Gentle Jess

     I really wanted to name him Rowdy Valentine instead of Jess Valentine, but I am glad I didn't. This little guy is so mellow and gentle. His whole presence has a soothing effect on whoever is holding him. He's bright and engaging, too, but not in a rambunctious way at all. He lulls me with his peaceful power into hours of holding him as he sleeps. I don't get much done, and most times, I don't much mind.

     Since his birth, I find myself experiencing real moments of tranquility. I know it is a gift he carried into this life. 

Sweet Grass and Sick Hot Hay

A continuation of the post titled "Mercy"

  sweet grass...

    The grassy areas surrounding the farm were littered with (what I call) chamomile grass. When I walked my little bare feet in the fields, the smell of honey and apples would spring from the earth. This chamomile grass had a wonderful, soft feel, almost like a tiny, fuzzy succulent. I can't help but smile when I smell chamomile. (hey, that rhymes, if you pronounce it wrong!)

sick hot hay...

I grumpily skulked along side the wagon. All the adults were in the field with pitchforks in hand. A number of days before, the hay had been cut and left on the ground to dry. 

Today was the day it needed to be moved to the barn for storage. The sun was hot, the air was muggy, and our activity was sending the bugs flying angrily in the air and around my face. I couldn't have been more miserable!

I watched as the adults threw forkfuls of hay into the wagon, first filling the corners and then the middle. This enabled them to stack it very high before taking it back to the barn. There they would again use their forks to unload it. It was a time consuming process that was an eternity to my four year old self. 

I wondered why I was even there. It could have been because all hands were needed for the work, which left no one to look after me. It could have been to teach me my place in the world, to pluck out any seed of entitlement that might have begun to take root in my soul.

  

The smell made me feel sick. The sun baked the grass until the sweetness was overpowering. Its rays reflected off the dry grass, burning my eyes. I will never forget that day. 

For years and years, after leaving New Hampshire, I couldn't bear to look at a sunny field. It does sound silly, I know, but it is true. Riding in the car, passing a sunny field, would strike a chord of dread in me. My eyes would fervently search for the shade of a tree to counteract the effect.

 I am amazed that I live, and love living, in Arizona. The sun always shines. I think it has forgiven me for hating it all those years.

When I studied with The School of Natural Healing, working to become a Master Herbalist, I had a question answered that had been in the back of my mind since that hot hay day. We studied the chemical constituents of many herbs.

Coumarin was the answer. 

It is the constituent responsible for the sweet smell of freshly cut grasses.  

New Garden Planted

   

  We found another little space in our yard to plant a garden. 

 This is where I put the corn and pumpkins. 

I should have planted about 20 days ago, but I wasn't ready. 

We'll see how it turns out. 

I made a stone path down the center. 

This puts everything within a two foot reach.

Here is another bed against the house.

It will have more tomatoes, soon, and some peppers.

Our strawberries are very happy under the pine tree.

I am catching lots of runners to plant!

Here lies the raised bed that will grow us some green beans.

I went ahead and planted some cucumbers with them 

to see if they can get along.

The grapes like their new location.

Garden good news:

This is the biggest tomato I have ever grown in AZ!

 It is actual "tomato-sized!"

Too bad I dropped the biggest one on the floor and busted it 

before I could stow it for ripening!

ARGH!

I'm going to eat it anyway.

Mercy

Mom moved us from southern Florida to New Hampshire when I was four years old. There she embarked on a dream of living a homestead lifestyle. The farm we lived on belonged to Mrs. Cooley and had been built in colonial times. We lived there about a year, but it was a short season packed with so much newness, that I swear I can remember almost everything.

There was a snake that slithered across the floor of my bedroom the day I moved in. It really scared me and gave mom a little start, too. Needless to say I was reluctant to spend the night or even set foot in the room. I don't know how long it took, but mom reasoned with me and I finally showed my bravery by sitting on the floor in front of the dresser where the snake had gone. The big help was learning there are no poisonous snakes in New England. Under the big step of the barn was a nest of snakes that I ended up befriending. I have not been afraid of snakes since.

I've decided to write a few paragraphs at a time about this period in New Hampshire. Only recently have I realized how tremendously that short time has impacted my life. It was a perfect set of experiences.

