My motto: close enough for jazz.

Just don’t open my closets. (Also, I once had a pie come out so, well, fluid-y that we had to serve it as a topping over ice cream. A problem? I think not.)

My husband, on the other hand, is a frustrated perfectionist. Which means his closet is empty, and his clothes are everywhere else. His filing cabinet is immaculate, but the papers are piled on our kitchen counter.

I feel like I should turn this post now toward a spiritual direction, how this amusing tidbit about my life leads to some sort of epiphany, or at least a small commentary on the culture at large and its relationship to something Jesus-y.

Be assured that this is exactly what it appears to be: a small, meaningless tidbit about my life simply because I felt like saying “eyeball it” and confessing to the fact that I view recipes as more of loose guides than strict instructions. Wanna come over for dinner?

But here’s a biblical metaphor that occurred to me while buying my new car last night (after poor Annie was totaled, sacrificing herself to protect my husband and son from the villain who rear-ended them; the new car’s name is Gustav, by the way). Gustav has one of those key-less starts. (Gustav also has three free months of XM radio, which means I’m enjoying all Broadway! all the time! but that’s neither here nor there.) As long as the key, which looks nothing like a key, is in the vicinity of the car, I can unlock my doors, start the car, and drive away. (In a few months, Eddie at Hyundai tells us, I’ll be able to start my car using my cell phone by proxy through their blue tooth technology.) Pay attention to the biblical metaphor lest you miss it:

It reminded me of the centurion who asks Jesus to heal his servant by proxy. You don’t even have to come to the house, he said. Just send your bluetooth(y) authority, and I know that’ll take care of things.

So is Jesus’ power like blue tooth? And does that make the Holy Spirit blue tooth technology? I’ll leave you to ponder on that philosophical genius.

I had no warning.

I thought I’d have more time to watch how he watches me, how he plays with my hair (pulls, yanks, strips it from my head) while nursing, how I cuddle him close to me, how he sometimes falls asleep. And this is motherhood: little goodbyes as they grow up and start walking then start walking away from you. How does a heart handle this?

So last night, I woke up when I heard him at 4:00, hopeful that he needed me, though at the same time hoping he’d sleep through the night, but he didn’t need me; it was the latter, and within a minute, after soft whimpers, he had fallen back asleep on his own without his mama. And I spent the rest of the night in tears wondering when this happened, and I thought he would wean, I thought it would be slow, first the mid-day feedings would disappear then the morning, then that last feeding before he goes to bed. But last night he didn’t even want that last feeding.

This is how it’s supposed to be, I know, yes, I know that, but my heart hurts because in this way, my little boy doesn’t need me anymore, and he’s not really my baby anymore. He walks, and he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t want.

So I mourn this passing, but I remind myself that this is not it, this is not all there is to motherhood. (Funny that a woman who thought she’d have to get through the baby stage has to remind herself that there’s so much more than the baby stage.) We have more cuddling and playing and learning and dancing in our future, and this is how life moves, this loss and gain together, and it’s beautiful, watching my son develop, even when it means saying goodbye.

I don’t really have anything to say. (That’s not entirely true. I jotted down some notes for blogs, but those are on my phone, and right now, I’m too lazy to walk back into the bedroom to get my phone and read my notes. Probably for the best. I don’t know if a 1:00 in the morning too-angry-at-the-injustice-of-the-situation-too-sleep mindset would do these brilliant ideas justice.)

But I came here because I feel safe here. An odd statement to say about a space open to the world, but there’s something about this place being my corner in the world, a place where I can sit with my tea and write words on page.

It’s nice to know that in some sense, I am known here, that in this space, you know me. Maybe you don’t know how I take my tea (with honey and milk) or which wine I prefer (sometimes Syrah, sometimes Malbec). Maybe you don’t know my quirky habits, but you’re here, and I’m here, and you (sometimes) read these words, and I read your words, and words can sneak in and out of hidden spaces.

So when I have nothing more to say and you’re still here: thank you.

Chris (to Keegan): You’re doing so good, my boy!

Me: So well.

Chris: Your mom doesn’t want me to teach you how to speak normal.

