Alina's Adventures

Our favorite Tuscaloosa tennis clinic experience yet.

One of the greatest surprises of our summer has been the Tuscaloosa Tennis Association's Junior Tennis Camp. Both Max and Micah yodeled with glee before arriving at Bowers Park at 8:30 in the morning every day for the past week. 

For $25, both kids attended a morning session in which they received one-on-one training with free snack and drink breaks and a lovely t-shirt to take home at the end of the week. Raquets and balls are provided by the TTA. This makes tennis clinic affordable for single-income families like ours- and it opens the doors of the closed country-club mentality to involvea more diverse group of young community members in the fun of playing and learning tennis. 

For Micah and other beginning beginners, the focus was on hitting the ball- gaining familiarity and feeling for the way in which the racket absorbs the shock of the ball. Building a taste for the excitement of making contact with the ball and moving it through the air. Cultivating the taste for tennis.

Micah takes a swing at the ball- and misses. But no one points out that obvious fact because, well, it's obvious.

I really appreciated the consistently encouraging voices and remarks from the coaches, whose personal love for tennis shone forth in their persistence and excitement. The temperature stayed in the 90s and the humidity level was so high that my glasses fogged whenever I climbed out of the car, but no one complained.

Given the volunteer aspect of the staffing, Max and Micah learned from what I consider to be "the best". That means no surly, spoiled young tennis pros who were teaching for the purpose of making money- everyone on the courts was motivated by a desire to share their love for tennis with kids. I think that made a palpable difference in the atmosphere as well as how much my kids enjoyed it.

When I inquired about additional sessions this summer, I was sad to learn that no more are slated for the year. The clinic was manned by the TTA board members, who need more volunteers- more hands and feet on the ground- to help with this wonderful project.

On the last day of the clinic, the kids participated in an actual tennis tournament. I was a little worried because Max seemed nervous and Micah made comments, true to self, which were overly focused on winning. As I drove to the park to drop them off, we repeated a little mantra aloud: "Losing is learning. Losing is LEARNING. Learning rocks!" 

As it turned out, Max won the Blue Ribbon in doubles alongside his partner, Nate. But he still can't get over how "cool" the tournament turned out.

Here's the scoop as Max related it to me: Lucy and Kelly beat Max and Nate in the first round, but Max and Nate won in the third round, and then they played Julie and Hannah and won that game. Because Lucy and Kelly lost in the fifth round, they ended playing Max and Nate again. But, in Max's words, "this time we were ready. And WON."

If you'd like to help the TTA continue their incredible program next year, visit the Tuscaloosa Tennis Association's website and volunteer to help keep this program going for local kids. Just email Alan Cunningham at [email protected] and ask how you can help them increase the frequency of junior tennis camps and clinics in Tuscaloosa. 

Dancing with the kids at the Flora Bama Yacht Club.

One night at the beach last week, we decided to try out the Flora Bama Yacht Club. It was the outdoor eating, beach access, and sand play areas that twisted our arm in this direction. While we waited for our food, I invited Max to dance with me. He courteously agreed.

Max and I do-si-do.

I had set my heart on the rudiments of a tango, but Max had other beats in mind.

He preferred the old cheek-to-cheek, goofy, fun-loving frolick- one the best dance forms ever invented by humankind.

Micah wanted to dance with me as well, but she takes after her mommy and tends to go her own way. And then, our graceful little dancer sees the camera and decides to hide behind my skirt.

The food was good, the sand was even better, and being able to sit in louge chairs on on couches in the open air while eating is what the beach is all about. A great choice for family outdoor dining on the Gulf Of Mexico.

Sailing on the Lady Lydia.

Last week, the King, the Captain, and the Max took a little sailing trip around Fairhope, Alabama. Since someone had to stay with the ladies, I tried not to feel too sorry for myself when that someone was me. Max returned from the adventure raving about sailing, which made my heart do a little dance inside my chest.

After extensive ballyhoo-ing, Max finally agreed to take the helm of the Lady Lydia. The King and the Captain were thrilled to see his interest in the navigational tools, including the compass and the tell-tales. 

You can see the Mobile Bay bridge behind the sailors.

The King told me that Max enjoyed sitting near the bow of the boat, catching the first bursts of wind and watching the calm waters of the bay float by. I longed to see him in the flesh and discover what caught his attention- and what kept it. Since I wasn't there, however, I had to rely on the regales of the masculine posse.

I remember being his age and sitting on the bow of the first Lady Lydia with my parents at the helm. I also recall that most enchanting aspect of ocean sailing which involved straddling the front of the bow with my legs squeezed tight around the lower mainstay, intentionally allowing them to dangle as low as possible so when we rolled over the big waves, my toes would disappear for a few seconds in the frothy ocean water. 

And then there was the way in which I could sit in that same spot looking downwards for hours, just watching bow rise and fall with the ocean's rhythm, cleaving and cutting these perfect, precise lines which then vanished under the hull of the boat. 

And then there was the fact that none of the adults knew I was secretly keeping lookout for any wandering mermaids or lost fairy folk who might have taken the West Wind into a location which was not of their choosing. I'm so happy for Max and his first taste of sailing. His appetite for sailing terminology is insatiable. I

f you have little people who might be interested, we had fun comparing the old gallions and big sailing ships of the past with the present-day recreational sailing boats. You can download the free printable handout right here.