Hmm. It just occurred to me that it had to be spectacular.

This was the move that separated me from dad.

Perhaps God mercifully sent me this slow-motion set of magical events to distract me from the full force of loss that would have been too much for a little girl, had she been looking straight at it.

Here is a list of a few things I want to remember to write about:

The Two-Seater

Banging Down the Bees

Sweet Grass and Sick-Hot-Hay

Tapping Maples

The Glass Eye in the Mystery Room

The Visiting Fiddler

Beenut Milk

Flying Jack O Lantern

Dump Shopping

The Silver Box

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

Fieldstones and Chipmunks

Building Blocks and Relationships

It has been a challenging few months.

Marshall is two.

When Jess was born I felt like I lost my best little friend. Marshall withdrew from me and seemed unhappy for a while. Knowing that this is normal didn't take the sting out of it. He and I had been inseparable for almost two years. I left him with other people less than a dozen times in those two years-no joke, so you can imagine our attachment.

His turning two has not been fun either. Again, knowing he is acting normal doesn't lessen the ever changing struggles and stresses of having a child this age.

Forget the "reality" shows that sensationalize hard jobs that people do! Let's see a crab fisherman keep his cool with a tired (because he refuses to nap), hungry (because he refuses to eat), screaming (because he's tired and hungry) toddler who just deliberately woke up the baby after trashing the kitchen you spent an hour cleaning and removing his diaper before releasing the trouser trout to swim on the newly shampooed carpet because company is coming.

But yesterday, I got a glimpse of something

WONDERFUL,

something MAGICAL!

I can see the day coming soon when we will play and learn and talk together. This thrills me! The magic is coming back to the mothering. It is new and different. It is easy to feel the magic with a newborn or a squishy goo-gooing baby, but to have it with a two year old takes work.

We have been playing blocks everyday for a week.

Each day he throws them less.

Each day he creates a little more.

Each day we fight a little less,

and each day a little more light shines on the future.

We are building together-ness.

Important Instructions

     I am so lucky.

I happened to be at Logan's house (brother) when a package arrived from his grandmother who lives in West Virginia. I knew what was in that package. It was unopened and Logan was still at work. Hmmm...

I asked Gabby (SIL) to call and ask if I could open it. His answer was "Yes, and you can have half." I am 10 years older than Logan. Although he is an adult, a married man, and serves in the military, I like to think he is still a little afraid of me and that is why he made this generous offer. But maybe he is just generous. Or, maybe he does not worship the red gold as I do.

Behold the Beefsteak

I do not believe this can be achieved in Arizona. I don't think they can grow like this here. I would love to be proven wrong, wrong, wrong. Until then,  I will have to rely on my luck to get my hands on beauties like these. Either that, or have Logan's mail forwarded to my home every August...

And now for the important instructions:

World's Best Tomato Sandwich

Toasted bread

Miracle Whip (one needs the "tangy zip")

Fresh Ground Sea Salt

Fresh Basil Leaves

One inch thick slice of Beefsteak Tomato

Assemble and enjoy!

Remember to Laugh

     This is what I tell myself everyday as I attempt to be a mother to MARSHALL. His name is in all caps because that best represents him these past few days.  I lamented to a friend that when a baby turns two years old, there should be a special coupon that arrives in the mail for the parents...$5.00 off "Shut Up" Spray and Buy One Get One Free "Sit Down!" and "Quit It!" homeopathic tablets.

     What works best right now is to remember to laugh. Let's see what I laughed at today...

 

    (lipstick)

     I sat on the couch, nursing Jess, thinking how nice it was to finally have Marshall occupied and quiet in another room. Then I realized that silence from a toddler only means trouble. After I saw what he accomplished in less than 10 minutes, I honestly felt it was worth the 10 minutes of peace.

Mangos and Memories

     The mangos have arrived!  A few days ago, Grandma Lovett called to ask if I wanted any mangos from her tree in southern Florida. I didn't hesitate because, well, I am not stupid.

 

     Grandma Naomi Lovett is one of my most favorite people on this planet.  She is a true southern Floridian. This is very different than being a southerner in general. The way a southern woman is typically portrayed  is sugary-sweet, exuding an aura of helplessness and insincerity. This could not be further from the truth. I wish I were talented enough to paint a word picture of her. You would love her as I do.