Me: Normally.

I realize I’m throwing Chris under the bus here, but it made me laugh, this and conversations like it in which I attempt to use correct grammar so that we may teach our son when to say “to whom” and when to say “who,” when to use “I” and “me,” the difference between an adverb and an adjective.

Not to use “literally” when he’s speaking metaphorically.

Lessons such as these may seem minor compared to big things like who God is and why Jesus came to earth, but I believe words matter.

For example: the phrase “make him Lord of my life.”

Right. I’m going to make the the one who has authority over life and death, the one through whom all things were created, the one who now sits at the right hand of God the Father, the one who sits on David’s throne eternally, I’m going to make this man Lord of my life.

Except that he’s already Lord of all creation. He’s already king of the eternal kingdom. My options: join his kingdom or oppose it. When I became a Christian, I became a citizen of his kingdom, which means he is Lord of my life. My life might reflect the culture of his kingdom, or at times it may reflect the culture from which I came–the culture over which Death reigns. But I do not choose through my actions whether or not Christ is Lord of my life.

How silly.

Every once in a while, I have to get these rants out of my system.

To Keegan, everyday sounds aren’t random noises; they’re music. And music calls for dancing.

Perhaps influenced by John Cage (best known for his 4’33” piece) or the composers of musique concrete, Keegan rejoices in the sounds around him. Or perhaps he hears the praise of the trees clapping their hands, the mountains and hills bursting forth in song for their Creator.

And I learn from my son that being an artist isn’t just about the craft we practice. It isn’t just in words on page, paint on canvas, notes on staff. Being an artist is a way of life. It influences how we see the world around us and how we respond to it. It consumes our waking up and going to bed.

Being an artist means recognizing the music and story and beauty of everyday life, of seeing how God takes the ashes of our pain and uses them to sculpt new life. It means participating in God’s redemption of his people and his earth.

While words on page are fewer these days than in my past life, I am artist. I dance to the music around me. I tell stories to my son. I make beautiful the space in which my family walks.

I am artist.

Rather than offer up the repetitious excuses of why I’ve been tacit here, I thought I’d spend the time reveling in my favorite time of year: Christmas.

I’ve always loved Christmas. I turn into this sentimental sap, and I confess, my tastes can go a bit Norman Rockwell for the month. I eat up all the ABC Family Christmas movies (not to mention the old standards like White Christmas, Rudolph, and now, Elf). I fill my Pandora radio stations with classic Christmas standards, Indie holiday songs, and even a station named for the Waitresses holiday music. My house looks like Frosty exploded.

And don’t forget the trees: Maggie, our red tree; Henry, our mini-tree; and Rose, the table-top tree that was a hand-me-down from my parents when I was in college, who got it as a hand-me-down when they got married from my grandparents’ neighbor. Then there’s our real tree, Marty this year, chosen by Keegan.

This year I’m learning how hard it is to not spoil your kids. Chris and I agreed that this is a good year to go minimalist. Keegan’s not old enough to have a Christmas list. But for the love of mistletoe and holly, how do you not buy all the fun (and educational!) toys out there?

I think how this is just the beginning, how in years to come I’ll introduce Keegan to the misfit toys, to the history behind our ornaments, to the Miser brothers’ dance. But most of all, I’ll introduce him to the story Christians celebrate this time of year: to the waiting for our Messiah, how he came once and how he’ll come again, to the mystery and majesty of the incarnation, to the beauty of a man and woman who submitted to God’s will and raised a little boy who is God. (Did Jesus fight his naps too?) I dream of teaching him how it is more blessed to give than receive, but how we receive the sacrament of God’s grace, of how our attitude should be like Christ / who being in very nature God / did not consider equality with God something to be grasped / but made himself nothing. I dream of showing him how Christmas lights reflect the Light of the World, of how we long for peace on earth, goodwill toward men and how we can have this in our hearts and lives.

‘Tis the season.

I remembered a writing conference my English teacher took me to in junior high. The teacher, a published writer whose name I’ve long since forgotten, gave us a writing prompt: here I sit. We could take this anywhere. We could look out an imaginary window, describe the room in our head, share why we sat, what we contemplated as we sat. Anything. Here I sit.

