But Aunt Flo is visiting, if you’d like to talk with her.
I should have known…
But Aunt Flo is visiting, if you’d like to talk with her.
I should have known…
We really like the Japanese and Asian teas. Served out of a cast-iron tetsubin teapot, poured into simple cast-iron cups that fit into your hand as if they were created just to snuggle into your own particular palm.
Our current favorite is an herbal blend called simply, “Night Night” with various herbs to help a body relax and ease into a restful night’s sleep. It might sound silly, but I sleep better on the nights when we take time for our Night Night tea, than on nights when we don’t. I also like a tea called “Iron Goddess of Mercy” while M likes a tea called “Gunpowder”…sometimes the names of the tea are enough to intrigue. For example, the Christmas before Linnea was born, M bought me a tin of Gunpowder (signifying him); a tin of Peach Oolong (my favorite at the time); and a tin of “Monkey-picked Oolong” (signifying Linnea, who is our little monkey girl, and always has been). I realize that in December of 2003 I was swimming in the hormones of 8 months of pregnancy, but that one gift made me weep, and I STILL remember it as being one of the sweetest things he’s done. Plus, the Monkey-picked Oolong was DELICIOUS.
Our “tea parties” are a time for us to just stop whatever it is that has kept us so busy and so frantic all day, to sit, to enjoy the aroma and the flavors of the tea. To sit and read books, or talk, or listen to Bach or Willie Nelson. To connect with ourselves, to connect with one another, and to disconnect with other parts of our lives that have taken up enough of our time for that day.
I’d take tea over coffee any day, which is scandalous for a girl that grew up in Washington. Iced tea, black tea, green tea, white tea, herbal tea, bags, infusers–whatever you’ve got: I’ll take it. Except for those bags you buy in the grocery store. You’re not usually going to get a good cup of tea from Lipton…but if it’s all you have, then dunk me a bag, baby.
Any other tea-freaks out there?
Some of you may or may not know a blogger by the name of Kara. She and I have “known” each other from another BB for years, and I was so excited that she might come to University of Kansas for grad school (she didn’t, and I was sad, but now neither one of us have to live in Kansas, and that’s a good thing).
Her mom is in a bad, bad way. Kara is absolutely amazing…a strong woman, but there’s still a little girl who might lose her mommy living inside that glorious strong woman. So if you could, say some prayers, light some candles, keep Kara and her dad in your thoughts?
Six years ago, one of the first things that M and I did together…well, not really officially “together together” but an event that we attended in the same group, traveling in the same car, and managing to spend the entire event in one another’s company, even though we were not as yet “together”…was go to the Minnesota Ren Fest.
I had never attended one of these things. When the subject came up amongst our group of friends that we should go, those who had gone to one before immediately started making arrangements. As a RenFest virgin, I was simply along for the ride.
It’s interesting, I’ll give them that. Sometimes even amusing. And it’s hard to beat a hot turkey leg and a cold beer on a sunny late-summer day. And it’s hard not to wander down the wide, stroller-choked byways and wonder, “I wonder if this is what it was REALLY like?” (Answer: No. Not really. Not at all.)
So, my main fondness for the RenFest comes from the fact that it was one of the first times M and I got to spend much time together. I drank too much beer (a whopping 2) and got a little tipsy, and he took care of me. We watched the jousts and something like “Plegm and Snot” or something like that. We came perilously close to holding hands…the slight brushing of fingers that you immediately act was accidental.
And, RenFests have also inspired an excellent episode of “King of the Hill”.
We’re thinking about going back this weekend. Taking Linnea with us, to see all the wonders–people who never ever got over having to leave their days in high school drama club behind, strong, beautiful horses, crude jokes, and big turkey legs. Along the way we’ll remember “the way we were”…how funny it is to remember that two people who are completely comfortable with all aspects on one anothers’ bodies and the functions thereof were once shy, uncertain, hesitant, and unknown by the other.
It’s good to take this sidetrips, I think. It reminds us of how far we’ve come. How hard-won the comfort has been. And how good it is to fall asleep everynight beside our best friend.
I’m in the process of organizing my prodigious collection of yarn. Whole skeins, bits and pieces left over from completed projects, tangles of circular knitting needles…in the packing, it all just got flung in a box, to emerge here in Minnesota as a tangled, jumbled, four-letter-word inducing mess.
You see, I’m a yarn snob. Some people may be perfectly content to knit with Red Heart, or Jiffey, or those enormous skeins that bill themselves simply as “One Pound of Yarn!”. Some people may knit perfectly lovely items with those yarns. But not Beege. Beege loves the expensive yarns. The yarns that turn knitting into a sensual experience as you feel the yarn slip through your fingers, and puddle in your lap…different yarns have different smells, different ways of catching the light, different ways of responding to the needles. And I love to watch how different yarns do that.