     I don't often get to see my family in Florida, which is very sad. Although my brother and I didn't live near them after mom and dad split when we were very young, we both have a tremendous amount of "Lovett" in us. I am not talking about looks, we don't look like them at all. Instead, somehow, in our DNA, we were slipped the same sense of humor and splash of "quirky" that you just don't get unless you've spent a lot of time marinating in the sweet, balmy humidity of Homestead, Florida. 

     "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," was a favorite thing for mom to say when I was -no doubt- whining about something as a child. But if wishes were horses, I would ride to see Grandma Lovett. We would sit on the front porch swing and talk about nothing. I would swat mosquitoes and she would probably be grinning so I couldn't see her because mosquitoes know better than to bite her. I'd walk through the house and breathe in as much as I could. There is no better smell than the smell of her house. It must be from the aroma of years of the world's best cooking seeping into the knotty pine walls and wood floors. 

     This year I will put up some of her incredible creamed corn recipe. I don't remember a meal at her house without this corn. It is a simple recipe: Fresh Corn cut off the cob, salt, pepper, butter and bacon drippings. Can't go wrong with that!

   

Connection

     My adventure today started at 10:15 pm.  I had 20 pounds of peaches to process.  This was another first for me.  I learned so much! I am sitting on the couch with my body sort of throbbing, waiting for the boiling time to be complete. It is 1:00 am. I only canned a little over half the peaches. Tomorrow, if I get out of bed, I will prepare the others to be frozen pie filling.

A few things I learned...

Canning can be done all by yourself,  but should be done in a group of people whose company you enjoy.

There are two categories of peaches. One has the type of seed that is connected to the flesh of the fruit, and the other's seed is not. It would make for prettier canned peaches if you choose the free floating seed. My peaches were not this type, so they look a little abused.

Peaches are SLICKERY once peeled.

In order to place the peaches "cut side down" as per the directions, first, pick them up out of the boiling syrup while they are facing down and then slide them easily into the jar. Don't frantically pick at them with a fork or cuss at them, that doesn't seem to work as well.

      The last thing I learned is more of a reminder. 

It is something I have felt before.

 

When I am engaged in homemaking activities, I feel connected.  

I smell the fruit or the dish soap, I see my hands cutting an onion or sewing on a button, I feel the ache in my back from mopping, or maybe throbbing feet from standing in the kitchen too long, and I feel connected. 

I only feel connected when my heart is open to enjoy the activity 

instead of grumbling about the work. 

  Brief glimpses of women,  that I don't even know, float through my mind. They have done the same thing I am doing - whatever it is  -and I feel that feeling of connection to them. 

This lets me know I am in the right place, doing the right thing at the right time. 

It is a feeling of harmony and privilege.

My Fruit Bat

I can't get my tomatoes in the house. 

 

Marshall (age 2) thinks whatever is in my harvest bowl is lunch. 

  

He ate 12 tiny cherry tomatoes and five "big" tomatoes in one sitting.

 He ate the three-inch ear of corn, too. After all that, he insisted on eating a green bean, but spit it out because it took too long to chew. A few days ago he came in the house with a mesquite pod that he was chewing on. If none of these items are around, he picks at my herbs, crushes the leaves and shoves them up his nose. I tried to teach him to smell the different herbs, but he has his own way of doing things. Little Show-Off!

Whooping Around the Fire...

     That was the expression Mom used today.  

 I did my first waterbath canning just a few hours ago. 

How do Black Forest Preserves sound?

 Yes, "Oooh!"  is right.  

It is amazing what some sugar, cocoa, and cherries can become. 

I called mom to tell her what I was doing because I was so excited about it.  I had no idea how fun and instantly rewarding doing a little home canning could be! She immediately understood.  "My Mom would always be there to whoop around the fire with me whenever I did something like this," she told me. "We would do a little canning here and there and then get so excited as we watched the pints and quarts add up to a colorful display on the shelves."

