Restoration

"I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul." ~Twelfth Night

Over the past few years, I've been watering the seeds of discontent in my soul with the repetitious drum of daily life. I thought a move to town would be enough to stir things up and renew my sense of self; I think instead it just added to my stress and strained the already tenuous grasp I have on my sanity. The whole move, while a sound practical decision, may have been a nothing more than an effort to shake me loose from the routine of "Real Life." I think about how often we use that strategy to breathe new life into ourselves; when we get a new outfit, or a new hair color, or a new vehicle or a new house, we feel for a moment like we are actually new people. I've used all of the above to re-energize my psyche to varying degrees over the years, though they never really last very long. It's funny, do we actually think that a change of scenery will awaken what is lying dormant in us and suddenly bring us forward into the glow of enlightenment? Swapping material goods has no lasting effect on what is essentially a part of who we are and what we do, and what ignites the passions for living that simmer below our surface. 

What are we searching for, anyway? When I feel restless and uneasy and stale with the humdrum of daily living, I ask myself: what is it that I'm looking for? And often, I don't have an answer. I want health and happiness for my kids and that's pretty much it - anything else seems selfish and self-serving somehow.  So we trudge along, day in and day out, and shine bright lights on the ordinary moments that make a regular day seem special - an unexpected favor, a well-placed compliment, or ice cream at midnight on the back step as you look out on the lake and ponder how the heck you got here. (I'm not saying I've ever done that - that's purely for illustration.)

But yesterday. Yesterday, magic happened, and for once I was paying attention. Yesterday, I blew the dust off my copy of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and introduced it to my 8th graders. I used to teach this, all the way back in the early Colorado days, circa 2000-2006. I have loved Shakespeare since Bernie Brohaugh at UWRF let me pass his class on the first try. (That was NOT easy to do, people.) I had a revolving curriculum in Colorado that let me teach whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and I brought the Bard to every class I ever taught. We had the best times, translating the language, performing the scenes, and illustrating his imagery.

When I got hired at Fairmont, however, there was a set curriculum with a clear map and plan, and Shakespeare is a 9-12 content topic. I knew I had been missing him a little, but I had no idea how much. This year, my department put the stamp of approval on adding a little taste of Shakespeare to the 8th grade curriculum and I was able to choose how I wanted to do it. So of course, I brought out the long-forgotten files on Shakespearean insults. I found the cartoon panels on how to follow the play-within-a-play, and I resurrected Puck, in all his irreverent glory, to the extreme delight of my classes. I knew they would love it; I did not know what effect it would have on me.

Approximately 6 lines into the play, I realized I was reading aloud from memory - reciting words that had lain waiting in the darker corners of my memory. I felt a brightness in my eyes, and energy in my words that I hadn't felt in ages. I taught for four hours in a row before a break, and when I collapsed into my chair I began to grasp the complete and utter change that had taken over my body. I felt energized, renewed. A surge of purpose flooded through me, and I found myself Googling activities and videos and planning future lessons with the vigor of my forgotten youth. 

24 hours later, the energy has not subsided, the spring in my step is still there. I've been thinking deeply about this all day; I wonder sometimes if we too often look outside ourselves for ways to reinvent the passion of our youth. What if the passions of our youth are in fact the keys to keeping us young? What if we do not need a change, but rather a RETURN to something from our past? What if our quest to "become" something new, different, more, is a hollow promise? What if the answer was in us all along? 

I don't mean to minimize the importance of the growing that we all do as we get older; we become wiser, more self-aware. We can view our past with sharp clarity of intent and purpose...and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. But how delightful to discover that I didn't need to chop off my hair, buy a new shirt (or a house?) to find renewal. Mine came from the master storyteller himself, in the pages of a 400 year old story and on the faces of a room full of our future's brightest.

Basketball Reflections

My dad coached basketball nearly all my young life; from a very early age I can remember going to the gym with him and bouncing a ball along the sideline. To this day, the smell of popcorn in a gymnasium does wonderful things for my psyche; it gives me a special kind of adrenaline rush to walk into that environment. I sat behind my dad at games, listened to his words, absorbed the environment. His ball players babysat me, I got to twirl batons at halftimes, mom put yarn pom-poms in my hair so I could match the cheerleaders, and basketball became a routine part of winter life in the Bartscher house.

Sadly, I never connected to the game as a player the way that I could have. I played most of my high school career with varying levels of success. No one would ever accuse me of being especially good at it, but I kept going out for the team mainly because basketball had been so prevalent in my life for so long that it had become a part of the skin I was wearing.

