What I didn't tell you

(Pre-Script: This poem is meant to be paired with the song, "Bend and Break," #38 on the playlist. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

What I didn't tell you
is as much a part of me as

breathing,

and maybe more so-

what I didn't tell you is that everything

was meaningful, everything,

and what I didn't tell you

is that I knew.

(I saw an angel that day-
I saw it and no one else in the room saw it
but
I saw it-

it wasn't the first angel I'd ever seen, but
maybe the most significant)
What I didn't tell you
(and how could I)
was that when the rip
from skin to soul
to bone cracking bone occured,
there was a shaking,
a kind of little earthquake
that shook the core of the earth
yet no one else percieved it-
it was a disturbance that I am sure
the universe grieved.
and what I never told you,
(and now it's too late)
is that I saw an angel-
it was white and large and

I saw it-

it
was not looking at me but looking
at God;
in the midst of this

swirling chaos,
was looking up, detemined.

-XOXO,

History-onics worked for me! (AKA blame it on the infomercial. AKA Your baby does not need to know how to read.)

(Pre-Script: This post will expand your horizons when read as the song, "Everybody's Changing," #13 on the playlist, plays in the background. So go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...don't worry about what I'm doing here, I'm just inventing the wheel.)

Remember the time when that guy discovered the continent that the people living on it already knew existed? Good times.

And he didn't even know where he was. But they did.

I bet they felt how I feel any time I read an article about bargain shopping in a fashion magazine. The article usually has a items at price points that are above what most people consider "in the budget," let alone "bargains." And then they follow up with something written in the tone of, "OMG! WHAT a STEAL, can you BELIEVE IT??" And I'm like, "OMG, you might as well just smack me in the face and insult my grandma!" I don't need to be told how to find a bargain. The people doing the thing already know how to do the thing...Not only do I already know how to do it, but I know how to find better quality items at better prices than the magazine "bargain" is showing me. I look to the fashion magazine for inspiration, not exact-tation. The magazines would be better off continuing their beauty and fashion quest, and leave the bargain finding to me. I consider myself a treasure hunter, and as such, I don't want my field of expertise brought to me on a shiny platter and labeled for me. Leave the hunt to me; the hunt is part of the fun.

*And, as I said before, I'm better at it. Amen.

I wonder what would have happened if Columbus would have landed his Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, and said, "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle; I don't know where I am, but since there are people walking around, I have clearly not discovered this place, and they probably already have names, so maybe it's not my job to come up with a name for them, either. DOH!"

And then he could have sat down and cried, because crying, I have found, is the solution to a lot of things, and then I bet one of those people already living there would have walked up to him, curiously, and said "Oh dear wacky guy who is strangely overdressed, don't cry. We knew the planet wasn't flat, too, but we didn't want to waste our boats contracting your acne and tendency to bake with white flour...but here, have some fish and corn, you look too thin."

Christopher Columbus would not have understood this particular conversation due to the language barrier, but he would have seen the food, he would have understood food, and maybe he would have eaten gratefully and thought "Wow, I really am no better than these here under dressed land dwellers," and "not only is the world round, but it's a small world, after all!" And then he could have gone on to create Disneyland, only he wouldn't have called it "Disneyland," he would have called it "Columbusland," "Chrisland," or somesuch thing, and since the theme park would now be over 600 years old, the lines would be much shorter, so it would have been a win win for everyone.
Just Walt Disney would have to come up with a new life calling, but I don't doubt he could; he was very creative.

-XOXO,

Progessions

(Pre-Script: This post is paired with the song, "Uncharted," #39 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

Recently, I went to a friend's house and she had pulled out oil pastels and large pieces of paper for drawing. I sat down and started drawing with bright, vivid colors. I drew hearts and stars and said "I am angry. I didn't realize before I started drawing that I am angry!" So I drew some more hearts in vivid red. And then I wasn't angry anymore, I was at peace. And then I felt the need to draw a fish.

Blink

Blink

Lately, I have been drawing fish.

It goes like this:

I call the children to the kitchen table. I turn on some music. I say "Time for art class, kids!" and we pull out the crayons and paper and we color pictures. We do this because after I drew that first fish, I said "I like this fish; I feel like I am a fish, inside." My friend said "I like your fish, your fish is free." Then the children and I went home and I was not done drawing fish, so I gathered them to the table, and told them to draw whatever animal they felt represented themselves, and I called it "Art Class."