Free audio story of "The Secret Garden".

A coloring page from Johanna Basford's The Secret Garden Coloring Book.

Frances Hodgson Burnett's entire book, The Secret Garden, is available for free download by chapter at Storynory. It is the classic story of a spoiled girl who learns to love life, people and nature when she discovers a secret garden and the life within it. Such a lovely bedtime story for those nights when the munchkins need more than a picture book...

Idea for a horror movie: The Ezzos come over for dinner with my family.

Who knows what I'm saying in this photo, but my stellar eye infection really brings out the chatty Cathy in me. Clearly, not an Ezzo moment.

Reading Jennifer Baumgardner and Amy Richards' Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism, and the Future illuminates the ways in which the struggles of feminism have gained complexity for the Third Wave. Since its publication in 2000, the book itself is already somewhat dated. For example, it glosses over the rising numbers of educated feminists who are choosing to educate their children at home with the premise that the revolution starts now. While providing ample information on the continuing battle for a choice over whether to continue pregnancy, the book skims over the tremendous battles fought by women who seek to reclaim their uterus and birthing process from the medical establishment by giving birth at home.

I can't read the words of sisters without remembering that it's my responsibility to say what I see and not to expect others to say it for me. Being a woman who has decided to also be a mother changed my mind and reaffirmed my belief in the continuing need for feminism in our society.

What I discovered did not please me. I am very good at biting off the head of a man who condescends to women and I am unparalleled in my ability to provide running monologues on the extent to which we perpetuate the patriarchy by honoring the concept of "success". Yet I am somewhat lacking when it comes to integrating my parenting choices (which tend to follow the child) with my Riot Grrrlish self. I'm going to take a little detour to explain what I mean by this.

Fact: It's important to parent and raise your children in a way that works best for you. However, "a way that works best for you" should not be taken to mean that the child becomes a product which you compare to other highly-valued objects. When we talk about children, we don't talk about possessions or things- we talk about little people whom we hope will NEVER be treated like possessions or things in our super-thingified culture.

After the King and I first got married, we attended a small-group for young parents which focused on parenting strategies. The textbook for the group was one written by the Ezzos which outlined their program for "Biblical parenting". As the sessions progressed, my discomfort with some of the phrasing from the Ezzos just wouldn't go away.

The "strategies" seemed mean and hurtful- as if to punish little babies for being needy, vulnerable little beings who cannot thrive or survive on their own. Letting them "cry it out" required me to deaden my most natural maternal instinct to comfort and soothe- and deadening that instinct leaves you less sensitive to a child's needs and concerns. I cannot believe that women were created with this universal instinct by accident. It seems to me to be an important part of the way in which God wants us to relate to our children. In other words, that constant nurturing impulse is a given- a starting premise for any parenting methods rooted in respect for human beings or their Creator.

Your Shenanigans Will Not Be Tolerated wittily sums up more Ezzo in the most snarky and simple fashion:

In a nutshell - and I will keep things to a nutshell, there is plenty of information readily available on him - Mr. Ezzo was complimented on how well behaved his kids were in church.  This led him to create the Babywise publishing empire.  Babywise, as a method to raise your baby is very similar to that of the Baby Whisperer.  The main difference, however, is that instead of getting to know your baby's signals & cues and respond to it's individual needs, you actively avoid learning its signals and cues and make it respond to your own personal needs.  This is generally done through starvation and abandonment.

The Ezzos believe the primary threats to the family came from a bad relationship between the parents and child-centered parenting (i.e. behavior that acknowledged and dealt with the little person's feelings or fears). Their solution to these percieved threats might be called the Nuclear Rearmament Strategy with all selfishness and inhumanity implicit in such a description. You can read the details here.

Essentially, the Ezzos insist that the "greatest influence parents have on their children is as a husband and wife, rather than as a mother and father". While there are ways in which this is true, the rest of the Ezzos' philosophy is just one particularly rough interpretation on how to honor this relationship in a family. Lest we begin to worry about kids getting liberal ideas, the Ezzos quickly insist:

"This lesson is not promoting egalitarian roles in marriage. Egalitarian is defined as “equality in marriage,” meaning equal leadership as well as sharing common roles at both work and home."

Of course, promoting egalitarian roles in marriage is precisely what the King and I were trying to do. As we worked our way through those first years of marriage, deciding who would do the laundry and who would cook dinner, we realized that "expecting" me to cook dinner just because I stayed home with the kids was another patriarchal way of undervaluing the work I do by caring for our kids.

It didn't come as an epiphany, of course- it emerged through arguments and re-arguments as we learned from our gay friends that a "partnership" is the only way to truly honor one another within a marriage. Our partnership is my favorite place to be in the world- it evolves, changes, and amazes us continuously as we negotiate new ethical qualms and novel interests. The Ezzo-style marriage for us would be a quick route to disenchantment and divorce.

As the group meetings continued, I realized that I was accepting and learning this odd philosophy without studying the source- so I decided to study the source. Who are these Ezzo folks for whom egalitarianism is such a threat? What makes them such supercalifragilistic specimens of humanity? Are they known for their kindness and generosity, like Jimmy Carter? Or their peace-making skills, like Nelson Mandela? Or perhaps even their piety and joyfulness, like Thomas Merton?