Looking back at the basketball playing memories that have stayed with me, very few of them have anything to do with playing the actual game. I remember that freshman year Coach Cue started me at point guard for our first game of the season. We were in Wells in that dark gym/auditorium and I must have looked shocked because he said, "What's the matter?" I told him that until that moment I had only ever played post. He said, "you probably could have mentioned that before!" But he started me there nonetheless. That year I learned to see the court from the front half of it for the first time. I also remember that I was a real thorn in the poor man's side all season. During a frustrating practice where our team (me) was doing everything wrong and we (I) had to do it over and over again, I leaned against the wall in the gym and inadvertently shut off all the gym lights. I flipped them back on of course, but in Blue Earth's old junior high gym the lights needed time to "warm up." There was tense silence, followed by a deep sigh. It must have taken a supreme amount of control for Coach to dismiss us for the day and only glare at me as I walked by instead of throttling me as I probably deserved.

When senior year rolled around, I'm sorry to say that I decided to stop playing ball. There is a long and complicated reason for that, which I won't elaborate on today. But the short answer is that it had stopped being fun. All the wonderful parts of the sport had become lost for me and I decided I needed to be finished. My dad bore it well; he never pressed me or pushed me to stay. I credit my parents over and over for always being able to see what I needed and set their own feelings aside - there are many examples of that in my life and I feel so lucky for that. I turned in my practice jersey one cold November afternoon and went home after school with an odd sense of detachment.

Coach Cue found me the next morning. He didn't ask me to reconsider - he asked me instead to help him coach the freshman team. I was so surprised - the thought had never occurred to me before. That moment became a pivotal moment in my life. I am certain I would have never looked at a basketball court again after high school were it not for that invitation.

The first time I sat next to him on the bench during a game, he leaned over and discussed coaching decisions with me the entire game. That was the first time I realized how much more there was to the game of basketball than my limited experience as a player had afforded me. I began to see offensive patterns developing, I saw defensive weaknesses, I learned that chemistry on the floor is more important than individual skill. It was like getting a new pair of eyeglasses - I could see the basketball world so much more clearly from the sideline and a whole new passion emerged in me. I found that I could talk basketball with my dad on a completely different level, bringing me even closer to him through coaching than being a player ever could.

I helped Coach Cue for the first time in 1993; I have coached a basketball team every single winter since that year - for 23 years now - and learned something new every single year. When I got to college I looked up the local high school coach and volunteered my services. That opened the door to get a position as a 6th grade traveling coach for a local Wisconsin program. After college I landed back in Blue Earth for a year where Coach Cue hired me back again as his freshman coach. When I moved to Colorado and found my first teaching position, Robert Crowther took me under his wing as the Varsity Assistant Coach. That was especially challenging; Colorado basketball is vastly different from Minnesota basketball. It took me three or four years to get that entirely figured out - especially that trademark match-up zone he so masterfully commanded. Coming back home, I was worried I would have to wait a while to find a place in a program; I shouldn't have been concerned. Between the CER youth programs I do three times a year, the school ball program where I've coached every single level from 7th grade to assistant varsity, and the traveling association programs, I have had my fill of basketball.

I've had some special players over the years, special seasons and important milestones in coaching. For the last three years, I've been especially lucky to coach my own daughter's traveling team for basketball. I was worried about that a little; my dad never coached one of my teams. Each time I reached his level, he swapped positions with another coach in the program. I really really wanted him to coach me - but he always felt that it wouldn't be fair either to me or to the other players. I've been really mindful of that, coaching Emma. I've tried to be as impartial and careful as I can be when it comes to her and the team. I hope I've done well, though there was one embarrassing moment when I jumped up and hollered "Emma Ruth!" at her when she picked up another unnecessary foul. I have to restrain myself from using the middle name anywhere outside of our house.

This team of 18 wonderful girls has been the highlight of these last three years. I've loved watching them develop - I remember when they could barely dribble and walk at the same time and now they can run complex plays and transition the floor almost autonomously. I made a promise to myself and a commitment to their parents that I would care more about their development than I do about their wins. We divide evenly into teams every single week, every girl gets exactly the same opportunity to learn every position and to learn every skill. I've never divided them into A and B teams - the day you tell a girl that she is a "B" player is the day she stops believing she can ever be more than that. I know that time is coming, but I just don't believe in doing that when they are still young and growing and learning.