(This is one of the benefits to having children is that you can call "Art Class" at any time, and they will not say, for example, "why are we doing art class when it is the middle of out summer break and we should be doing anything BUT anything called "class," we should be languishing in our boredom like everyone else."

At least for now, my children do not say that yet.

But I digress.

Ahem )

My fish are my own; they look exactly how my inner fish would look, if my inner fish could pop out of my self and show itself. The fish I draw have neat round bodies and large red lips. They have big green eyes and purple eyelashes. They have large round blue tears dripping down from their eyes.

I told my friend, "My fish are bright, deep, dark, passionate, vibrant colors, because that is what I am, inside; I am deep and passionate; I am not pastel." And this felt like the truest, most satisfying thing to realize.

But after two weeks of this, I had just finished drawing a gorgeous large vibrant fish when I felt the need to draw a small pink fish up in the corner of the page. This fish had a lavender colored eye, and still the large bright red lips. I told my friend about the pink fish. I told her "I think I had to draw all of those bright fish before I could find the pink fish-" But I was careful to add that "It wasn't soft pink, it was salmon colored pink." She laughed at my distinction, but the distinction was important in my mind.

The distinctions makes all the difference in life.

Art class has progressed.

I now play music, call the kids to the table, and they start to color while I read a passage of the bible. My only instruction is to tell them to draw whatever comes to mind, and not to compare their art work to that of anyone else. This is all I will say, for how can I tell them what lies on the inside of their own hearts and minds? They have to show me in their own way and time.

Ethan's drawings are often puppy dog dragons or bunny rabbits with large eyes. Natalie's often involve cutting and gluing other pieces of paper onto the picture she has already colored, so hers have an element of surprise. Kristina likes to say that what I read to her makes no difference whatsoever in her drawing, but then her pictures betray that. And Jeremy? He often just sits and chats with us while we draw. Actually, he usually asks a very deep, insightful question about the passage I have just read, it has clearly disturbed him,

and then he says,

"Mom, can I watch TV?"

And I say,

"No, we're listening to music. It's Art Class time."

And he says,

"Well, what about if I watch it in the other room?"

And I say, "no, it's ART time."

and he says,

"You're just saying that because..."

And then I hear a new reason why I am just saying that because, and then he settles down and creates some type of castle with working doors and drawbridge or somesuch thing which reminds me that my children have more bones in their bodies than I do.

Blink

Blink

Yesterday during Art Class, a strange thing happened. I sat down to draw a fish, but found, instead, the need to draw a bird. Not just one bird, but a page full of bird after bird after bird. Not just one page, but page after page. I am still drawing birds. Somewhere on each page, I have the need to write "little yellow canary." I have no idea why. My birds are neat and stylized. They are rounded, with their wings at their sides, not flying, but resting, and I will never apologize for my drawing style. My birds are me.

I told the kids,

"For some reason, I now have a need to draw birds."

Jeremy said,

"You are saying that like it's a big deal, but it's not, it's just you drawing birds."

He is right; I am just drawing birds; I did not tell him that some of the biggest deals in the world are the ones we don't understand yet.

Just then, Natalie leaned over and outlined what I had just drawn, as if to emphasize my point.

-XOXO,

Pendulum

(Prescript: The prescribed background music for this poem is "The Chain," #31 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

Picture in your mind a time when the pendulum swung
all the way one way,
all the way the other way,
and rested finally in the middle.

A breeze might push it,
a breeze from the other side might push back.
Whichever breeze is stronger will determine to which side the pendulum will swing,
or if it will swing at all.

But sometimes if it swings to the right,
or to the left,
a child or passing stranger might get knocked over,
even if he was paying attention,
that's how unsuspecting a motionless object suddenly moving can be.

Do not put your trust in the strength of a pendulum, even one
that looks particularly strong, for though
it will take something fiercer than a breeze to blow it this way or that way,
when it does swing,
it will hit heavy,
hit you hard, knock you down, maybe
(especially if you had been of the mind that you could take shelter
in it's shadow.)

-XOXO,

The distance not too far

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song, "Closer," #6 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

The distance not too far
looked something like
a hummingbird that hovered
so close you thought you could touch
it if only it would not cause the
perfection of the moment to
crack and shatter-
and then swift, she was gone,
that jittery perfection,
and it made you wonder
if you'd ever seen beautiful like that,
if you'd ever seen green.
and it made you wonder
about shivering and nesting,
about unseen wings that never stop,
but hover like it's effortless-
made you wonder
if you'd ever see it again-

-XOXO,

Beach Combers

(Pre-Script: This post should be read as the song, "Mysterious Ways," #5 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I didn't make it to the beach all of last year; it's sort of like wherever you live, you take it for granted that you can go to the places near you which attract tourists any day of the year, so you never end up going to them.