What I learned was that the Ezzos did not have a reputation for honesty, truthfulness, and accountability in their longterm relationships. Former elders from churches wrote warning letters to naive, exhausted parents like myself- letters which suggested that snake oil might be part of the package we were purchasing from the Ezzos and their outfit, Growing Families International.

The snake oil really started to stink in 1998. That spring, the conservative, evangelical-minded Christian Research Journal published a report on their extensive evaluation of Growing Families International. While acknowledging GFI’s popularity (over a million reported followers around the world) and noting that “a number of the parenting ideas in GFI materials are sound and have benefited families who have used them”, the article evaluated the widespread controversy associated with the organization. They concluded:  

“GFI has provoked unprecedented public censure from Christian leaders because, although it is not a cult, it has consistently exhibited a pattern of cultic behavior, including Scripture twisting, authoritarianism, exclusivism, isolationism, and physical and emotional endangerment”. 

As far back as 1998, a physician writing for the American Academy of Pediatricians warned that the Babywise method was "linked to dehydration and failure to thrive". This physician, Dr. Matthew T. Aney, expressed his concerns again in 2001 after comparing a chart generated by the Babywisers to one generated by the AAP. But the Ezzos are still winning hearts and minds under the guise of their secular books on the "Babywise" method- essentially the old Biblical parenting without reference to Bible verses or Evangelical terminology.

The truth is that my feminism is not compatible with a parenting philosophy that undervalues emotions and the stuff of the heart.  And I am baffled by the Ezzos' pro-life politics in light of their anti-child parenting. Fear is not a "structure" that little ones need in order to thrive. And love is not manifest in how we hurt or frighten little ones who rely on us for their lives and livelihood.

There is a lot of pressure to consider children who "obey" their parents out of fear as "good kids". Deep down, however, I know that fear can be used to motivate us to do anything in the world, including bombing cities overseas and marching lockstep behind political parties or ideologies. So I bite my lip and accept that my children are usually not the most "obedient" ones in the room. Instead, I focus on their zest for life, their creativity, their strong individual sense of justice, and their love for our family.

Michael Bates expresses my misgivings better than anyone when he shares his own about the "first time obedience" strategy central to the Ezzos' philosophy:

That approach to discipline alienates parents from children, and sets mom and dad up as scorekeepers and penalty managers. I found myself denying myself the enjoyment of time with my brilliant, funny, and beautiful kids for the sake of teaching them a lesson. And a child's natural desire to please mom and dad turns to despair -- the feeling that nothing he does will ever be good enough, so why bother trying?

It is hard to ditch the Ezzo mindset. You're confronted with regrets over years wasted and damage done, as the letter on Quiet Garden discusses. There's also the inner Ezzo nagging you that you're being too lax, too lenient, that you're spoiling your kids. But I'm starting to think that the worst kind of spoilage would be if my child no longer felt connected to me, if my child felt alienated from me, no longer identifying with my values, uninterested in my advice, unwilling to learn from my experiences.

I'd rather work alongside my children, enjoying their company, sharing laughter, and guiding them down the right path -- not like the guy back at the gas station who gave you directions but like the sherpa who is with you step-by-step up the treacherous mountain trail.

While Michael and I probably don't share the same views on other things, we both have that same gross feeling in our stomachs that something is wrong with the extent to which childhood is demonized by the Ezzos. Tomorrow, if you can bear it, I'll share the story of a young mom who sees the world through Ezzo-eyes and what this has helped me to realize about parenting as a feminist, Jesus-loving existentialist who is more convinced of her own ignorance than her sanctity or "savedness". 

[Caveat: I don't believe in hell and I don't think anyone is going there. If you're concerned about my politics or worldview, see my bio for details.]

The face of courage when losing a child.

The first time I met Bethany, she was managing to joke and make light of the challenging early months with a high-needs baby. Having been one of those mothers and having failed to remain as calm as Bethany during the long nights, I immediately had one of those "I can learn from this person" moments. A few years later, when she lost Lucy due to complications from Kell's, my heart broke for her.

I'm still learning from Bethany. When I ran into her at Manna Grocery last month, she looked tired and sad. My sister and I were having lunch with our brood of chatty children, so it wasn't a good time to stop and talk. But I needed to talk to her- felt drawn to the sadness and grief she wasn't bothering to hide. So I ignored the awkwardness and walked over to her table, realizing I had not decided what I wanted to say or even why I needed to say anything at all. I just hugged her and then told her that grief was a long, torturous journey (something Sarah taught me) that doesn't just end according to our plans and schedules. I wanted her to know that her grief over Lucy's death was legitimate (how sick that I should even feel the need to reassure her of that) even six months later. I wanted her to know that I admired her (as I admire Sarah) for refusing to settle for the fatalistic "it's God's will" sort of answers which suggest a God that does not hear or communicate with us.

