Luke chapter 4.5

And it came to pass he did head down to the shore as He had come so many times, crumbs of pale sand clinging to the dark hair of his ankles and toes. But this morning: discipleless, in silence, contemplative, combing the lumpy beach for smooth stones to skip.

And he is quietly delighted by the line of light separating from the dark sea waters; the rustle of ripe grass seeds heavy against each other, preaching in the dawn breeze; the rising sun lifting a continent of sound—warbled queries—from the beating breasts of fowls of the air, bright as a new coin rendered to Caesar.

And at his knee a hairy creature, a sincere canine, not worth mentioning by the Apostles, but true in the Wilderness, a steadfast and constant companion, who doth lift his eyes to the Master.

And Jesus, answering, saith unto him, “See here, the workmanship of mine hands.” And they stood, man and dog at the break of day, and it was good. And they did breathe deeply , gladly, paused as one for a mortal minute.


(Wendy: heartfelt thanks for taking care of Duke for us while we've been here.)
(Duke: we really hope you can adjust to being displaced by two little humans.)

WHIHTWH: Soccer Mom

(See that huge bruise on my knee? And the mostly-healed scab?
Now that's what I'm talking about.)

I started playing football a couple of months ago. Before then, my total experience with the sport had been Bend It Like Beckham (twice), that's it. But my friend Jessica convinced me my total novicehood wouldn't matter a speck with this women's team. (She was mostly right, though I think me calling out things like, "So, just double-checking. My team's going THIS direction, right?" or, as I'm throwing in from the end, "Raise your hand if you're on my team!" wasn't always thought as funny as I thought it. It's a mostly-women, mostly-expat team. We even have a coach, this funny, drama-queen of a twenty-something Malawian guy who actually coaches us.

I like it because of the way it has pushed me totally out of my comfort zone. I like the way it pushes me physically (and I really love the totally drenched with sweat/drink a litre of water/purified from the inside out feeling I have when we quit), and socially (ahh! go look like a fool in front of a bunch of people I don't know!), and even intellectually, the kind of body-organising thought like when you're learning a choreographed dance. And once I got into it, I realised how much I love it just for the chance to go play for the sheer pleasure of playing, of doing something fun and challenging outside under the night sky with other people.

As if that weren't enough, as a bonus playing football reminds me that I don't need to be a pro at something to enjoy doing it, or for it to have a significant impact on me and my family. Scout and Finn both think shooting our little soccer ball up the driveway to bang against the gate is the funniest thing in the world. (And Precious, well, he's totally out of my league. In bare feet, no less!)

Moe Willem (you might know him as the pigeon guy) made this point on NPR a while back, though he was talking about drawing, not team sports. (In my family, as many of you know, a ball--especially a team-sports ball--is much more foreign and suspicious an object than a pencil or box of colours.) His point, something my own mum has taught by example for years, resonated like a good header.

Amanda Soule gives links and her take on it here. I'll defer to her links, as I am the last one up again tonight, and better than linking I like snuggling.

ps: the previous post is a picture of our Primary at church. They all got on the bus, with Precious driving, and went to the lake.

pps: yesterday I fell asleep reading to Scout at 7:45, hence no post. What with traveling and viruses, Finn forgot that he was pretty much night-weaned. Last night he started remembering again, because I want to love my family again.

It was you, you put the fun in thirty funderful

I feel so spoiled! Thank you thank you each of you, for the birthday presents, you moondoggies too. I’ve been grinning like a hyena nonstop since the 29th. In fact, I’m so inspired, I have party favour gifts for each of you too:

Liz, a cashmere knitted cap (warm brown, with a pink stripe and a yellow one around the bottom) with a point at the top and and pompoms that hang off the cozy earflaps by your chin. And a matching one for that amazing Grace.

Heidi, three big clay pots, built from red soil and fired on the ground in a village a couple kilometers from the road. One is full of lumpy, ripe lemons, one holds smooth-skinned avocadoes, and the third I’ve filled with compost; it will sprout masala and basil in a few days. Do you have a sunny spot for it?