My memories of mom canning were skewed by the whininess of being a self-absorbed little girl. It would be fun to turn back the clock and savor those days of picking tomatoes as big as a softball in the hot buggy days of summer, putting them in bushel baskets and fighting with my older brother, Walt, over who has to lug them in the house.  We were both afraid of getting stuck helping if we were seen in the vicinity of work. One year, I swear, Mom canned one scrillion-bazillion quarts of tomatoes. I tried to stay far away from the kitchen while she canned. In my ignorance, I thought she must be miserable in that hot steamy kitchen, scalding the tomatoes, burning her fingers as she peeled away the skin and loaded them into jars. But now I know the truth- it was pure bliss- and I missed out on it! Fortunately, it is not too late. Today was the first day of a new tradition. It is hard to explain, but today I changed again. 

Bread Report

I am trying to teach myself to make bread from scratch and by hand. There is a learning curve to this and I am still at the bottom. I love the idea of it though, so I am not discouraged. I have my bread guru, my sister-in-law, Jen, that I seek guidance from in troubled times. Look at this trouble. 

In other words, it was too dense and should only be used as a doorstop.

Jen gave me this great book on bread basics, 

but I'd rather have her here to hold my hand. 

She has already been through all the work of perfecting the art of bread-making. She's so good at it, that she could probably make bread out of two gum wrappers and some saw dust. She's the Bread MacGyver.

 

Bountiful Harvest

     I refuse to be bummed out about my pathetic garden.  I guess I should be, though.  We spent several hundred dollars to plant and feed and water it.  So far, I have only harvested a handful of beans, a few pitiful ears of corn and some already bitten or pecked tomatoes. Here is today's harvest.

MMMMM! I could eat for a week on such bounty!

Okay, sarcasm aside, I am actually pleased with my beautiful garden.

 For one thing_ I did it! I planted and tended a garden here in the desert.

 The green leaves of all the vegetables and pretty blossoms of the nasturtiums remind me of my West Virginia home. I love to look out my window and see it thriving and full of life. So really, I have been feasting for months on the eye-candy that it affords.

For another thing, I am learning a great deal. I planted my corn too close. It is a hungry plant.  I didn't assist my summer squash to bear fruit. I didn't tie up my tomatoes in time, and now it is too late. My beans aren't easy to harvest where I put them, so I am reluctant to do it. I planted peas too late and didn't protect them. I have to create better soil next time and fertilize more often. I have to protect everything from all the damn birds, especially red things like tomatoes, raspberries and strawberries. If a plant gets stressed it is more likely to attract harmful insects.If I don't listen to what experienced gardeners say, then I have to find out the hard and expensive way. And finally, there's something with little teeth out there that likes only one or two bites of everything.

"And yet, I am unmoved."  

 I LOVE gardening. I believe that soon I will be very successful with it. 

Master, the Tempest is Raging

     I have been thinking for a while about posting the birth story of my first son, Marshall.  It was almost the polar opposite of Jess' birth.  It was a beautiful and valuable experience that I created for myself.  I, in no way, see it as a "bad" experience, but in the telling, I'm not sure that will be conveyed. 

Jess' birth was a spring rainfall.  It was healing, soothing and gentle.  

But here is the story of the tempest.

     

     When I attended Seminary, I had an excellent teacher the year we studied the Old Testament.  He frequently pointed out and explained  symbolism, imagery and parallels  from the Bible. We talked about Adam and Eve, the Creation, the Fall and the Atonement.  Among many other things, I was taught about the parallels of Christ's Atonement to a woman's giving birth.  I was fascinated! 

   

     I woke  up from my Sunday afternoon nap with mild cramps. After seeing a tiny bit of blood, Kurt called my midwife to tell her. Mom made me a sandwich and started recording my contractions on paper.  I took a bite of my sandwich and couldn't chew it. This should have been told to my midwife immediately, but we were new to childbirth and we questioned ourselves. (Not being able to eat is a sign of the start of hard labor.) The mild crampiness turned into strong contractions within 15 minutes.  There was no time to ease into what was happening. I got into the birth pool to try to manage the pain.

     Right away, I was worried.  My insides were being ripped assunder with each contraction. I was really scared that I would have a long labor...feeling this intense, indescribable pain for 20, 30, or more hours. I had no idea something could hurt that bad and not kill me. (Now I understand that this is not typical of most labors-especially for a first time mom, and fast labors tend to be more intense.)