This philosophy has had so many benefits: they get along with each other on an exceptional level. Believe me, I have coached girls for a LONG time and that is a rare thing. When they show up to every practice and know that I'm going to work them exactly the same, treat them exactly the same, and give every girl exactly the same opportunity, the impulse to compete AGAINST each other is replaced with a drive to compete collaboratively WITH each other - and that's a game-changer. And believe it or not, this whole fairness thing has resulted in wins - both teams win, they win a lot, they come home with lots of hardware and the best part is that I don't have a clear top and a clear bottom. I have lots and lots of good athletes - the higher skilled players set the bar and the lower skilled players strive to meet the expectation - and I don't think they even have any idea that's what's happening.

Next year, however, they will be 7th graders. Their school ball team will divide them, and I have no idea how or what will happen when that happens. I don't know if everyone will stay out, I don't know if anyone will be disappointed or upset with the outcome - I have no control over it. I hope that whatever happens they will look back on these three years as fondly as I do. We've laughed and been silly and been sad and weathered bad refs and terrible fouls and concession stand food together. We have a million pictures of a million beautiful moments and I'm going to treasure them.

I'm currently coaching the 8th grade school ball team, so I will probably get them back in a year or so, for one last hurrah before I send them to the high school program. I feel like I'm handing over my cherished possessions and hoping that the high school receives them with the same love I've poured into them. They will be a fun group to watch - up and comers with skill and purpose and the best sense of teamwork I've seen in a long while. May they be successful, may they stay together, may they love each other, may they continue to work hard and love this game. And may I have the strength to let them go.

A Rose By Any Other Name

I have had a terrible writer's block this year; I can sit at the computer and stare at a blank screen, willing my fingers to move and they can not. I have tried many writers' methods of getting jump started - but those seem to work only on my fiction writing. I maintain my fiction work on a separate site, and that one seems to be flourishing this year, but my poor blog - the one I write for my family - is really suffering.

I know that the move has something to do with it. Sometimes when I open the blog, I look at the title and description, and I feel like I'm no longer on "the path less traveled." Living out on the farm, working toward sustainable living, having our crazy adventures made me feel like we had taken a path of living separate and different from the average bear.

Now we live in town, just like every regular Joe. Our adventures are still pretty entertaining, of course, but I think that it's time that they fall under a new title.

My love of great literature generates a tendency toward finding a metaphor everywhere I go, in everything I do. Unless I'm in the company of a fellow literary junkie, I try to keep all my references to myself, and live in my own head much of the time. When I started the blog I felt inspired by Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. It was a both a literal and figurative representation of our life on the farm, and I wanted the name of my blog to reflect that. Of course, every possible variation of that was already in use, so The Path Less Traveled was as close as I could get.

Once I decided that I needed a new name for our new chapter, I began searching for the right moniker under which we would continue our family tales. I pored over my literary favorites, looking for allegories and references that felt right. I'm not sure why Ray Bradbury rose to the surface; I have so much love for Margaret Atwood and Toni Morrison...I feel like Emerson and Thoreau wrote the template for my life. But Bradbury's collection of The Martian Chronicles has a stubborn pull. I teach several of his short stories to my 8th graders; he masterfully built a collection around the idea that humans would start over on Mars. His stories are realistic yet fantastic. His characters have depth, they are real in their interactions, despite the surreal environment in which they find themselves. Each story has a deep human truth buried underneath the bells and whistles of a future imagined by that great storyteller.

We are starting over, in a way, by moving to town. We've turned a page and imagine a future for ourselves beyond the borders of the farm where we began. So The Gudahl Chronicles it is.

We move forward, we evolve, just like the Bittering family from Dark They Were, and Golden Eyed, the final story in Bradbury's collection. We cling to our identity, yet press outward in an effort to acclimate. I just love that story; it used to make me shiver when I read it, anticipating some dark outcome from an unseen threat. The threat, it seems, is no threat at all; the change comes from within. It's wonderful. Dark They Were And Golden Eyed (full text)

The World We're Living In

I'm not sure if I'm going to share this post on social media or not; jury's still out on that one for me. I usually link my blog to my Facebook and Twitter, where a few interested parties read along with my musings. This one, though, will ruffle feathers. Normally I don't mind a few ruffled feathers, but we're living in a more dangerous world than the one I grew up in, and feather ruffling sometimes has some pretty negative consequences.

My purpose has always been the same - to tell our stories. I've centered most of my time on family tales and largely ignored life outside the walls of our home. But I think I have to stray from the formula today; I'm feeling so passionate about how events in our world are unfolding. I want my kids to know where I stand on things; I want to tell them, to talk about the precipice the world is approaching.