But Bethany should be the voice in your ear right now. On her wonderful blog, Losing Lucy and Finding Hope, Bethany shares her journey with grief and Kell's antibodies. Her courage in sharing what most of us prefer to hide or fake amazes me. And teaches me about what courage means in a world where social taboos keep us from being honest and living with integrity. Bethany explains:

"I’ve noticed that people don’t like to talk about miscarriages or stillbirth (I mean who would WANT to talk about something like that.) Some women feel like they’re supposed to keep these losses to themselves. It makes people feel uncomfortable and awkward. Before losing Lucy I used to think miscarriages were sad and that the women who suffered them probably felt better after a few weeks. I thought miscarrying or having a stillbirth was nowhere near as painful as losing a child. Now I know that it IS losing a child. It is a soul shattering, heart crushing tragedy that leaves permanent wounds. No matter how far along the woman is in her pregnancy it is still her baby she lost. I think her grief should be respected and her baby should be mourned as a lost child. I want to talk about my miscarriage. The people who have comforted me the most through this ordeal have been mothers who had miscarriages/stillbirths and shared their stories with me. I hope that this story somehow can bring hope to someone who has been through a similar tragedy."

To honor a life often requires us to mourn its passing with devotion. Beautiful Bethany is in my thoughts and hopes. I am grateful to her for everything she dares to feel and express- grateful because her love for Lucy frees me to be honest with myself about grief and hurt.

The more I experience of this life, the more convinced I become that stoicism is the enemy of hope, joy, and love. It's the ultimate cop-out, the way to "save face" under the pretense of appearing to be strong. But there is nothing strong or brave about living a lie and asking others to play along. Maybe the best I can do is to acknowledge this and honor the grief which lies at the heart of only the best love.

A tiny egg in the garden and a tiny poem to match it.

We found the egg right near the recently-tilled soil in our backyard. Not even Max knew what bird might be missing this lovely little egg. I jotted down a little poem to entice the girls into talking about eggs, since they prefer to speak in rhymes and songs these days.

THE SECRET OF EGGS

The tiny egg hides a big secret-
a special place, a possible egret.
Inside the shell, safe and warm,
a life begins to grow and form
little cells becoming bones and beak,
feathers, heart, and voice to squeak.
Our little egg provides a space to grow
for the chicken, duckling, wren, and crow.
And every little egg is a place to begin
for creatures with feathers and their kin. 

My very bad experience with a local contractor.

I am still shaking. Driving home from the kids' tennis camp, I tried to get through the road construction project on Loop Road, the major thoroughfare that leads to our street. Apparently, I should have checked the Facebook page for updates on which roads had been closed while we were at the beach. But I didn't. The morning rush got the best of me and I forgot that part of daily life these days involves checking a page to evaluate how to get in and our of our neighborhood. I certainly did not intend the drama that followed.

As I was driving 8 miles per hour to our street, a man in bright yellow jumped out in front of me- I think he was lost in his thoughts and got startled. Either way, whatever those thoughts may have been, he decided that me and the kids were trying to either a) kill him or b) "kill" his men. Micah quipped from the backseat, "Mommy, you can't kill his men because they aren't on the road". I smiled and tried to keep a cool head. But our friend Don was still going on, ugly angry words frothing from his mouth.

When started Milla whimpering, I opened the window to answer his questions and affronts- "We're just going home, sir. We live right there". By this time, another local resident had pulled up behind me in a white truck and he was trying to get to his place. So I hopped out of the minivan and walked over to Don to try and explain that I was trying to get to our street. Maybe something about a 100-pound woman in flip-flops and granny glasses scares the bejeebies out of Don because he immediately started screaming at me. Every time I tried to get a word in, he threatened to call the police. I didn't know whether to laugh to cry- the whole thing was so ridiculous and absurd.

THEN DON CALLED THE POLICE. I overheard him saying things like, "Yeah, Black Honda. Obstructing construction. A danger to herself and others..." I couldn't BELIEVE what I was hearing him say- and I could feel the anger building. At this point, I was beginning to realize that our friend Don was quite the bully- the kind of man that treats human beings like obstructions or inconveniences.

Another tall man walked up and I asked him what was going on- he was friendly and explained that "Don is the owner of the company" as if that might account for his ugliness and hysteria. As if being the owner of the company recieving our tax dollars for this job excuses his rudeness to the people who fund his work.

I would have preferred if Don had been honest and just said, "Look lady, I don't give a d*&% about you or your kids. Turn your car around and get off the road. I have way too much money to bother being nice to you." Instead, he spouted off rude accusations and then kept me from replying by immediately calling the police. Maybe in his mind, Don was a victim of a world in which women were allowed to drive cars and didn't stay in their "appropriate place". Maybe he didn't like the way I was dressed- shorts and a tank top rather than heels and a dress. I still don't understand.

Now I may be petite and rather prone to avoiding conflict, but the scent of misogyny offends these nostrils more than any other scent. Should I wait, trembling, for the police to show up and explain to me what on earth was going on? Or should I try to drive through the ditch and remove my now-panicked little ones from a scene in which Don, who could not manage to speak politely, felt it necessary to call the police to do the cordial explaining for him? Wow. The worst part is that I know Don would have NEVER DARED to speak to me in such an ugly and disrespectful manner if my husband had been in the car.

After the white truck behind me moved, I did a three-point turn and drove around the backways to get to our street. My hands were still shaking and Max, by this point, was completely unnerved- "That man humiliated you, Mom. He looked at you like you were trash. It made me want to scream." Micah, poor thing, was scared that the "police are going to get us". I had to explain to her that we had not broken any laws and that I had not done anything which the police would have found to be criminal behavior.

