Cheers to the Writers

There are writers out there. 

Real writers who will never, in all liklihood, write a book or find a publisher or top a best-sellers list, but they're out there nonetheless, writing, experimenting, thinking, and expressing.  And when I'm lucky enough to run across them, I feel something in my brain and heart expand, connecting me to a thought I wish I had thought on my own, or a feeling that I never knew how to express, like this one.

Or sometimes I just laugh until tears run down my cheeks, like this one.

I'm so thankful to those who write.  God bless 'em.

Flashback

Yesterday, dropping Griffin off at school was a sweet experience.  It is not always so...actually, it is not usually so.  Most of the time it is hectic and rushed with a dose of tongue lashing thrown in.  We are dealing with my Griffin, after all. 

My Griffin who marches to his own drummer.  My Griffin who would rather be in the present moment than preparing for a future one.  My Griffin who has trouble staying on task.  My Griffin who forgets important details--alot.  Details like--oh, I don't know--lunches, homework, jackets, books, underwear...those sorts of details.  My Griffin who, by the time we reach school, makes me want to pull all my hair out, dance crazy on it, and take a Xanex.

But that wasn't the case yesterday.  Yesterday, when he got out of the car after his sister, he said, as he usually does, "I love you, Mom,"  and as I watched him walk away, the view of his untied shoes, legs that are quickly outgrowing his pants, and that rooster tail on the back of his little red head pierced my heart with an aching tenderness.  Before I could stop myself, I honked the horn.  He turned, his face a question mark until I blew him a kiss, and fast as lightening his hand shot out to grab it, his expression turning to delight.  Our little sign from preschool days, remembered.

In that flash, I glimpsed that little person, my baby boy:  He is still there.  I could see him.  And he is, always to be, My Griffin.

Old Friends (Without Air Quotes)

This medium is still strange to me in many ways.  I feel as though I know people whom I've never met, as least not in person.  But I feel like I've met you.  We share deep thoughts and experiences through blogs.  Thoughts that are fully developed or are in the process of developing... oftentimes things I don't have time or place to share with my proximate friends who accompany me in the hustle and bustle of everyday life.  I think it is possible to know someone through blogs and to know them intimately.  But here is the strange part:  Just as quickly, as life gets in the way, we can disappear.  Check out.  Step away from the computer leaving nothing but a post whose poststamp gets more and more ancient.  I got irritated with one blogger who quit writing just like that.  No explanation.  No winding down.  Just stopped.  I was irritated because I wondered what happened to her.  Where was the end of the story???  But then, it isn't a story, is it?  It's just life.  Busy, crazy, ongoing life.  I still wonder about her.  And every now and again I check her blog, just to see if she's come back.  And when she does, I'll try to welcome her as kindly as my old friends welcomed me.  Thanks.

I'm Baaaa-aaaack.

This year has been bananas!  And I wrote none of it.  Not one word.  I'd feel worse about it, but I can't.  I recognize that it was all I could do to just live it, let alone set it down and make sense out of it.  My husband's job search and ultimate hiring, the 6 months of single parenthood that followed, the move (oh, the move!), two months of living out of suitcases, finding a house, switching kids' schools, a job offer for me, moving in (finally), and taking a part-time job after 10 years of stay-at-home mothering.  It's been A LOT.  Oh-so-much that only now do I feel like I'm getting my feet under me.  And perhaps I'm ready to write.

I feel rusty and don't know where to begin...

How about here?  We sold our house in one day.  ONE DAY!  For that we were not prepared.  It took me two weeks of mad work to get it show ready.  Me alone, because Mr. Wicke was working in California already.  It was a crazy amount of work, but I had the place looking pretty swanky, if I do say so myself.  Still and all, I was not prepared to sell it to the first guy who walked through the door.  But we did.

Then we were homeless...because we still didn't know exactly where in southern California Mr. Wicke would be placed.  We waited...and waited...and waited...still no final decision.  And it was July.  School was starting in a month and a half.  The kids were asking where they were going to live.  "I don't know," didn't feel comforting--to them or to me.  We came to stay in temporary housing for a week and a half, and I was determined to find our home come hell or high water.  Hats off to our real estate agent.  She was a gem and took us to about 8 different cities, giving us an overview of the area.  Then magically, one Sunday afternoon we found our home.