Kids, you are too young right now to understand the crisis I feel our country is facing; I have no idea what world you will be living in 30 or 40 years from now. I feel compelled to go on record; if the world descends into madness, at least you will know my thoughts on that as we stand on the edge of it today.

We are approaching another presidential election; these have come and gone with great fanfare over the last century. With just a handful of notable exceptions, I would say our country made perceptible but incremental actual changes from the leadership of one President to the next. It would seem that our most recent president has elicited more criticism than average because he attempted to initiate actual sweeping change in large ways in this country. America is deeply divided; ask anyone, and they will tell you in no uncertain terms what they think of our President. I'll tell you, children, that I voted both times for President Obama. While I haven't agreed with 100% of his decision making, I have believed strongly in the direction I knew he was trying to go, though he was embattled by Congress, even his own party, at every possible turn. In case you are wondering, Obamacare was the best thing to ever happen to our family. We were able to get health insurance coverage at a rate we could actually afford, and you reaped the benefits of that in a big way. He's done big things for our veterans, for the unemployment rate, for wage earnings. Don't let the haters fool you - independent fact checking is always better than drinking whatever Kool-Aid the political machines are churning out. (Fact Checking the Obama Administration).

His term is ending, though, and the people emerging to take the reins of the once-great America make me very nervous. I say "once-great" because as the gauntlets are thrown down in the political arena, it is becoming clear to me that the country once viewed as welcoming of all races, cultures, and religions - the "melting pot of the world" has been quietly transforming into something else.

Terror exists in the world; it has always existed, everywhere. America enjoyed a period of several decades in which we were largely untouched by it. I grew up in a childhood where our teachers mentioned Muammar Gaddafi and we had merely a vague sense that Libya might not be a country where we should vacation anytime soon. The Gulf War brought Sadaam Hussein to the forefront and President Bush waged his "weapons of mass destruction" argument to support his foreign policy agenda. Still, the American people were somewhat detached and emotionally removed from the troubles in Iraq and Afghanistan., unless you were a military family directly connected with the Middle East.

But 9/11 brought the terror to our doorstep. And that has had an undeniably significant effect on our people. Terrorists brought their agenda to our door, and they happened to be of middle-Eastern descent. I often wonder; if the terrorists had been blond haired, blue eyed citizens of Scandinavia, would our country have responded the same way? In the wake of the 9/11 tragedy, in our fear, our uncertainty, our helplessness, we have allowed long-dormant racial prejudices to re-surface in America. We have become suspicious of anyone, anything, that doesn't fit the 1950's version of white middle class America. It's almost as if the last 65 years of American progress have been wiped out. We are seeing a return to communities who discriminate and victimize people of color. Gun violence is at an all-time high.

Our presidential candidates have a tough job; they must reassure the American people that we will be okay. As I listen to their platforms, to their agendas, I find myself increasingly alarmed. There is no calming voice, providing rational guidance in the storm. Instead, we have inflammatory proselytizing from people who are preying on the fear of a nation and using it for political gain. The idea of living in a country under some of these candidates makes me nauseous. I don't make this statement lightly; our country is primed for change. If we allow a person with racist, bigoted ideals to be the vehicle of change, we are headed for absolute disaster. Make no mistake, political correctness is another term for tolerance. By eschewing the need to be "politically correct," we are actually embracing the xenophobic agenda of a man poised to take us to God-knows-where.

I would like to believe that we will never elect a leader that would go against the fabric of our nation by closing our borders to refugees and people in search of a better life. I would like to believe that in America, no one would be profiled, singled-out, identified and villainized for their ethnicity or their religion; yet some of our prospective contenders are advocating for exactly that. At least one particularly loud politician wants to close our borders to people searching for a better life, for people looking to escape persecution. (Umm...our forefathers founded this country on that premise exactly...? Although maybe we should ask the Native Americans how that turned out for them...) He wants to create religious registries to identify Muslims. Ten years ago, I would have laughed at anyone who suggested that such a man could be nominated to public office in this country. Today, I'm not so sure. The emergence of reckless politicians and their inflammatory statements have emboldened the common man to put a voice to the racism and prejudice that is apparently still simmering below the American surface.

