The Kids Got My Goat (Commentary on Childlikeness)

I stood with my friend in her driveway, 6 dozen free-range eggs in hand, while brown and white foster orphans danced around us: two 4-week old baby goats.  For all they knew, this bottle-feeding human was their mama.  They adored her. 

The two hopped and pranced like a pair mechanical wind-up toys, snatching foxglove and begonia leaves on the run as they skedaddled from place to place.  Sometimes they catapulted so high they landed on top of each other.  Other times they stood still, ears flicking, dreaming up choreography for the next sequence of leaps and bounds.  Every now and then they ran to their surrogate mother’s side for reassurance.  Yes, all was well.  Mama’s presence proved it.

Drawn into their playfulness, we giggled and laughed as they might have done had they been human children.  They didn’t know or care they were orphans, but simply trusted current goodness.  Their example was contagious, and despite our conversation about difficulties, challenges, and big decisions, we followed them in embracing the moment - in trusting our very present, sovereign Parent.

Childlikeness.  It is habit-forming. 

Poetry in Motion

“Your daughter is a poet,” a new acquaintance told me yesterday.  I wasn’t sure how to respond.  My thirty-six-year-old daughter was creative and precise, a student and teacher of the fine and deep and reverent, and an agile dancer.  But I didn’t necessarily think of her as a poet.  “She writes poetry for me,” the woman added knowingly. 

I stood in a corner with this woman and two others who, with my daughter, collectively shaped an intimate book club.  Their favorite project to date has been reading Milton’s Paradise Lost aloud and discussing it.  I could trust that they knew each other very well – that these three had experienced the poet in my grown-up child.

We chatted in a unique context, jointly nibbling refreshments following my daughter’s inspiring ballet performance.  This was the first time for her to dance on stage since her teen years, a memorial event honoring an adult co-dancer who passed away some months ago in the dance studio during class. 

“That was your best dancing, Suzy!” the teacher said at the end of the tango that fateful day.

“Roses to everyone!” Suzy responded exuberantly, gesturing into the air as if to throw a bouquet.  Then she collapsed on the floor with a massive heart attack.  Those were her final words.

Swarming emotions had held me captive during the memorial ballet featuring movements of adagio, waltz, and allegro, some of Suzy’s favorites.  My daughter’s grace and poise bubbled over from her own deep wells with a touch of signature coquettishness: ethereal rejoicing couched in grounded reality. I wept inwardly with gratitude and awe as she drew me into the ebb and flow of her swanlike alignment and carriage, and yes, the poised poetry of her body motivated by something delicate yet strong, light and quick but powerful.

It was a compelling celebration of life.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from her, the supple one who seemed to float amidst the other dancers on wings. Her pastel pink gown with shirred bodice alternately clung to her body and took flight in response to her deft movements. I was transformed by her charm.  Each fleeting second left a lasting mark.

Sitting near other family members,  I sensed completeness, as if my passion for ballet had come full circle.  This is what has always drawn me to classical dance, I thought: tactful elegance and graceful fluidity that speak as loud as words, or even louder. 

And so today I review yesterday’s experience with gratitude for my daughter's maturity – for her seasoned poetry in motion that celebrated the gift of life in a way that crept beneath my skin. 

She is my dancer.  My poet.  My daughter. 

Flowers

My two Knockout Rose bushes announced the arrival of summer this week with vibrant lipstick colors: rose red and hot pink.  They, along with two deep blue delphinium standing on either side of the mailbox, are cheerful greeters.   Beauty welcomes everyone who visits our property.

Several purple and pink columbine plants, tucked close to the house, are also early bloomers.  Even more exquisite than the roses in my mind, their blossoms stand on tall stems and nod encouragement to the contemplative poets, artists, and other creative folks who come our way.  If their tiny trumpets could perform a brass number, my guess is they would surely play a fugue.

A few tickseed plants opened their sunny faces a few days ago.  Buds are forming on the daylilies and daisies, while other plants are not yet ready to even consider blooming.  This reminds me of the seasons of human life as well – how we know various stages of preparation and propagation, of growing up and passing along the gift of life.

