birth defects and to choose the sex and attributes of newly conceived babies.

It's been a long time since I read Frankenstein, but I thought I remembered that Dr. Frankenstein was motivated by the desire to create a superhuman.  His will to power is punished in an obvious way - the monster rebels. Is the fictional Frankenstein perhaps more concerned with creating life rather than perfecting it?

Meanwhile, perfecting life seems to be the impetus behind the engineering of genes.  The desire to eliminate birth defects from the genome is rooted in an admirable desire to prevent suffering. But will the ability to program genes result in the loss of something more?

There probably won't be obvious disastrous consequences like a murderous monster roaming the countryside.  But could there be more subtle results?  Sometimes it seems like the desire to eliminate suffering has already resulted in more suffering, because people who seem to have everything they need can't seem to be content. The smallest disappointment becomes tragic. And contentment itself could be dangerous - or at least deceptive, when it becomes a gauge to compare lives on social media.

The topic gave me the opportunity to praise suffering to my son. Don't be afraid of a little pain!  Be glad we put you into difficult situations like moving and changing schools and driving across country in a car with 9 family members!  It gives you a chance to build resiliency and grit and to learn that life is full of peaks and valleys! No peaks without the valleys! No spring without the winter! No brightness without the dark!  No joy without pain!

This quote from C. S. Lewis that I came across not too long ago sums up what I am trying to say:C. S. Lewis writes in The Problem of Pain, “Try to exclude the possibility of suffering which the order of nature and the existence of free-wills involve, and you find that you have excluded life itself.”

Last month we heard about the suicides of two teens in our circle of acquaintance. One of the kids had been diagnosed with depression and was on medication. I keep hearing about the difficulty of medicating teen depression because the drugs react differently with teen hormones. I also heard about two adult suicides in our neighborhood.  And last night there was more "police activity" on a local bridge, as the traffic alert text message I received told me.  I have learned that when there is an accident or construction, the text message relays that. "Police activity" I suspect is code for a suicide intervention.

So it was timely that the kids' school offered a recent training in suicide prevention. Basically, the main message was to engage with a person who is experiencing suicidal thoughts. Be direct in asking if the person is feeling suicidal, be willing to listen and to persuade the person that he or she is loved, and then refer for help -  QPR was the acronym, playing on CPR. Question, Persuade, Refer. More information here.

It is unfortunate that more and more often, suicide is chosen as a way to escape suffering.  Perhaps because our society is so afraid of suffering, so unwilling to admit that it is inevitable and can even be a good thing?  Could the idea of mindfulness sometimes lead people who aren't naturally cheerful to think that contentment is the natural state of being, when often it is not sustainable?  So many factors could contribute to compounding the amount of misery a depressed person might feel - social media, the cult of health and happiness and hedonism leading to self doubt and self loathing, isolation, broken families, loss of faith, loss of hope.

Life isn't always pretty and fun. And does it ever turn out the way you imagined? Faith, hope, and love help us continue to see life as worth living, even with or because of the pain.

So maybe the kids need to learn more about grit and resilience, the newer watch words, than mindfulness, and the idea that if we just pay attention more closely, we'll be happy.  Beata.  Blessed. A state of being that happens only after death.

Balmy and blue skies in early winter

Runner girl

View of home

Point Loma lighthouse

Tidal caves

What is this is my shoe? St. Nicholas has been here.

Sisters

Advent tree - no decor yet. Once we talked about just having a barren tree during Advent for theological/philosophical reasons. But now we have one because we can't seem to find the time to decorate it when everyone is home and free of homework.

The Widow's Mite

One characteristic of where we live, a peninsula that is an almost island, that is half Navy base and half tourist destination, is that very few poor homeless people wander the street. Although this region as a whole has one of the highest rates of homelessness - I think it is 5th in the nation overall, and 3rd for the number of homeless veterans - this particular area has no shelters, no food pantries, no tent cities, and no beggars on the corners.  The powers that be must have the time to make sure vagrants aren't loitering or begging.

But sometimes even in the land of beautiful people, there are people who don't quite belong.

A couple days ago, a man walked into morning Mass looking a little unkempt, uncertain, and unfamiliar with the Mass. He had a stuffed duffle bag, a worn backpack, and a pungent odor. At the holy water font, he made an attempt at crossing himself that resembled what the toddler does, sort of a tap, tap tap around her chest with a drippy finger. Then he sat down to listen.  I tried not to notice him.  I thought about my bike sitting unlocked in the courtyard, and guiltily remembered how my grandma used to surreptitiously lock the doors of her Buick when we drove through low income neighborhoods.

Then just after the homily, a sermon about being ready for the last days, another woman, also noticeably not impeccably dressed or freshly showered, reached over across the aisle and handed this guy five bucks.

Convicted.

This woman was bold in her gesture of generosity, but not loud. Handing the guy money during Mass had not even crossed my mind.  But I know that even if I had thought of it, I wouldn't have had the courage. Perhaps he wasn't homeless. Perhaps giving him money would encourage him to start panhandling around the church and school grounds.  Perhaps he would scorn my small gift. Perhaps he would just buy beer with it. Perhaps I might need my small amount of cash later in the day.