     Strange things happened in my mind. I began to feel sorry for myself. (BAD IDEA) With each surge of pain I  slowly comprehended that I was utterly alone, that no one could do anything to help me, that I was going to do this all by myself...no matter who was there "with" me. My midwife was almost two hours away. There was no time for her to get there.

      

     I did not feel like I was participating in the labor. I felt acted upon. I felt my free agency taken from me.   I saw some of the skeptical faces of women I had enthusiastically told about my plans to give birth naturally, and these faces mocked my pain. I felt angry. I didn't expect to feel angry in labor. This seemed wrong to me, and so I also felt disappointed.

      From taking Bradley Childbirth classes, I knew I needed to empty my bladder every 30 minutes. A full bladder can increase pain. Increase? The pain could increase? I made three trips to the bathroom. The last time, two contractions came close together when I was out of the water. My husband was holding my hands. I vividly remember my feelings of desperation and despair. I looked into his eyes, no, past his eyes and into his soul. I wanted to climb in them, climb out of who I was, climb up and over and away. I could barely breathe. I tried to breathe. 

     In the Garden of Gethsemane He labored with great agony 

to enable our re-birth.

     His disciples came with Him, but all fell asleep as He suffered. 

     He only could do what had to be done. He bore it alone.

 His blood was shed for us, so we could have free agency

 and be redeemed from the Fall.

     My mom recorded that my Bradley teacher, Nancy, arrived at 4:35pm, two hours and 48 contractions after I felt those initial cramps.  She also wrote that I kept whispering " I need a break...please...please...please" and "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." I wouldn't move from my side-lying position in the water. I was afraid to move for fear of losing my mind. I was afraid to lose my mind because I feared it would cause more pain. I was just holding on by a thread. It was more like I was trying to grasp at a rope, only to find it made of sand: it was a cruel joke.

     It didn't feel like my body was floating in the water. I felt like a rock. Barely a sound came out of my mouth, and that seems incredible to me because all I heard was screaming and the roaring, rushing water of the tempest.

     I was in transition. Transition is the "Valley of the Shadow of Death." But I did not feel God. Where did He go? All I felt was black space and nothingness.

I didn't care about my life anymore. I wished for death; death seemed merciful to me. Hope was gone. I floated in blackness.

"My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"    

 Nancy touched a cool washcloth to my forehead and hand. 

     This simple thing saved my life in that moment.  I turned away from the darkness and began to move back to the world. It was like she was an angel whose message was, "Not today...you will not die today." It was time to return and have a baby.

      My body shook violently on the inside. I felt a jackhammer pounding with the next stage of contractions. Down, down, DOWN! These contractions didn't hurt the way the others did. These were almost exciting to feel in comparison. I was still unsure of myself, though.

      The midwife that lived closest to me arrived around 5:30 pm. (My midwife often works with two other midwives.)  She had my husband turn me from my lying position to a sitting one. A gush of blood filled the pool. With the next contraction, I pushed out my baby's head. With another contraction and a slight push, out came my little baby boy. 7 pounds 9 ounces. This was a three hour labor.

     Hope, joy and peace returned in full. 

     But on what shelf in which room had they been put as I suffered? 

Who was the keeper of such a horrible place? 

     It was me, I owned that room. I created it along with the entire experience of this birth. I created my own Gethsemane for reasons that mean nothing to anyone but me.

    I have been taught that we sometimes pass through sorrow so that we may know joy. I have lived that truth. I have fulfilled that principle. 

 I no longer fear the pain of laboring to bring a child into this world. 

It was once my biggest fear.

    More importantly, I no longer fear JOY. 

Jess' Blessing

      His little white blessing outfit was the same one his father was blessed in 35 years ago. My sister-in-law, Jen, crocheted his booties using my Grandma Lovett's pattern. Marshall wore the same outfit for his blessing.  Grandma Brown  made a white blanket that we used for both boys. Our little family is stitched tight!

     Right now, Jess looks most like my mom's family. I see her mother, Ruby,  and father, Benny, in his face the most. I love feeling that connection to my grandparents since both have passed away and I am homesick for West Virginia.