So, I kicked M and Linnea out of the house and went back into the bedroom to see what I could do about the mess my knitting collection had become. Along the way, I picked up the new Dave Matthews CD, Stand Up. I’d had it for awhile, but hadn’t listened to it–it was still in it’s shrink wrap. I have always been a fan of DMB. I love the texture of their sound, the way the instruments and voices weave in and out of the song–and in a way, the way the songs, instruments, and voices catch the light. As a writer, I adore DMB’s lyrics
This is what my mother used to call me when I was a teenager and I’d get into these rare, but always sudden bursts of domesticity. She’d come home from work to a clean house, dinner in the oven, and a dessert cooling on the countertop. Usually, these dips into the area of Domestic Goddessness happened about three or four days before my period…so in exchange for putting up with my hormotional rollcoasterness, my family got a clean house and good food. They decided it was a fair exchange.
I find that I’m really enjoying being home with Linnea. All those little things that I used to hate to do because it was just one more thing to have to fit into an already long and busy workday–laundry, dusting, litterbox, making the beds, doing dishes–I now find myself enjoying, because they’ve become my job. I like dusting the house and picking up Linnea’s toys at the end of the day. Today I did laundry, and it’s all folded and waiting to be put away (in my previous life, laundry was known to sit, unfolded, in a chair in the living room and we’d just pick through the pile for our clean clothes until M folded it to have a place to sit and play XBox or until it was time to do laundry again). I like planning meals, and cooking them. I like making sure the house is running smoothly so that all M has to do at the end of HIS day is take Linnea for a few hours of Daddy-Daughter funtime so I can relax a bit.
It works REALLY well. But I don’t get paid for it. Heh.
I’m just sort of in awe of the domestic goddess that lives inside of me. I’ve never been a neat-nik, much to my mother’s dismay. I’m content with a house that looks “lived in”. I never knew that I would be the type of person I’ve been–ha! This week. For a whole seven days, I’ve been the Goddess of the House. Maybe I hadn’t better be celebrating this as a permanent change. I wonder when I’m supposed to get my period.
…until you see your child abandon new playmates and run across the playground crying, “Mommmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” until she can leap into your arms. There’s no way, no matter how crappy a day that you’re having, that something like that can’t make it immediately better.
And I would know. Today has been a bit crappy.
Now that we’re up in the Twin Cities, Church Hunt 2005 has begun in earnest, and I’m using all of my (limited) avenues of access to get in contact with congregations looking for a pastor. The problem being that I have to go through the bishops in order to do this, and they are under no obligation whatsoever to make sure churches that need a pastor know about me. It’s so freaking political, and the rules are always changing.
In April I was up here to meet face-to-face with the bishops. This was recommended to me by their offices, and I was happy to do so, believing that if they had a face and a voice and a personality to go along with the 30 pages of paperwork I was required to send them, it would make a more lasting impression. They assured me that while (out of 100 openings) they didn’t have anything for me at this time, BUT they would put my paperwork on file and keep me in mind. In the meantime, they suggested that I keep an eye on their syondical websites to request my paperwork be sent to any congregations that look particularly interesting to me. OK. No problem. Done and done.
Last night I was perusing the synodical website, checking out congregations in the call process, jotting down the names of ones that looked interesting or promising. I asked that my paperwork be sent to those congregations, only to be told this morning that none of them were receiving candidates anymore–which, OK. That happens. It’s good when that happens. It means they’ve found a pastor. In that same email I had also asked that they update my paperwork with my current and accurate contact information so that if a congregation WAS interested in talking with me, they wouldn’t be looking for me in Kansas. That was all I asked. A post-it with my new address and new phone number, slapped to the front of my paperwork. I was informed that I had to RESUBMIT my paperwork (the 30 pager) to them, but first I had to have my bishop (in Kansas) sign the NEW paperwork, and then they would put my paperwork on file once again. So I have to resubmit my paperwork to my bishop in Kansas, wait for him to sign it and send it back to the Twin Cities, and THEN they’ll put the paperwork with my new address and phone number in the file. Leaving me, for those of you who are still following along: right back to where I am today. No-freaking-where.
*sigh* I’m just about ready to tell the church to fuck it. I really am. It’s so not worth what it puts people through. People don’t like to read that about the church,but it’s true. It’s a horribly abusive institution, that puts on a pretty public face and gets nasty when people try and make its hidden sins public. I wouldn’t put up with this treatment from M, and I love him more than life! Why would I put up with it from people who don’t give a flying fuck about me, and who I am increasingly not giving one about either?
M thinks I should keep after it, but I (rather nastily, I must admit) told him that he HAS what he wants. He’s doing what he wants. He has no idea the pressure I’m putting on myself about this, and I flat out told him that I’m projecting so much of my own crap onto him that he doesn’t stand a chance in hell of getting out a discussion about this topic unscathed. Warrented or not. I’m just tired. Tired of fighting and harassing and wondering if I’m doing the right thing, and remembering about how much time pastoring takes–takes away from my family and myself. I’m starting to wonder if I’m really supposed to even be a pastor. M says yes. But I say if that was the case, I would have a church. All the bishops in the world aren’t more powerful than God, and if God wanted me in a church, I’d be in one. And I’m not. And I have to look at that pretty seriously.