This was not the first time I moved pen on paper. I had written before this, which explains why my English teacher chose to take me to the conference (did I win a competition? I don’t remember). Under my belt I had tucked short stories and even one novel written the year before (a murder mystery in which a girl on a sixth-grade class cruise was found dead when the cruise ship made an emergency dock on a deserted island before sinking; let’s not discuss the suspension of belief required to get into a story of sixth graders going on a cruise together as a class–I dreamed big).

But this, these simple words, brought my writing from class cruises and unicorns and whales to something closer to home, something more me. Here I sit, gazing at the world around me, observing how it spins, noting how its people move. No one else can see it exactly the way I see it.

This is not to say that stories of class cruises and unicorns and whales can’t be close to home, can’t describe our world and how it spins, but mine didn’t. Not anymore. They encapsulated the world of a third grader and sixth grader. But in junior high, moving from one state to another, saying goodbye to my entire known existence and discovering that life existed somewhere else, my world had changed, and this prompt gave me the voice to express that.

Now here I sit, chronicling the life changes of humanity, the seven acts and the exits and entrances, the dreams lost and gained, the relationships developed and unraveled, and I always have this, a unique perspective from my chair, in my own little corner in my own little chair.

Afterwards, as we cleaned dishes and wrapped up the particularly sad lemon cake, my friend and I wondered how you can talk about something so personal without it being personal, without it hurting when you disagree on something that reaches so deeply inside of you, winding into the labyrinth of your hopes and fears and weirdness.

Read the rest of the post at The Particular Sadness of Art.

• prep for teaching I’ll be doing beginning in January
• editing work I recently acquired (yay for paying gig!)
• the housework I refuse to do when Keegan’s awake like cleaning toilets because the last thing I need is for Keegan to start playing on or in the toilet (he discovered a couple of weeks ago the joy of unrolling the toilet paper)
• dinner prep if it requires more than the half hour Keegan can handle in the high chair downing Puffs while waiting for Daddy to return home from work to save him from such inhumane imprisonment
• blogging (stop laughing)
• my fiction writing (often accompanied by the soundtrack of crickets), and, occasionally, when I’m feeling ambitious
• a shower

"Overworked" by Stress-Relief via flickr (this is not a joke: that seriously is the title of both the photo and the photographer)

I’m either an idiot, or I have no concept of time.

Some of you think that I can divert some of these activities, such as writing or teaching prep to either (1) evening after Keegan goes to bed or (2) morning before Keegan wakes up (or while Chris can take him if he does awaken). To these suggestions I say (1) doing any brain stimulating activity such as writing or teaching prep so late in the day contributes to my insomnia, and (2) not gonna happen–to even suggest such a thing is to not know me. Plus, when would I sleep or knit if I did that? Come on, people.

Completely unrelated side note: when I transferred from Drupal to WordPress (a decision I laud to this day), WordPress translated all my tags into categories. In choosing the category for today’s post, I discovered in my long list a category entitled “Golden Girls.” Really? Why on earth did I write about the Golden Girls?

picture by ruslou koorts via flickr, all rights reserved

It happened again. I had penned the first couple of pages of a new novel when I realized I had no idea what I was doing. What right do I have to tell this story? What is this story? I closed the lid of my computer and turned to housework.

You know it’s bad when I prefer housework.

Maybe I should put writing aside for a bit, I thought. I could peck away at a short story here and there, but no pressure, no thoughts of pushing myself, of duty to character or audience. What did it matter? What did it matter if I didn’t put my butt in the chair every day, or at least most days, and look at the one-inch frame?

Maybe I don’t have to be artist right now. I could be wife, mother, homemaker, and not writer. Later, I thought, I’ll be a writer later. And I settled in to this new unplugged life.

Only to wake up early the next morning with ideas. Ah-ha, that’s what this story is about. Not wanting to disturb the muse, I lay in bed watching the ideas bloom like a time-lapse video of spring.

So back to the hard work of writing during nap time.