This isn't new, actually. During WWII Americans became so suspicious of Japanese-Americans that we put them in internment camps. For real, America did that. Consider the Red Scare of the 50's; accusing someone of being a Communist, even as a passing comment in a heated argument resulted in real consequences for people. Every time time there is a conflict, every time that fear is ignited, people respond irrationally. Sadly, our country responded irrationally, and perpetuated the fear and ignorance that fueled our prejudices. You only have to read the history books to understand that the exact same thing is happening today. The actions of a few have fueled a fear and ignited the prejudices that still live here. We are set to repeat the mistakes of yesterday, unless the American people have the strength to choose differently.

I watch my Facebook feed, watch the posts of my own friends and family, and I see them "liking" these kind of pages. They click "share" on articles that full of fallacies, half-truths, and sometimes outright lies. I will be completely honest here; it is difficult for me to feel the same way about these people in my life when I realize that they share and perpetuate the hate and bigotry being presented on the platforms of some of these political aspirants.

Ask yourself this question: if the 9/11 terrorists had been white Lutherans, would our country have gone off the deep end in the way that it has over Muslim-Americans? The Sandy Hook massacre was perpetrated by a white kid. When did white kids become public enemy #1? They didn't. Instead we chalked it up to "one of those terrible tragedies" and refused to institute even one measure of precaution when it came to gun sales. By the way, you know why we are so reluctant to give up our guns? Because not enough white people are dying because of them. (Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound - if my previous opinions didn't cause half of my friends to un-friend me, then this one should do it) This is the sad truth; people of color are more than twice as likely to die from gun violence as white people. (Gun Deaths By Race) And white people are holding on to their "right to bear arms" with a ferocious grip, because it isn't a problem for "us."

If you take a statistical look at who is perpetrating gun violence in this country, you need look no further than your own backyard. Of the mass shootings occurring since 1982, 65% of them were committed by White Male Americans. More than half. (http://www.cnn.com/2015/06/27/us/mass-shootings/) And political aspirants are worried about the illegal immigrants who want to come to the US for a better life? Hispanic-Americans barely register on the single-victim gun violence statistics in this country. (http://www.cnn.com/2013/01/15/opinion/frum-guns-race/).

Listen up, politicians: if you want to do something IMPORTANT that might ACTUALLY affect the health and well-being of Americans and will go much further in keeping them safe, why don't we focus on mental illness, education, and poverty? We don't need a wall to keep people out and we don't need more guns to saturate the population. We need access to medical care! We need access to education! We need access to basic needs like housing and clothing and food!

I can barely open social media these days and read what the world is saying. I watch people share post after post of information that was written by non-experts, fueled by inflammatory language and perpetuated with fear and ignorance without a reference to actual fact or statistical data anywhere. I see support for an agenda that would radically change the direction of this country. What if our future leadership was suggesting that we close our borders to all white Europeans? What if they said, "That's it, we have to keep an eye on those Baptists - they're nothing but trouble." Would you still cheer for them and call them "brave" for not being "politically correct?" It is almost unbelievable to me that these people are becoming legitimate contenders for nomination.

These are my worries, today, in the America I'm living in. This isn't a Democrat/Republican thing. It isn't a Muslim/Christian thing. This is a human issue. It's a love thing. If I have anything to say to you, my sweet darlings, is that I hope your future world is a good one. I hope this generation does the right thing, has the right intention, weathers this terrible domestic storm of hatred on our shores and America emerges stronger, better, than she was before.

I'm long past the debate stage of my life; at 41 years old I can say with relative certainty that no Facebook meme is going to change the way I view the world. I don't give any weight to the arguments of people who know how to click "share" but don't know how to research actual facts for themselves. Posting publicly about my feelings won't change their minds, and only opens me up to the trolls. That's partly why posting this might not be a great idea. As a schoolteacher, I have to be very careful not to let my feelings about the world color what or how I teach in the classroom. Fortunately, we spend our time in 8th grade English reading the classics and we work on poetry skills - I can immerse my day in the development of good readers, and hope that I'm giving them the tools they need to further their education and improve their life. (I'm kind of glad I don't teach Current Events. That might be much more difficult for me!)

So here it is - whether the world agrees with me or not, this is my view, this is how I feel about what's happening to our country. I just wanted you to know. Maybe this period will quietly pass and be a tiny blip on a timeline of events. Or maybe it will be a turning point; there's no way really to know right now. But at least you will know who I was and what I thought about the world at the time.