Who knows. Does it matter? This woman probably needed the five bucks just as much as the guy she gave it to.  But she ministered to more than just that man. Everyone who saw her pass him the five felt the same way as I did, I surmise:  I am not worthy to receive You.

Recognition

Last night I was in the middle of an evening run through the neighborhood, when I had one of those moments of recognition that all was well.  I felt at home.

What is it that clicks, that says this is home finally? We've lived here about the right amount of time - four months or so since we moved in. We can't really say we are new anymore. I know my way around town. I know these roads. I know how long it takes to run from the bridge to the beach and home again.

Maybe I felt at home because a relaxed and filling Thanksgiving weekend capped off a relaxed fall vacation for the kids that included a trip back to the old neighborhood and their old school to see the friends they have missed, a visit we postponed until we knew they had friends here to come back to. This year we tried something new and let the kids each make their favorite side dish.  They each added some little flair that personalized their recipes - the cranberry sauce went into a mold, the rolls were shaped like hedgehogs, the fresh green beans were steamed with bacon grease, the cherry pie had nutmeg and almond extract, the corn pudding had creamed corn made in the blender... it was all delicious.

Maybe I felt homey because it was dusk, just when the newly hung Christmas lights were coming on, that time of day when you can peek into people's homes and see their Christmas trees and bookshelves and art on the walls, because they haven't thought to close the curtains yet.  Everyone looked warm. And I timed my run just right to watch the sun sink below the ocean's horizon along the boardwalk.  The tide was so far out, I could easily run along the beach in the glowing golden reflection of the sunset on the wet sand.

Maybe the feeling was nostalgia from getting out the Christmas ornaments and putting up a tree. This is perhaps the earliest we have put up a tree, but it was the first Sunday of Advent, and this will be a short Advent. I had to find the wreath in the unpacked Christmas boxes. I still need to buy candles because I can't find the ones I thought I kept - for now we are lighting an old red taper I scrounged up.

Maybe it is anticipation, for our oldest son to be coming home FINALLY, for visiting cousins, for parents coming to see us and where we live, for Advent liturgies and music, for Lessons and Carols, for parties and cookies, for the goodwill that seems to exist more than usual among the siblings, for the fun of setting out the nativity for the baby, for the centering around home that happens at Advent and Christmas, for the celebration of the Feast of the Incarnation.  It is the time of year for familiar people and stories and songs and foods.  For repeating familiar rituals that make the time and the place festive.  It is a time of year for recognizing those we love and for being recognized.  Known and re-known.  Reminded again and again of how Love is incarnated for us and in us, filling us so that we overflow with this sense of peace, of being in a place we know, with people we love, in shared anticipation of the Beauty to come, of a future and forever home.

Mercy and memory

My senior in high school recently got a concussion in a football game.  In order to get clearance to play again, we had to go back to the doctor for a checkup.  The concussion was not serious - he never threw up, had a headache or felt dizzy after the initial impact. But to the doctor we went. One of the checks the doctor gave was to list three items at the beginning of the appointment and then to ask my son to rename them at the end of the appointment - apple, pencil, sky.  Oh no! I would not have been cleared to play! I forgot the second item. The last one, sky, stood out to me, so I began daydreaming about skies and then watching the assessment and then narrating the doctor's actions to the toddler who came along for the adventure.

Do I have a concussion? The beginnings of Alzheimer's or dementia? Short term memory loss? (The boy remembered all three, by the way.)

Maybe yes to the last three. But maybe I am just easily distracted and wasn't paying attention in the first place. This was a little lesson in reminding me to have mercy on my children as they forget oh so many things I just said to them.

While trying to parent both a toddler and teenagers, I have become very aware of parenting lately and the need for mercy, both on myself, as I lie awake at night replaying the many ways I failed the kids during the day, and on the kids as I lose patience with their forgetfulness or their failure to live the way I keep telling them to live for their own good!  Read more! Play outside! Finish your homework! Ride your bike around and admire the ocean or the sky or the gardens!  Study harder for your exams!  Finish those darn essays! Clean your room! Wash the dishes! Apply for scholarships! Get a job! Join a club!  So many, many things I tell them it's no wonder they forget.  Sometimes I sit down with them to review for a quiz or to proofread an essay, but often I am finishing dinner or folding laundry while I bark out commands.

No wonder they forget.   I am not teaching; I am telling.  Perhaps if the doctor had said "I gave the teacher an apple, she gave me a pencil, and I drew the sky," I would've remember the three items.

I think of the way I parented my older children when they are young compared to the life Baby leads now. Life has changed in many ways since the days when I had many small children and no big ones, and I counted hours of the day.  If I could just get through the day until my husband came home, I would make it to the next day. Sometimes he was gone for days and weeks; then I had to get us all out of the house so we could while away some hours in a diversion. I bought zoo memberships, botanical garden memberships, natural history museum memberships, and spent hours at the library and the beach and the YMCA.  We did Meals on Wheels and looked forward to the home school co-op one day a week. We walked slowly to and from playgrounds. We read books on the couch. We spent a lot of time in each other's company.