But it was Milla who finally eased the tension by making us laugh: "Mommy, we read that man that book about bullies?" Crying in frustration, then laughing, I told her that he was not the kind of man who would appreciate being read a book about bullies. And then I took a deep breath and told the munchkins that no person was allowed to talk to them that way or treat them that way- that being a bully was wrong, no matter what the excuse. That police exist to protect us from criminals, not to call when we don't feel like communicating kindly with others. That pointing a gun at someone who isn't threatening you is careless and wrong. And then, to myself, under my breath, that being a disrepectful douchebag is just plain lame. And now, excuse me if I go cry to myself for a little while. I haven't been treated like that since a drunk man stumbling down the street decided to verbally accost me during my college days.

A story by Tom Waits on parenting.

A little story from Tom Waits that bears repeating. In an interview, Tom remarked that his kids “starting to notice I'm a little different from the other dads". They wanted to know why he didn't just have a regular job or regular life like everyone else. And he told them this little ditty:

In the forest, there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. Every day, the straight tree would say to the crooked tree, "Look at me...I'm tall, and I'm straight, and I'm handsome. Look at you...you're all crooked and bent over. No one wants to look at you." And they grew up in that forest together. And then one day the loggers came, and they saw the crooked tree and the straight tree, and they said, "Just cut the straight trees and leave the rest." So the loggers turned all the straight trees into lumber and toothpicks and paper. And the crooked tree is still there, growing stronger and stranger every day.” 

Nick Cave and his Ship Song Project.

It's one of that songs that always raises the tiny hairs on your arms.

Thus, being able to listen to so many wonderful artists combining their voices in a tribute to Nick Cave's extraordinary song forces me to confront the existence of little hairs on the back of my neck as well. Stupefying. 

The strings and the violin solo at the end- wow. In 2010, the Sydney Opera House recorded a version of "The Ship Song" as a tribute to an iconic song and an iconic building. You can watch the documentary on the project online.

This version of the song, which combines the voices of Concrete Blonde, Eddie Vedder, Nick Cave, and others, is one of my all-time favorites (though Lissie's acoustic version figures up there as well). 

Revisiting France with Thomas Merton.

"A life is either all spiritual or not spiritual at all. No man can serve two masters. Your life is shaped by the end you live for. You are made in the image of what you desire."

Thomas Merton

When I was a young lass, my father took a sabbatical to teach in Nancy, France. Carla and I went along with him and I studied in a French school for the first semester of 7th grade. It was the longest time I'd lived without the sweet Tresor-scented aura of my mom nearby.

From what I remember, 7th grade was the year when all my Catholic school friends started "dating" and tight-rolling their jeans. I was a little bit of a wierdo- the kid who wasn't allowed to watch "Saved By the Bell" or to shave her legs, the one whose mother laughed when she mentioned getting a "perm"- "You don't need all those chemicals in your hair, Alina!"

In a sense, I escaped the pressures of 7th grade girldom in the States and found a whole new world. In this new world, everything you had to do as an American preteen made no sense. My experience with cultural relativity did so much to ease my transition into the teenage years. All those imperatives assumed their proper space within a particular locality and culture. Peer pressure lost its rub on me. 

And my Tuscaloosa friends could not hide their concern when I returned wearing straight-leg jeans and having "grown out" my bangs. The good news is that I found better ways to relate to my friends that by wasting hours "styling our bangs" together. Rather than love them for the way they fit the mold, I was free to love them for the ways in which they were themselves, young girls on the cusp of womanhood with inarticulable dreams and a soft spot for star-filled skies.

My 7th grade class at Lycee Frederic Chopin, where I learned more red-letter words than my parents knew existed in the French language. It was a baptism of fire for me in my puffy red down coat. 

I loved to chew on these anise-flavored twigs for days at a time. I think we were driving through Lorraine on our way to Domremy-la-Poucelle in this photo when the most beautiful storm belly-danced around us. 

Every weekend, we climbed into our car and visited another tiny village. The intensity and rich backdrops of history absorbed me completely. I would just sit with my Walkman and gaze at the amazing stories unfolding around me. It still gives me chills to remember those days and that effervescence that tied me to the soil while leaving me somehow floating above it.

In a park munching on baguettes with Carla and her friends.

Given the sensual awakening of my first love affair with a land, I wasn't surprised to feel a tad of Franc-envie while reading Thomas Merton's The Seven Story Mountain this morning. When ennui sets in, Merton reminds me that "the biggest human tempation is too settle for too little". To settle for marriage without love. To settle for faith without awe. To settle for life without living.

Merton describes his impressions of Cazals, a small village which even today has an estimated population of 160 people. His description captures certain shades of the meaning invoked by the daily wonder we discover when refusing to settle for commercial voyeurism and, rather, delve deeply into the heart and flesh of human culture.

It was an old, old town. Its history went back to the Roman days- which were the times of the martyred saint, its patron. Antoninus had brought Christianity to the Roman colony in this valley, and later he had been martyred in another place, Pamiers, down in the foothills of the Pyrenees, near Prades, where I was born....

The town itself was a labyrinth of narrow streets, lined by old thirteenth century houses, mostly falling into ruin...