It was a surprise.  We were just about to sign papers for another property.  The almost house almost met all of our criteria, but there were a couple of concessions that didn't sit well.  The foremost being that it didn't have a downstairs bedroom for my mom when she comes to visit.  She just can not do stairs anymore with her back.  So we were hesitating, yet we hadn't found anything better and would have hated to pass it up only to be disappointed later.

"I want you to see one more house," our agent said over the phone.  She was out of town on business, "but the owner has agreed to let you in tomorrow, so we can make it work."

To tell the truth, I wasn't very excited about it.  The pictures on line were underwhelming, but when I walked in I actually said, "Is this the same house?"  It had a great staircase in the entryway and a see through fireplace between the living room and dining room, neither of which had been featured.  It had vaulted ceilings and a fireplace in the master bedroom.  Didn't see those in the pictures either.  It had three french doors that opened to the back patio.  A gigantic bonus room and a surprisingly huge closet in a secondary bedroom.  It had a laundry chute and a three car garage.  It had a downstairs bedroom, and it was in our price range.  Where do we sign?

Still, we didn't know where Mr. Wicke would be placed, and I should interject here that we still don't.  He has been kept busy doing interim work but has yet to be assigned a specific campus, so there is a possibility of a commute in our future.  I hope not, but only time will tell.  In the mean time, we are settling in.  The kids' school, which was priority number one for us, seems excellent.  Our neighborhood, while older than our last, has been very friendly and welcoming.  Our church has made us feel at home, and I have been offered a part-time teaching position.

But that is a story for another day.

Love 'Em and Leave 'Em

I am in the middle of a love affair.  It's true.  And it's breaking my heart because I know it can't last.  I guess we just got the timing wrong...

See, the thing is, I really love my house.  I do.  I fell even more deeply, head over heels in love during the holidays when I saw just how much it could do.  It can wrap its arms around a lot of people and give them all a place to rest.  It can invite a crowd around a dinner table.  It can encourage people to lay back, put their feet up,  and take a nap.  It can let the adults talk downstairs while the kids get as squirrely as they want everywhere else.  It's a good house, and I love it.

Maybe I love it even more because I know we are leaving.  In about 5-6 months we will be driving away from Mesa onto new adventures.  My Mr. Wicke has a new job that looks to take us to Southern California (placement to be determined around May) and I am a little broken hearted.  This was supposed to be our forever house.  The one where we stay and put down roots.  That was the plan...

That just isn't how it's going down.  And I know it's a good job.  It's a good opportunity.  And I love California.  But I can't help being a little sad for us.  Because I'm in love, and not just with the house, but with the people that come and go through its doors.  The people who have made this house our home.

The Would-Be Christmas Card

Something had to give this year.  I decided that back in October when, on top of an already crazy holiday season, I was asked to plan and direct our church's Stake Christmas program.  Yeah, I said October.  Not a lot of time to start a program from scratch, and I mean scratch.  They wanted something brand new and "QUALITY."  That was the word I heard over and over again.  Quality.  In two months.  Okay...

So something had to give...and it wasn't going to be my sanity.  Although that was sometimes questionable between choosing music, writing a script, rehearsing a 60-something voice choir, designing a slide show, lighting, costuming, advertising...oh, and you know...Thanksgiving and Christmas--that stuff.  So, after considering some of the items that had to be done, Christmas cards didn't make the cut.  After 17 years of consecutive card sending, 2011 feels a little naked, undone, unfinished, if you will.

And then, look what Mr. Wicke went a did.  He designed the cutest card we've probably ever had.  (Guess what's on his list of to-do's next year?)  Except he just did it two days ago.  And just for his facebook page, I guess, so you won't be getting it in the mail, but if I post it here can you just pretend you did?

And if I push hard enough, I may even get him to write a Christmas letter.

Who Invited the Grinch?

For two years running now, singing in a community choir has given me my favorite holiday memory.  Last year it was caroling and having the recipient close their garage door in our face (which takes a pretty long time and is really awkward.  I LOVED it!)  This year, it was during a really weird concert out in Sun City West.  It's a long way across the valley to get there, all of us fighting traffic the entire way.  When we finally arrive and take the stage, the piano is out of tune, the room has no ring to it, and the audience is nearly comatose.  Tough performance, but we smile, sing great and soldier on.   Then we get to the sing-a-long song (because every holiday concert needs a sing a long song!)  Our conductor turns to the audience and enthusiastically says, "Okay!  Now it's your turn!" and one old guy near the middle loudly grunts, "Oh, Lord!" so very loudly that it cracks me up.  I can barely sing the next song for laughing.

You gotta' love the holiday spirit...