And a lot of those days I can't remember what we did. But I remember the feeling of long hours and the stories I have told about the fifth kid getting lost but really being locked in the basement, about almost driving off and leaving the second kid by the side of the road, about the fourth kid vomiting through a Halloween, the oldest claiming a puppy, the death of a rat and a dog, the sixth kid's broken arm, the third kid's early shyness.

Then the kids began getting more independent. They began having more homework. I had more leisure, which I filled with work and socializing. Parenting has become a mental rather than a physical activity, although it still requires a lot of energy to shuttle kids places and to deal with the mental meltdowns.  The big kids don't say cute things or get themselves into silly scrapes that get retold and elaborated. I find myself craving more hours in a day instead of fewer.

Another blessing: I can share some the physical responsibility for the toddler with the teenagers.  This is a welcome development. And the nine year old still is young enough to play with Baby, now that Baby is developing a sense of imagination.  This morning, my husband and I probably committed a parenting fail by laughing at the baby as she threw herself down on the floor to protest the confiscation of candy for breakfast. Then she got up and found the 9 year old and led her by the hand to the cabinet with the babyproof latch where the candy is hiding.  She knew who would access it for her.  She melted again when we gave her the uh-unh. The nine year old was willing to be an accomplice in candy snatching, but this time she was foiled.

My husband and I shouldn't have laughed at the wilted and tear streaked face that wailed out one long last wail when she turned to see us watching her. Will she learn from this episode that we are not going to let her eat candy for breakfast, or that she needs to be sneaky about getting someone to open the cupboard for her? Was this a genuine teaching moment, or was it just the first of many repeated reminders not to eat too much candy?

I hope she learns to make healthy choices.  Maybe she will remember this episode because it was different. It might become a story, a part of family lore, about how the baby tried to get her siblings to sneak her candy.  Sometimes I have mercy on her and let her have a lollipop for breakfast, or at least a lollipop on the way to school so she will sit in her stroller.   Sometimes I have mercy on myself for saying yes to what I used to say no to and for the failure to say yes or to find time for the good things we used to do in the days of long hours. Many times I am grateful for the mercy that has been shown to me by my parents, my siblings, my husband, my children, my friends, my God,  over and over so many times that I am finally beginning to learn to appreciate the gift as one of the most precious I can receive.

Talk of the town

A peek at what's been going on around here.  Looks like I haven't posted photos since before Halloween.  We've been busy around here. 

Window painting at a downtown business

A scary group

Pumpkins

A study in orange

Old Town Day of the Dead decor

Socal surfer girl. November body boarding...

Study in blue.

A small harvest

Homecoming parade watching   

Homecoming game watching.

Homecoming dance crowd watching. Let me say that my daughters will
never dress like 75% of these girls. . .  or their mothers.

Iconic roof

A Veterans' Day hike. Torrey Pines reserve.  Just us and 1000 of our closest hiking buddies.
Everyone had the same idea

It was a pretty place. You can see why people would want to go there on their day off.
And just minutes from the highway!

Even the en plein aire painting group was out.

A Torrey Pine

Cliff jumping

Beach combing

R. I. P. Dr. Louise Cowan

A great soul has left the world.

Dr. Louise Cowan passed away on Monday.  I was blessed to count myself as one of her students at the University of Dallas where I attended graduate school. (Her obituary in the Dallas Morning News.  Simcha Fisher also posted a tribute.) I took her Southern literature class. To listen to her lecture was to sit hypnotized, enthralled in the literal sense by her voice and her profundity, completely unaware of the passing of time. As Jo Brans wrote in D Magazine in 1979, "Whenever I hear Louise Cowan talk, I want to be Louise Cowan." She captured such deep ideas with such clarity and apparent simplicity.  Of course, that love affair in Their Eyes Were Watching God is symbolic of the cosmic union of earth and sky, soul and body, God and Man, divine and human, eternal and temporal! She had a way of explicating a text that made you see patterns you never saw before and realize that all images, all the arts, lead the mind to ruminate on transcendent things.  She even gave a lecture once on Pulp Fiction that made it seem like the film makers had created another Divine Comedy.

Not only was she an incredible teacher who made her students feel that the truth and beauty of good literature could lead them toward salvation, she also was a lady of manners, grace, and fortitude.  She was in her eighties and still teaching when I was in grad school. And she still had style and great legs. I think she didn't finish her Ph.D. until she was forty, so her career began late. She seemed ageless. And she made her students believe that they, too, could do what she did - find joy and connection in sharing the beauty of poetry and literature.

Not long ago, Dr. Cowan contributed an essay to a collection entitled What is a Teacher. She wrote:  “Teachers are consecrated persons who have made the choice to lead others into learning. If they are to lead others into learning, they must continue themselves to be learners.”

She certainly embodied this herself. May she continue to inspire future teachers. She may become a patron saint of those who love literature.

Photo from http://porterbriggs.com/teaching-good-poetry/