But what never changes is the Ocean, and when you are standing on it's shore, it has a roar that sounds like peace and consistency, and will lull you to sleep if you stop to lay down and close your eyes. Meanwhile, it deposits secret clues of all that lies hidden within it on the shore. So today, Natalie and I got as close to the water as we could without actually going in, to look for treasures or any secret clues that might have been left there.

Over the years, I have gotten choosey of what I will pick up and put in my treasure bucket. My children are much less judicious; they'll pick up whatever rock or broken sea shell they find, and they are quick to marvel at the beauty of each one. I want to call out "don't just pick up any old rock, your bucket will get heavy." But I am quiet; there is no such thing as "just any old rock" to them. When Natalie's bucket got too full, she did something that hadn't occurred to me; she simply dumped it out, and put back in anything that she wanted to keep. This, I think, is not a bad way to live one's life.

I could have continued combing the beach for hours; I hate the thought of just barely missing something that may be right in front of me; but Natalie is 4 years old. When she got tired, she said "Mommy, I'm tired," and "will you carry me?" So I put down the rock I had been examining and picked her up instead. She laid her head on my shoulder and I walked away from the shore. In my arms lay a mystery of oceanic proportions with her own secret clues yet to be uncovered. But this treasure did not emerge from any ocean; she emerged from the sea of me, deposited upon my shore with her own secret humming, and I need not understand her roaring or her lullaby; I just need to keep listening.

-XOXO,

On Multitasking (AKA, I was a...Oh, never mind.)

(Pre-Script: This post best read as the song, "Cornflake Girl," #8 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

So in a parallel universe, I was a stay at home Mom of four children, a long distance Runner, a Weight Lifter, a Writer, a Personal Stylist, a Makeup Artist, a Sociological Genius* (*in my own mind, and I believe I have a good mind about such things), and an original healthy recipe creating Ninja Chef and Baker with a knack for treasure hunting* (*of various types of treasures) . Oh, and I grew my own flowers and vegetables, too.

Oh wait, that is still who I am in this present universe. I forgot for a second, because hello, I have a lot on my plate. I didn't even mention that I home school my own children? That's because I don't.

Also, the flowers and vegetables are metaphoric at this point; I have so far never grown anything but human beings, but since I rather like the number "four, " I feel it's time to move on to growing lesser things. Not to insult the vegetables and flowers, but what they lack in quality, I hope they can make up for in quantity. AKA, I value the children higher, but I will have no qualms about growing many more than 4 vegetables and flowers. You see my point. But now this brings to mind the old saying, "you are what you eat," which would, philosophically, put the children and the vegetables back on the same level playing field, value wise. This is assuming that said children actually eat said (still metaphoric, completely imaginary, as I have yet to so much as aerate the soil with my high, high heels) vegetables.

Ahem.

In the parallel universe I apparently inhabit, I also had a propensity for yes, wearing high, high heels and painting my fingernails bright red. Lest you think these attributes clash with the life of the gardener I am becoming, (in my mind) I would argue that first, go back and re-read the last sentence of the previous paragraph, and that second, red is the perfect nail polish color of a gardener, for it will surely hide the blood when my green thumb starts to bleed from toiling so long with the soil.

"...but Michelle,"

my imaginary reader interjects-

"...Michelle, your hands won't bleed from gardening; they probably wont bleed unless you plan to grow and pick cotton, but you live many, many miles from a plantation in the South, circa 1842, so this is highly unlikely."

Hm. You know, imaginary reader, I have to hand it to you, sometimes you are exactly the voice of reason.

"Thank you."

But now, Gentle Reader, what do I do with my red nail polish? Can I still wear it? How will it affect my gardening career?

"Well, Michelle, I can't say, no one knows yet, it hasn't been done."

Well reader, I have always been a pioneering trailblazer (OH! Forgot to add "Pioneering Trailblazer" to my list at the top...DOH!).
Give me bright nail polish, or give me death.*

*By "me," I just mean the part of "me" that dreams of becoming a gardener.

Ahem.

Amen, let's eat.

(Important note: At this point, it's still just imaginary, parallel universe food.)

-XOXO,