What I Like About You

A fan of large doses of laughter before sleep (or any time), sometimes, I still want to make sure the last thing on my brain when I turn in isn't what Jon Stewart just said, but something...deeper. It occurred to me tonight, after letting Carter watch "Phineas & Ferb" as a treat before bedtime--and let's be real, a treat for me, too, because I didn't have to read aloud, which I love, but I also love a break--that as hilarious as Perry the Platypus is, it's not a bad idea to reconnect to something deeper, and sweeter, for him, too.

So we listened to music, and then we told each other some of the things we like about each other (some, because there's a million to infinity things that we like).

Me: "I like that you are kind; I like your great sense of humor; I like the way you sat there and listened to beautiful music with me; I like the way you make play-doh tickets--it's very creative; and I like the way you were helpful to the kid yesterday (at the play-scape)."

C: "I like the way you painted my bedroom (with words), I like that your eyes were going to be blue (idk, they're green), I'm going to kiss you (kisses my cheek) and I'm going to kiss your other cheek to say 'goodnight' to it."

The beautiful music we were listening to is a song that a dear friend posted on Father's Day. We talked about how sometimes people talk to God like to a mama ("em" in Hebrew) or a papa ("abba"). The song is "Abba" and it's a profound, melodious lullaby for all ages: https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=-GeVf1XQOPg (The song starts at 1:15.) (Apologies for the "copy-and-paste" link--some blogger.com issues with links, or maybe user-error. Anyway...)

Paz.

sea moss

I was thinking that to have had this magnanimous gift of time away and to hear the ocean night and day, I must come home changed. Less fatigued, more spiritual, wiser...something. What have I done with this gift?

I've embraced the rest and respite, the reconnection with my family, with nature, salty air, and my soul. Especially, when I walk by the waves and talk to God and try to hear back. I've treasured the fun of teaching a 5-year-old to play checkers, have watched him run with a kite on a day with no wind, and have enjoyed the myriad of crafts—especially the ones made on the days Jeff was able to take off completely from work, and I slept in—delicious treat of extra sleep. We've ridden bikes in the sunshine, baked cookies, and laughed at the rain (because it wasn't snow!).

We've had some hiccups on the "perfect vacation"—requiring a trip to urgent care for antibiotics and steroids, and a sleepless night with a sweet little coughing patient. We've listened, and shared, and I should probably always listen more, with friends and family on the phone, via text, FB, and email. 2011 was sometimes painful, for many—and for some whom we love most, there aren't new chapters, rather mid-chapters...but so much can happen in that expanse, I believe, I will believe.

I've considered theology by Gulley, laughed out loud with Kaling, and just today finished some fascinating "escapism" in The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh for book club. We've danced to spunky Christmas tunes and made a puzzle map of the world. Carter asks "where should we go next?" and my mind muses, "yes, where?" Of course, the answer now is, home. Time to go home.

But wait, has anything changed, in me?

That was the question I pondered today when I walked, and happened upon the sea moss. In the story above, The Language of Flowers, moss is to represent nurture. Impeccable timing. Impeccable. I really cannot tell you how stunned I was—I hadn't noticed sea moss on any other walk. For me, it was a message from flowers, the ocean, and God—of God's maternal love. I will cling to that image for this grand new year—may it be one of nurture, one which you and I feel, and share, that aspect of God that we might often forget...that motherly, comforting, nourishing embrace...it's from there, I believe, that we are able to reimagine, create, and most of all, be.

Peace.