Everywhere I went, I was forced, by the disposition of everything around me, to be always at least virtually conscious of the church. Every street pointed more or less inward to the center of the town, to the church... The church has been fitted into the landscape in such a way as to become the keystone of its intelligibility. Its presence imparted a special form, a particular significance to everything else that the eye beheld, to the hills, the forests, the fields, the white cliff of the Rocher d'Anglars and to the red bastion of the Roc Rouge, to the winding river and the green valley.... and the significance thus imparted was a supernatural one.

The whole landscape, unified by the church and its heavenward spire, seemed to say: this is the meaning of all created things: we have been made for no other purpose than that men may use us in raising themselves to God, and in proclaiming the glory of God. We have been fashioned, in all our perfection, each according to his own nature, and all our natures ordered and harmonized together, that man's reason and his love might fit in this one last element, this God-given key to the meaning of the whole world.

And this is exactly how I remember feeling when driving through the French countryside, unassaulted by billboards of girls in bikinis promising that I could look like them if I purchased some product meant to distract me from that trembling little spirit within- the only real and eternal part of me. My parents did more to nourish my heart and soul with these experiences than all the Sunday School sessions in the world combined. By drawing my attention and imagination to history and the varieties of cultural experience, they freed me from an allegiance to "looking good" or "being cool". It's all temporal anyway...

Now, in the present, looking backwards, I wonder how to share this lesson or experience with my children who have been raised in the culture of affluence..... As I plod along, don't be surprised if you find more Merton in the coming days. And don't be too reticent too share how you have found ways to connect your children to the beauty of the eternal in everyday life.

Merton and the mint family.

“We live in a society whose whole policy is to excite every nerve in the human body and keep it at the highest pitch of artificial tension, to strain every human desire to the limit and to create as many new desires and synthetic passions as possible, in order to cater to them with the products of our factories and printing presses and movie studios and all the rest.”

    Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain    

I am so guilty of seeking the superb stimulations to distract me from the marvels which require me to inhabit and live them, rather than just keep that seat warm on the bleachers of life.

Ono Island and private confessions.

A portrait from a few weekends ago at Ono.

The last week flew by in that characteristic blur of the best writing experiences. Pages upon pages and complete absorption my subject matter. I am trying to re-enter the dailiness of life, and finding it difficult to focus my attention on nothing but the objects and people around me.

Still seeking the subtext. Re-reading Ingmar Bergman's Private Confessions, appreciating how new things strike me upon second readings. The plot is summarized as follows:

Anna, a vivacious, beautiful, and headstrong woman who rushed into her marriage with Henrik - a marriage that, for her, quickly became pleasureless. She feels how truly stifling it is only when she falls passionately in love with Henrik's young friend Tomas. For the first time, she finds pleasure in love; now her husband's touch, even his devotion, has gone from unstimulating to intolerable.

The guilt, however, is at least as thick and heady as the pleasure. Desperate for some joy in either her marriage or her illicit love, Anna embarks on a series of confessions - to her childhood pastor, to her husband, to her mother, to her best friend - seeking the advice or the absolution that will direct her to happiness.

In light of past lights, Anna strikes me for her measured and constant state of panic. At one point, she says something which still turns aorund in my mind as if there remains a meaning to mine or discover. In her words:

"We act out many roles. Some because it's fun, some because others want us to act out these roles. Mostly because we want to protect ourselves.... then I imperceptibly lose what is not a role. When I keep on living, I get away from what is.... myself."

There is some way in which Anna's confession can still be teased and untangled...

Micah, Mark Twain, and an old habit.

Reading Mark Twain's autobiography, which he insisted should be published only after his death- offers a testament to memory and the way it leaves us unhusked and wide open.

Every other paragraph makes me laugh in that salty, happy-taste-life kind of way. Like this one:

“For many years I believed that I remembered helping my grandfather drink his whisky toddy when I was six weeks old but I do not tell about that anymore now; I am growing old and my memory is not as active as it used to be. When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this but we all have to do it.”

And then Micah sticks out her tongue when she concentrates on something very hard- and I remember how my grandfather would turn beet-red and tell me to stick my tongue back in my mouth or the flies would lay eggs on it. His advice didn't cure me of the habit of sticking out my tongue when trying very hard to write the perfect letter "B" or to glue a twig back on to the tree from which it tumbled....

Adventures at the Faunsdale Bar & Grill.

In another Alabama town with no stop lights or main intersections, the King and I satisfied our curiosity abou the Faunsdale Bar & Grill. 

As I scoured through the local newspaper in the hopes of running across some bunnies or hens for sale, the King instructed the ladies in a the fine art of how to roll and blow a good spitball through a plastic straw. Max couldn't resist the opportunity to arrange and rearrange the condiment bottles- a favorite pasttime since the tender age of two.

Waiting for the lucscious burgers and cabbage to arrive, I got a little restless and decided to wander up and down the street looking for stories to help make sense of Faunsdale. Any bit of rubbish held out the prospect of further illumination. 

The "bar" next door was closed. The owner later told me that it is only open on certain days because Faunsdale is such a small town that there isn't a demand for a full-time bar and juke joint. I noticed that the flag above the entrance had been perched there for a long time. Was it intended to be symbol of history or a sign of warning? One never knows, and I seldom dare begin those conversations when still waiting for my food to be arrive.