And also: if your mom suddenly loses all her friends and her job and nobody talks to her for days and months and years - this is probably why - people don't like it when you ruffle their feathers. On the bright side, we'll be able to play lots of board games. Please pay attention the world around you, kiddos. Read the news, read all the news, strive to see the whole picture, and never take anyone's word on something unless you've fact-checked it yourself. And when you do have opinions, vote. Put the right people in charge of this messed-up world. Put people in charge who will leave everyone in their care better than when they found them. When in doubt, love. Lead with love, no matter what. XOXO

Town Living

We've been settling in to the house in town for a couple of months now. I think I will still be adjusting to town life for another year or so, but it is amazing how fast we acclimate to new surroundings. Most of my concern and worry centered around my kids. Collectively, I've moved dozens upon dozens of times; I'm actually quite skilled at adapting to new places. But we moved to the farm in 2007, when my kids were 3, 9 months, and still incubating. The farm was the only home any of them remembered, so I have been watching cautiously for signs of stress and trauma.

Cooper had been lamenting about his woefully small bedroom since he was old enough to communicate clearly, so he was fully on board with the new bedroom which roughly tripled his play area. The move placed him right next door to a built-in buddy that he met this summer on his baseball team. We were painting one afternoon with the windows up when I heard this shout through the screen: "HEY COOPER! WANNA COME OUTSIDE AND RIDE BIKE?" Cooper was playing on the floor in the hallway and shot up like a bullet. He hollered, "YEAH! I'M COMING!" And out the door he went. I had to take a moment to ponder the awesomeness. He had never had access to other kids that way before.

It reminded me of two of the best years of my own childhood when I lived in a tiny little house in a tiny little town in northern South Dakota. Renee Brandner lived across the street and I spent two blissful years climbing her apple tree, dancing to Simon and Garfunkel's Cecelia in her living room, eating whatever amazing hot dish her mother put on the table, and sleeping on piles of pillows on the floor of her bedroom. She was my first best friend, and was so important to my youth. I am so happy that Cooper will have that opportunity.

The girls now have to share a bedroom, which thrilled Carys and caused Emma to shoot searing laser beams in my general direction. There is a "secret reading nook" in this fabulous house, though, so we gave it to Emma along with some bean bag chairs and a fully stocked book shelf which soothed the savage teenager looming inside, at least temporarily. Emma is my most conflicted, which is not surprising given her age. She is young enough to appreciate the social opportunities that town has to offer, but old enough to recognize that she is giving something up in the process. The farm is still for sale, so we make periodic trips out there to clean before a showing or move additional items to town. On one recent trip, I was turning into the driveway when I heard a small choking sob from the seat next to me. Emma was trying (unsuccessfully) to hold off the tears. She said, "I just miss this so much!" And all I could do was stop the car and give her a hug, because I know. I know. I miss it too.

The hardest moment for Carys came when we had to re-home the farm kitties. She had helped Mama Kitty give birth to four pretty little tabbies. She fed them, played with them, cleaned up after them and worried over them for nearly a year. We couldn't take 5 cats to town, of course, so we found a wonderful farm at a friend's house for them to grow up. The day we had to gather them, put them in a crate in the back of my car and head down the driveway almost broke me. She sniffled through the packing, dripped big salty tears all over their toys, and then climbed on to Aaron's lap and let those big wracking sobs take over while Mom drove away with her babies. (For all of you who thought I should let her come along...well...those cats did not take happily to crates. They were a snarling bundle of you know what by the time we got them in the car. I was more concerned that Carys remember Henry & Oliver as sweet lap kittens than as angry Toms, so I went alone. Two weeks later, we visited the farm where I took them, and Carys got to see them in their new home: fat and happy, and very excited to climb on her lap and cuddle. All's well that ends well!)

So. We live in town. Where cars throw light patterns on the walls at night. Where neighbors walk right in front of your house and stop in at random moments to say hello. Where there is no apple tree, no raspberry bed, no greenhouse or garden. Where the grocery store is actually a possible solution to being out of an ingredient, and where the Dairy Freeze is blessedly three blocks away. Where we can fish in our back yard, build sand castles, have friends over, and go cosmic bowling at the Bowl Mor on Saturday nights.

I still miss the quiet peace of farm living, but I'm glad I got the chance to give it to my kids for a while anyway. I certainly wouldn't trade the farm chores for the sandy beach I've got in my backyard right now. I'm anxious to spend the holidays in the new house, creating new memories and solidifying new patterns of normal. I hope the extra hour we have gained each day by not driving to and from the farm becomes time I can spend connecting with my kids, and that they'll be just as happy here as we were when we were there. I'm hoping they will feel the way I feel about all the homes my parents gave me growing up. Each one was special for it's own reasons, but we never really left "home." It is a cliche for a reason: home is really wherever you make it.

