Salt Water

The cure for anything is salt water--sweat, tears, or the sea.

Isak Dinesen

Last week was an off week. Some weeks are just like that. But instead of letting it remain an off week, the Man, Littles, and I decided to pack our bags and head to the ocean for a night. And it was wonderful. Of course, Littles didn't sleep the entire night and I got food poisoning, but it was still just wonderful. The sound of the sea crashing into the shore, the smell of salt air, the very sense of sitting at the beginning of something that stretches out endlessly to lands far, far away...it was worth it.  

I hadn't been to the beach in almost two years, and I'd missed it. It wasn't even about the swimming (because I almost lost my toes to frostbite just by putting them in) or the sun bathing (because I was in a jacket the entire time) or the laziness of vacation that typically comes hand in hand with the beach (because being up all night with Littles wasn't precisely lazy). It was just good to cuci mata, if you will, to "wash my eyes" by being somewhere new and beautiful.

I worked the rest of my off week out by attempting to start running again (it's that time of year) and laughing so hard that I cried over some silliness that probably involved the Man. That's my preferred form of crying. And on that note, I think I'll leave you with this adorable photo of my two men and go to bed. Aren't they just perfect? And isn't the ocean dazzling as they walk towards it? And don't you just want to be there too? The correct answer is:

Yes.

Oh, Scotland Street...

I'm in the middle of a tomato soup and homemade bread extravaganza, and since the soup is simmering and the timer diligently ticking away to my left, I thought I'd take a seat on the counter and get off my feet for a bit. And what an opportune time to blog about the latest three books of the 44 Scotland Street series! So here I am in my pink flowered splatter-proof apron preparing to share with you the joy these last three books have given me. I was going to take a picture of me in the kitchen with my books and my awesome pink flowered apron, but today is evidently a creepy picture day, and as I don't want to scare off the very few people who read this blog--I'm giving up on that idea.

So, the last two weeks I've indulged myself with Love Over Scotland, The World According to Bertie, and The Unbearable Lightness of Scones, books three, four, and five of the 44 Scotland Street Series. Incredibly, I'm not yet bored reading about Domenica, Matthew, Angus, Elspeth Harmony, Big Lou, Cyril, and, of course, Bertie. I even cheered out loud at one point during the reading of The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (and I also got several comments on the awesomeness of that title--I wish I could pass those compliments on to Alexander McCall Smith). I know this may sound weird but I am becoming friends with these characters. I feel that I know them intimately. This is, perhaps, the best sign of a good novel. I would feel comfortable sharing a cup of tea with Domineca and Angus, and I'm sure that Cyril (the dog) would find my ankles infinitely tasty. I occasionally want to shake Irene--"occasionally" might be putting it mildly. And I'm holding my breath as to whether or not Bruce has actually reformed. Can I wait til the next book comes out  in June? And where did Pat go? I'm missing her!

Essentially, Alexander McCall Smith, thank you for new friends who now feel like old ones. And on that note, I think I'll go spend some time with friends who are flesh and blood instead of paper and ink. And this time I won't make the mistake of leaving this blog open for my oh-so-enterprising husband to add his own little notes at the bottom.

P.S. Now I want scones and tea... Scotland does that to you! msf

Possibly Time

It is a grey day of rain and coffee and lamplight. A day when the daffodils by my side are the only splash of sunlight, and somehow that's alright and fitting. Today is one of those with a wistful feel, more suited to a goodbye than a hello, though not a sad goodbye, just one that has to be. So I find myself thinking about change, not deep thoughts, just the usual round of memories and projections:

This lamp can be left when we move. I need to go through that box and get rid of those papers. I should probably pack those sheets separately, perhaps with that pan. Will there be a porch for the green-glow table at which the Man and I have spent so many evenings sharing coffee and conversation?

There is the smell of clean laundry and fresh flowers in the living room, the scent of comfort mixed with anticipation, and the cat is curled up on the couch, not realizing that his time here is running out (but what does it matter to him? the couch will come with us and the throw pillows and the blue hoodie he loves to cover in grey fur).

My world has been caught in slow motion, one day blurring into the other. I wake up, and the sky outside is still yesterday's sky. It's an oddly surreal sense of waiting. For what? March expires and in comes April with perhaps spring, but more likely a continuation of the same cyclical thinking that's getting me nowhere, and I have the urge to make something, anything, happen, even if it's just to get out of here for a day or cut off my hair in a desperate attempt to seize control of a world that is not mine to manipulate.

It's a conscious choice to surrender to truth, to take captive each thought, to know that if nothing else is happening (in my sense of the word) at the very least His mercies are new every morning (that is some measure of change) and that this squealchingly slow time is, as always, held in the palm of His hand. If He makes the sand move slowly through the hour glass, who am I to complain?