The main street didn't give me much to read or untangle- not even crushed cigarettes suggesting a favored local brand.

So I focused on the bricks and the cobwebs between them- the way in which the spider's web healed the cracks by bridging them, by bringing everything back together on the surface with home-spun silk. 

I sat on the hot cement sidewalk for a moment and tried to imagine what the future might bring to Faunsdale- if the future even bothered to visit. And then I remembered that a hot burger overflowing with mayo and tomatoes was waiting for me just two hollers down the street. So I left the sidewalks, the spiders and their stories in the hands of a less hungry suitor that may chance to pause and read what they see.

Chasing adjectives with acrylic paint.

Milla and I spent the afternoon playing with acrylic paints and a pad of paper made from mangos. Since each piece of paper was the size of a post-it note, we ended up with a pile of tiny "paintings" and a new game to play on a lazy, sunlicked summer day.

Since Milla peppers every conversation with fantastic adjectives, I thought it might be fun to engage them at the level of paint and brush. So we took turns. First, I told Milla to paint something "tired" or "sleepy". She immediately reached for the black paint tube and covered a post-it in jet black. 

Then it was Milla's turn. She wanted me to paint something "oldy". Old? No, "oldy". So I quickly painted the "oldy" pear above. Milla looked at me with her crinkle-eyed, dimple-doused grin and immediately declared my success- "It's an oldy pear, Mommy!" We laughed and then Milla told me I should eat it. Clearly, acrylic paint does not taste ripe or even "oldy" so I politely declined.

When I told her it was her turn to paint again, she insisted that I continue while she picked another adjective. This time, she picked the word "juicy". I responded with the tomato above. Milla quickly stomped her two-year-old foot and declared that "apples are not juicy".

When I explained that the apple was in fact a tomato, she stared more closely and nodded- "Okay Mommy, tomato is juicy". Then we got distracted by a very clumsy grasshopper who kept jumping and landing on his side in the grass. The day fluttered by so quickly that we never had the chance to wonder if it was dissolving rather than flying.

Now, a boisterous southern thunderstorm soaks our garden and brings so much water that the rain barrel overflows.

I am grateful for the moments of half-emptiness and stunned by the moments of half-fullness. Sometimes life is more beautiful than this little mind and heart can bear.

A visit to the Alabama Rural Heritage Center.

 

En route to the beach, we bit back into our royal plan of making a pilgrimage to every Rural Studio construction in the state.  So we stopped and spent some time exploring the Alabama Rural Heritage Center in the tiny town of Thomaston. The wide open spaces combine with ingenious construction innovations to produce the effect that made Rural Studio so famous.

The kids explore the handmade local wares.

Unlike other schools of architecture, the Rural Studio celebrates the story which emerges from every single design and construction. In many cases, the designers create a website which reveals the plans and charts the journey through the project. The ARHC building's story, like the audacity of those who first dared to dream it, is preserved eternally at the project website. 

In August of 2003, the Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation, and the Rural Studio of Auburn University began a partnership helped along by a $400,000 grant from HUD with the intent of helping to stimulate economic development in the community of Thomaston. Using less than half of this grant money, five determined Auburn students in the Rural Studio Program, Abbey Barnett, Melissa Harold, Paul Kardous, Nathan Makemson, and Robert White, embarked on a thesis project to design and construct the Alabama Rural Heritage Center (ARHC).

Free experimental beams made from recycled, compacted trash.

Rather than starting from scratch, the students renovated the Home Economics building of the old Marengo County High School and constructed a new 5,000 square-foot addition which includes a gift shop, commercial kitchen, packaging room, and vegetable cleaning/processing area. A separate grant allowed the students to add an outdoor pavilion/deck intended for use by the community.

True to the Sambo's building philosophy, the students' construction process made use of experimental and eco-minded materials, including the free "trash beams" pictured above. 

On April 9, 2005, The Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation celebrated the grand-opening of the new Alabama Rural Heritage Center. 

Max concurred with the ingenuity of offering free meteorites to little people. Each of the kids selected at least two "Alabama meteorites" with accompanying brochure. I crossed my fingers quietly, hoping that the idea for a "meteorite fight" would not leak from my brain to theirs.

The sense of community is enhanced by the prodiguous pamphlets, signs, and cards announcing the work and support of local artists, artisans, and nonprofit centers. Deeply-rooted communities tend to be those that engage us at multiple levels- from our individual preferences and affinities to our group identities and social concerns. 

The gift shop overflowed with the with the creations of local artists, artisans, and traditional crafters. Since many creators leave a business card next to their creations, it's more like a gallery of local creatives than it is a gift shop. The gourmet Mama Nem's Red Pepper Jelly is made and sold in-house.

Local historian and advocate Foster Dickinson collaborated with Nancy Anderson to birth a book/curriculum guide which is now on my wish-list, Treasuring Alabama's Black Belt: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Teaching Place. If you can't find it in stores, I'm sure ARHC wouldn't mind maling a copy in exchange for a phone call and little mullah. 

Hours of operation for the gift ship are Thurday and Friday from 10 am to 4 pm and Saturdays from 10 am to 1 pm.  You can also make purchases by email ([email protected]) or by placing a call to 334-627-3388. The kitchen and dining area are still available for rent if you're seeking a special place to host an event in Alabama. 