Bathroom Heaven

As a veteran do-it-yourself home remodeler with many notches in my belt, I realize remodel projects often take at least twice as long, and cost at least twice as much, as originally expected.  Today I reminded myself they may also turn out to be twice as nice as expected!

I stood in the bathroom late this afternoon, awe-struck and grateful for our son-in-law who completed much of the room’s handiwork, including the tiling and custom oak cabinetry. Our vision, borne of wood and stone, is coming together.

There are still some small things to be done, and yet it is time to celebrate!  Gone is the old pink tub, peeling linoleum, moldy-smelling vanity, and fishhook wallpaper with marching fish trim!  GONE! Here to stay is a lovely room with a noble personality reminiscent of the great outdoors. I think I’m in Bathroom Heaven. 

Rollin' Along

It’s marathon roll-baking week here, as intoxicating smells envelop the house and visiting grandchildren observe the baking process and sample my goods.  So far I’ve made three kinds of rolls that are hiding safely in our freezer until the weekend when they’ll be thawed for a high school graduation party: challah knots, soft Kaiser rolls, and crescent rolls.  One more to go, probably a honey-wheat.

Today was earmarked as crescent roll day.  A five-year-old granddaughter helped me knead the double batch of dough.  “This is the way I do it with my daddy, Nana.  I fold it and I punch it with my fists, like this.” 

She labored to manipulate the big lump, but had good technique.  I told her so.  In fact I said, “Maybe you’ll be a baker someday.” 

“Maybe,” she answered softly.  I already know she wants to be an artist.  In truth, she already is one.

An hour later the dough had risen above the top of the bowl like a smooth, yeast-infested, pregnant belly, and I called her to come watch the next step. I punched down the swollen mass and rolled a portion of it into a thin, round circle.  “What are you going to do, Nana?” she asked, knowing I wasn't making cinnamon rolls - her dad's forte. 

“Just watch,” I answered.  “I cut it in half, like this, and then each half in half again, and then…”

She curiously wrinkled her nose as the circle before us was cut into long pie-slice shapes.  Then she giggled and exclaimed,  “It looks like pizza!”  Her sparkly-eyed laugh slashed clean through me, the purging tool of childlike pleasure.  And I knew, in a split second, how this baking project - and every project I share with her - is about a lot more than the obvious.  For those with eyes to see, it is all about delight.

The Resort

We’ve been invited to dinner at a lake resort tonight, but since my other half is out-of-town, I’ll be going solo.  The resort belongs to our friends, Bob and Susan, who have owned and operated it for 40 years.

The main lodge dates to 1910, a time when life was simpler and basic pleasures of nature were lauded as the best relaxation and entertainment.  The 16-acre property on a 300-acre lake still holds its visitors to this vision, and offers small private cabins in the woods, some of which face a sandy-beached lakefront. 

I admire Bob and Susan’s commitment to the business in lieu of much-deserved retirement. They cheerfully minister to their patrons, offering a taste of genuine hospitality from another era, inspiring them to experience beauty and adventure in a context that encourages both rest and play.

The dining room is known for its down-home food “just like grandma’s,” so I’m eager to enjoy some samples this evening.  It will be a time of good fellowship and food, but also a time to express gratitude to Susan and Bob who willingly sacrifice to serve others in ways that have lasting impact.

Good-for-You Killer Chocolate Brownies

Killer chocolate brownies?  Mmmmmm.  The saliva starts flowing at the very mention of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate brownies. But good for you chocolate brownies?  That’s an oxymoron*, you say. An impossibly.

I am here to prove you wrong. 

I made a pan of oxymoronic brownies yesterday, definitely a step up in nutrition from sugar-bomb, starchy, baked (dead, refined, addictive, acidifying, inflammation-inducing) brownies.  The components, mixed in a food processor and pressed into a pan, were simple: raw almonds and walnuts, organic cocoa powder, dates, chia seeds, vanilla, agave nectar, himilayan salt, and stevia.  The ingredients in the smooth-and-creamy dark chocolate frosting (to die for!) were also uncomplicated: cocoa powder, agave nectar, coconut oil, vanilla, himalayan salt, and stevia.

Absolutely decadent.  Plenty of protein and good fat with no sugar rush.  Just pure deliciousness!

*oxy = acute, sharp, intense 

 moron = bonehead, fool, imbecile