Addendum (with Sci Fi references)

A few months ago I wrote about a Francine Rivers' book entitled Her Mother's Hope. Let's be honest, most of my post consisted of me snidely laughing at books that have actually been published and paid for while my work is, mostly, unpublished and unbought (and occasionally, unwritten). Anyway, as mentioned previously,  Her Mother's Hope ended on a cliff hanger (we were all impressed and surprised), and I was invested sufficiently in the characters (or was it the story line?) to want to find out what happened...even if I spent a significant part of the novel groaning in laughter over the writing. Besides, my sister, whose opinion I respect, told me that I might have judged too harshly as she had read both books and found a lot to be commended.  So, my dilemma: I didn't want to buy Her Daughter's Dream because I didn't want to spend money and precious bookshelf space on it, but they didn't have it available at my library. And then I remembered: online reading! My new best friend!

I spent today and, admittedly, some of yesterday reading Her Daughter's Dream instead of doing housework during nap time. And I have to say, though the writing itself still had its cheese-tastic moments (which was not helped by the fact that there were no apostrophes in my online edition), I was really impressed by Rivers' depth and how she dealt with the hard-hitting issues of rape, miscarriage, pre-marital sex, and generational sin. Sure, the writing is not going to land Rivers' on the Christian classics list, but the faith statement she provides is worth a nod of approval, possibly accompanied by a smattering of applause. She gave me a lot to think about and even some to pray over, and I'm grateful for that.

That being said, I'm really sad that she's not writing a third book that projects the fictitious family into the future once aliens have landed and we all drive space mobiles and there's no atmosphere. I mean, she already covered an entire century plus of history and how cool would that be? Where is our Christian sci fi, people?!?!

A Stop on Scotland Street

It rained this morning, and I made scones. So even though technically I read 44 Scotland Street and Espresso Tales last week, it seemed an appropriate time to blog about them. I would have blogged earlier, since I did enjoy them quite a lot, but the time just wasn't there. But my dear friend who is staying the week with me is sitting on the couch doing grad work and my husband is not yet home from work, so here I am.

Much like today jogged my memory about the 44 Scotland Street series, so did Alexander McCall Smith remind me of my own brief time in Scotland (eloquent, eh?). I spent four days in Scotland in the spring of 2007, two days for Edinburgh and two days for Glasgow, from which was stolen half a day for Loch Lomond. That's how I traveled back then. It was exhilarating, exhausting, and, well, mostly a little ridiculous. I hit the high points and moved on. Not that there weren't quiet moments to slow down and think, but it was about Doing and not Being. So I'm really enjoying reading McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street series (I say "reading" as I'm planning to pick up the last of the series sometime next week).

Written originally as a serialized novel (one that can be printed a chapter per newspaper edition), the 44 Scotland Street series is pithy and full of flavour. Highly character driven, there's just the right amount of plot to make the reader wanting more at the end of each chapter, so its a quick read. I also just really enjoyed hearing McCall Smith's thoughts on art, relationships, modernity, parenting, and, yes, even globalization. Almost as much as I enjoyed imagining some of the more annoying male characters in kilts. There's just something satisfying about that. But mostly, it was just nice to Be in Scotland, to drink its tea, walk its cobbled streets, and, this time, feel no need to share in its haggis.

Marian made the mistake of leaving her blog up....so, i proofed this for her, and now, I am posting this for her.  And she is glaring at me with a knife in her hand and she looks very very angry.  But, I still LOVE her :)

Reflections

You know those couples who have been together so long that they wear the same clothes and tell the same jokes? They've even started to resemble each other--just because they've been together for so long, spent so much time together, and shared so many life experiences. I was thinking about that today, not in relation to me and the Man because we're not quite there yet (although we have caught ourselves wearing almost the same outfit, and no, it wasn't funny), but in relation to me and God. I keep hoping that the more time I spend with Jesus, getting to know who He is and what He's like, the more he'll "rub off" on me. I want to start caring about the things He cares about and seeing things the way He sees them. When I try to be like Him on my own, though, all I end up doing is failing miserably--either messing up more pitifully than before or wallowing in pride! My hope is that as I spend more consistent time in His presence, the Holy Spirit will begin to naturally transform me into a better mirror which can reflect the glory of Christ.

And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.

2 Corinthians 3:18

Blips (on the Radar)

I took a quick trip to the commissary today and managed to get my ID checked four times. I can't decide which excites me more: how intensely thorough they're getting with security on base or the fact that Littles and I might possibly look like terrorists.

I've come to the conclusion that the thick coating of dust on the top of an unopened cereal box spells doubt for the Man's cereal picking abilities. He obviously over estimated our desire to eat healthy cereal.

Sometimes when out running errands I get really thirsty and the only water source available is Alex's sippy cup... ... ...I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

I really wish I could hire someone to write down the thoughts I have while driving. I'm sure when I actually read them over they wouldn't be half as clever as I thought they were, but it's annoying to have them, then forget them (because driving in DC takes forever), then spend the rest of day trying to remember what occurred during that brief moment of inspiration.

In theory, I really like the idea of paper bagging my groceries. In reality, I really hate how many trips it takes me to get them in the house from the car. In general, I think this juxtaposition between theory and reality carries over to most things in life.

Anyway, on to other, potentially more productive things.