The kind lady who eagerly answered all my questions at the gift shop (and who even went so far as to compliment me on my "well-behaved children") explained a little project she had started on the back wall of the old school. This project, the Kid's Korner, featured art for sale by young Alabama kids who donate their creations as a fundraiser for the Center.

When she said the project "wasn't going as well as she had hoped", I had a feeling we'd be mailing some art donations from the Coryell Castle before the tomatoes got fat enough to fall from the vines. If you live locally and find yourself staring at that same "feeling", just write a short note about the artists, scoop up the art, and mail the whole cornucopia to Rural Heritage and Gift Shop, 133 Sixth Avenue, Thomaston, AL 36783.

Otherwise, scurry over to their Facebook page to learn more about upcoming events and opportunities.

Is it garden bounty or garden booty?

Basil and lettuce harvest.

The day begins with dirt. My fingernails converse with the soil of the two different gardens these days- the community garden down the street as well as our backyard castle garden. After spending an hour weeding, newspapering, and covering the community garden plot, I harvested the richly-scented purple basil and some lettuce leaves.

Since we have our usual lunch guest coming today, I think it will be easy to make a salad fit for the King.

We planted later than usual this spring, which means that the joy of watching seeds sprout, blossom, and bloom is at its peak right now. So many little faces and hands emerging from the ground- so much action in and under the ground....

The All-Seeing Max planted his onions very early in the spring and he is quite proud of their progress- even though the only onions he agrees to eat must be "caramelized".

Look at this pretty purple onion!

Milla spent the morning explaining how the squash flower "hides when Daddy comes home because she don't the 'skitos". Apart from being captivated by the plants, Milla seems to have a good handle on the concept of causation- though the specifics sound sketchy sometimes. Why didn't she assume that the squash flower hides from Daddy since these events are coterminous?

Good morning to you as well, lovely Lemon verbena. Your scent is charming us back into the warm, wet soil for another sniff. The epistemology of life lived between weeds and seeds suits me quite well these days.

A weekend at Ono with extended family.

Carla and Isla get their kicks on the dock.

A few weekends ago, we drove down to the Gulf and spent a weekend with my sister, her man, and their baby as well as my father and stepmother.

Isla can't help herself from giggling all the time.

Watching Isla grow and giggle her way through the day was a delight, and being close to so many people that I love ALL AT ONE TIME blew my mind.

Isla's super-strong little grip and tiny fingers that hold on to mommy.

Carla's devotion to Isla's needs- both physical and emotional- warms my heart. It's a pleasure to watch and experience. I've had such a hard time in the past spending weekends with family and friends who were sleep-training. Wine glasses in hand, everybody smiling and "letting the baby learn to self-soothe" meant that we had to pretend a baby wasn't screaming it's little head off for forty minutes at a time. No amount of wine in the world can drown out that sound for me. 

Being a mom means ignoring the fact that you have a silly facial expression in a photo where your baby looks plain adorable.

While I respect parents' perogatives to parent as they see fit, I confess that it's hard on my soul to be a captive audience to the tears of sleep training. Carla did nothing of the sort- she nursed when Isla was hungry or needed a little soothing and she napped with Isla when the opportunities arose. Rather than tote around a Pak-and-Play, the Newsomes traveled light and managed to share a full-sized bed between the three of them.

Pamela rocked Isla for a little while so Carla and I could venture out on the
most lazy, dysfunctional kayak ride ever confessed.

The King and the Germ got along great, and my dad kept rolling out the comments on how "nice it is to have my two son-in-laws together at the beach" (which is another way of saying he enjoyed having dudes with which to share beer).

Milla scribbles on the cement under the Baba Yaga house after a good swim.

Amid the chaos of life vests, plastic beach toys, wet swimsuits, "that's MY shell" or "she took my shovel", we enjoyed delicious food, good music, splendid sunsets, and a whole lot of love. Even Germ and the King did some cuddling. What can be more entertaining than that?

A family portrait from Romania: Journal prompt.

My dad emailed this photo of his family, dressed in the traditional Transylvanian clothing of the time. He noted that my great-grandmother is on the left. I've asked him for more details, but I'm going to wait before reading them.

In the meantime, I think Max and I will journal our own "stories" about this branch of the family tree. I started Max off with the goal of naming them, explaining the sash tied around the gentleman's waist (what does it signify?) as well as the stump on which the little boy is sitting. Can't wait to read what he weaves from this...

"Residue", a poem by Candice Amich.

For a little while during what seems like a previous postwar period, Candice and I shared a room in the upper middle half of a co-ed dorm. Her poems hung somehow in the stale dormitory air, a reminder of how suffocation can happen gradually until one day you just never wake up to find you've turned blue. 

Was it Candice who used to come out in Pittburgh's freezing night air with me in those days when it became necessary to wear nothing save our thin, gratuitous bathrobes? So cold but for the slow burn of cigarettes and the hospitality of smiles for those who came and went, however rational in their dressing habits.

Common sense was a source of distress for me in those days. It was the excuse given for dulled lies and self-loathing, the pretext for all the patterned conversations and uninhabitable boxes. I'm on better terms with common sense and all those heavy conventions these days- we agree to disagree and coexist. But it makes me happy to read Candice and to be reminded of that short shared space and the way in which life unravels.