Absence

I've been absent from the blog for 5 long months. The weight of all our untold stories press heavily on my heart. I've tried to come up with a neat little explanation for posterity, to remember the great summer of our discontent. (Apologies to Richard III) The truth is simply that I could not write. Physically, emotionally, I was at a stopping place. There were too many changes, too many decisions, too many words; it was just too much.

But. Last week I finally felt the first little tugging at my fingertips, itching to write a few words. I sat at the computer and looked a blank screen for about 10 minutes. Yesterday I wrote four sentences, erased them, and wrote four more. I read them, re-read them, erased them, and logged off. Today I have managed 11 so far, and I'm still typing, so maybe. I think maybe once I get going I may not be able to quit. We'll see.

Today I'm just going to ease back in, slowly.

We moved.

Whew - that was tough. I wrote and re-wrote a six paragraph explanation, but really I can simplify it down to just two words. We moved. We left the farm, our little oasis from the real world and moved into a vintage fixer-upper on the lake. I'm not sorry, at least not yet. On paper, this was a very good decision. Four blocks from school, snuggled into a quiet street with amazing neighbors, we have a sandy beach walkout only a block from the park and the Dairy Freeze. I'm not sorry - the kids ride bikes, go fishing, build sandcastles and play with friends and we aren't in the car for an hour every day. I really like the house - it needs some work, but it has amazing potential.

Sometimes, though, someone peeks into my soul and asks, "But how could you leave the farm? You seemed so happy there..."

We were happy there. We were. And we will be happy here.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I walked out to the beach and curled up on the sand and watched the water lap against the shore line. Within a few minutes I felt an easing in my shoulders. I breathed deeply the green smell of the water and I wished I could find words to bottle the moment. This morning, this poem popped up in my daily Poetry.com feed, and I see that once again the world is speaking to me.

The Peace of Wild Things

BY WENDELL BERRY

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free

As usual, it is language, in its startlingly beautiful simplicity, that can bring me back to the world.

Exodus

Let me start off right now by saying I feel guilty for even writing this post. I feel waves and waves of guilt pouring over me as I contemplate my next few paragraphs. I am swimming in the guilt-ocean because on Mother's Day I opened my Facebook page to an outpouring of motherly love and happiness over the various states of motherhood that the entire outside world felt like glorifying this past weekend. Maybe my lack of mommy-posting went unnoticed by everyone out there - but the honest to goodness truth is that what I wanted to post went so far against what everyone else in the universe was posting that I thought it might be wiser to just keep my mouth shut.

You see, I love my kids. I adore them. I would do all the things everyone always says they would do for their kids - would die for them, would do anything for them, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, insert cliche saying, overused phrase, etc.  I hope that 5 years of my endless posting of pictures and cute moments, and passionate love-filled blog posts will drive that point home for me. Because I didn't do anything even remotely resembling good mothering this weekend.

In fact, I did no mothering at all. And THAT, my friends, might have been the best Mother's Day ever. I know that this is borderline sacreligious, so I just kept that little truth nugget to my own self this weekend. But honestly - I love my kids 24/7 and spend time with them 24/7 and this was the first weekend in, maybe, ever, that Aaron and I went away by ourselves for two whole days and didn't do any parenting whatsoever at all.

And it was amazing.

We checked in to the W Hotel in Minneapolis on Friday night. A valet took my keys, said, "Welcome Back to the W, Ma'am" and then directed a bell hop to take my bags upstairs for me. When we checked in, it appeared that I had won the Starwood Preferred Guest lottery because the desk clerk spent a good 10 minutes making sure I had everything I possibly wanted. A bottle of champagne was waiting in the room with a hand-written note letting me know how glad they were to host me this weekend.

Okay - pause button. What? Just? Happened? The last time a group of us stayed at the W, I put the reservation in my name, so I guess I racked up a lot of points or something because they acted like I was the Queen of England - me, in my denim capris, track t-shirt and flip flops. I even found a card on the table offering me $50 in room service free of charge for the weekend. Which, by the way, we took immediate advantage of. (Hello, 12 oz ribeye and lamb sliders, how very nice to see you.)

We'd planned to kick off our weekend away in style - we had tickets to see the Gear Daddies. If you know who they are, I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, I can't explain it to you. Here, watch this. You probably still won't get it. If you weren't around southern Minnesota from roughly 1986 - 1992, you may just have to accept that you missed something amazing.

They played their 25th reunion show this weekend, at First Ave. If you already know about First Ave, then I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, go there. Today, tonight, this weekend, sometime...just go. Or go home and watch Purple Rain. Then you'll maybe have some kind of idea.

I think somewhere around 10pm on Friday night it began to sink in. I was at First Avenue, listening to the Gear Daddies, holding hands with the boy I have known since we were in 4th grade, and I swear to absolute goodness, I felt so much more like myself than I have felt in centuries. My children were anything but on my mind - it felt like I was young again - truly young - and life hadn't yet actually begun. I was blissfully unaware of everything around me for just a few short hours, and I just can't tell you properly what that felt like. Billy Dankert sang Blues Mary with all the verve he could muster, Martin Zellar sang She's Happy right to me and right through me, and I felt free and light and young.

Of course, reality came crashing back in when a lovely lady I will refer to as Drunk Amy spilled a large pink cocktail on me. She was a perfectly lovely person in her less-drunk state of mind; she had introduced me to her 35 closest friends as they staggered back and forth from our spot in front of the stage to the bar. Even when she spilled sticky grenadine-soaked something on my jeans, she was so NICE about it. "Sorry Sara! I did that! Oopsie! I can dry-clean your pants for you, if you want!" No thanks, Drunk Amy, but I do appreciate your concern. In fact, the boys are starting to play Little Red Corvette as their first encore and I am feeling so good right now, I don't even mind the sticky shoes all that much.

Walking back to the W after the show, the Minneapolis skyline was alight in all her glory; we passed street musicians and patio bars and people laughing and walking together and enjoying the 65 degree weather. We rounded the corner on Marquette and the Foshay building looked spectacular. My phone had died long before, so a photo was out of the question. But I'm going to cheat and use this photo I found online - it looked like this - something we don't see every day out on the farm.

On Saturday morning we sure tried to sleep in - we really, really tried. But several years of 5am wake up calls have set our clocks semi-permanently, I'm afraid. We were out and about and looking for coffee early. The Whatever/Whenever guy said he would bring a coffee maker to our room but we politely declined - it's much more interesting to explore the city streets. 

We spent our entire Saturday cruising the cities, with no particular destination in mind. When we saw something interesting, we stopped. At one point Aaron saw the Duluth Trading Company, and we made a beeline inside. This company has the hands-down best advertising in Minnesota, and we were hoping to snag a few fun pics next to semi-inappropriate signs. I even bought something, just so I could have one of their paper bags to take home. We looked totally ridiculous trying to take pictures of ourselves next to mannequins with suggestive signage inside what is typically a very quiet environment, so I settled for this one:

When we got back to the room that afternoon, we settled into a movie while we waited for our fashionably late-night dinner reservation at Manny's. The steaks are legendary, and there was no exception tonight. We ate in careful, savory bites, drawing out the deliciousness, casually ogling the $400 bottle of wine on the neighboring table. I thought the $80 steak was decadent - I can't imagine spending a car payment on bottle of merlot. But the people around us behaved as if this was everyday food for them, so we did our best to act like we belonged there. 

Something else kind of wonderful happened, in tiny stages, throughout the entire weekend. I remembered what it was like when Aaron and I were just Aaron and I. Relating to each other without the constant interruption of children's needs is something we have really missed. With no one to entertain and bathe and feed and worry about, we were able to just be. He held my hand everywhere we went; I had forgotten that he used to do that, We laughed like we hadn't laughed in ages. Our conversations lately usually revolve around who's picking up who, what we're having for supper, and what activity which kid has on what day. It was nice to talk about everything else for change. 

On Sunday we decided to make our way home. The further we got from Minneapolis, the more familiar I became with my surroundings. City streets turned to highways, skyscrapers turned to houses turned to cornfields. I could feel the pulse of city life slowing and the easy comfort of the country seeping back into my consciousness. I was genuinely happy to see my three babies. For a few surreal hours I could sense the city experience on my skin even through the chattering of their stories, and I felt oddly suspended between worlds. But eventually it faded, and my identity returned as Mommy and Mediator, Counselor and Chauffeur, Chef and Sharing Police, the Reader of Stories and the Checker of Homework.

It was a very Un-Mommy weekend, on the weekend devoted to motherhood. Waves of guilt aside, I had a really, really good time. I should have used my Facebook status to tout the virtues of my own mother, who grandmothered my beautiful babies while I made my weekend escape. Thanks, Mama. I really, really needed that. And I promise to pay it forward someday when my daughters need to make their own exodus.