Nan, a potty-trained little bushbaby; generally she will enjoy just hanging out on your shoulder with her big eyes closed, though just for kicks, you should try taking her out at night and shining a flashlight on her;

Willisfam, a garland of pink species tulips to drape on your porch railing or over your kitchen entrance. I gave them a good big drink before I strung them, so don’t worry about them wilting—they’ve got a good two weeks in them;

Mum, an installation art piece for your living room: a round skylight kaleidoscope that throws geometric rainbows of light and colour all over your furniture when you spin it;

Jeanne, a pair of round steampunk sunglasses, dark, with metal frames yeah just like those ones! And a stunning red, printed head scarf to wear with it, just for contrast;

Martin, a great big ant farm with some of these crazy huge ant families here—the kind of ant farm sandwiched between two layers of glass, but a really big one. And it lets you see the interaction between ant species. Actually, can we share this?;

Sage&butter, a couple bushels of apple drops, rich and juicy and only slightly bruised, from that orchard near the bottom of Mink Creek. If you bring them by my place, I’ll transform them into cider and tuck them into the back of your car in green glass jugs to swig down in February when the days are getting longer;

Fig, a tall pair of soft black leather boots—just below or just above your knees? You decide—with a good sized stack of chunky heel in back and a rounded bit of patent toe up front. That stitching and detail work? Yes, the same pattern as on the entrance to that little mosque in Morrocco;

Melissa, a book contract—of your own!—and a studded union jack pen to sign it with;

Daffodil, sparkly mood lipstick (non-toxic of course. And nonstaining, Becca);

Edie, a flying carpet—soft and plush, with a cozy cushion on one end should you choose to just hover somewhere and read. If fact, if you lift the pillow, you’ll find a couple excellent books you’ve never even heard of before;

Soren, an overnight in a treehouse—but better bring your stuff in a backpack, because it’s really high and you have to climb a rope ladder. Which you then pull up behind you for total privacy! And don’t be worried about being too high to see anything interesting; there’s a big chest of bird whistles and slide whistles you can use to call them (and whatever else) to you once you get settled up there;

Becca, a stack of 1/2-yard pieces of local chitenje fabrics in a rainbow of colors and all woven from or printed on linen. With some silk pieces and velvet pieces thrown in too. Why not?





Andy wished me comfortable bedtimes and nighttime nursing, when I came home and discovered he had had this rocking chair made and delivered all without me suspecting a thing. It’s delightful and the details are perfect: wide enough seat, low enough arms, high enough back rest for my head too.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I finally finished binding (and signing!) this little quilt I started for Finn last April with mum.




(None of the fabrics are from here, but if you've a fabric habit as I do, stay tuned for an upcoming post about getting your hands on some chitenje fabric, or "colourful utility blankets" as Andy calls them.)

31-derful

The year I turned 25, Bethany gave me a giant bowl of fresh red raspberries for my birthday. For someone born in snow, it was the ultimate luxury. Nevermind the fact that it was an imaginary bowl of raspberries; when she gave it to me over the dinner table at the Laird House with ripe and juicy descriptions, encouraging me to eat them all at once, no don’t freeze them for later, I could feel their weight in my cupped hands, and taste indelible summer crushed between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. In fact, I’ve eaten them again every birthday since!

At the time, B introduced the tradition as something African—Sudanese maybe? there were quite a few tall, strapping, Lost Boys reasons to have Sudan on your mind at the Laird House—though I’ve never been able to find mention of giving birthday wish presents anywhere since.

Sudan or no Sudan, African tradition or not, Nannou and I have made it ours and kept it alive these past years. This year she gave me:

“a luxurious swim in Waimanalo Bay in the summertime when the water is warm and blueblueblue. There would be no jetlag, and travel would be an instantaneous and free thing. You see, you'd have wormhole portals that were powered by a bicycle, and as your birthday present I'd ride the bike to power it so you could get here. And, you'd have a super chic bathing suit that made you feel like a million bucks. And then we'd all (everyone would be here of course with free instantaneous travel) go eat Indian food at Maharani and then have a second course down the street eating Thai food at Chiang Mai. And maybe take a hike in between.”

Did you hear that!?! She’d even ride the wormhole bike for me. Baby sister, boy howdy, I DO feel like a million bucks!

So here’s my shameless birthday request: would you leave me a birthday wish in my comments? If you don’t know me outside of blogdom, don’t be shy: just take a swing at it. I’m not picky about presents. ☺ It would totally make my day. Just for fun. (Am stopping now before you can call this begging.)

(photo by Robby Garbett via here.)

Angels delivering angels

A happy birth story. (One of my own!) Can you hear too many of them? Nope. They're good for something deep and real inside you.

Go ahead. Read it here. (Turn to page 10, folks.)



(Still want more? Read my first take on the whole concept here (or here).)

She's something else

Scout may be the most independent two year old in Lilongwe.

Yesterday at the pool, she walked across the deck to the bar and must have asked for a soda pop. By the time I caught up to her, the bartender had leaned across his bar and handed her a Fanta. The waitress then popped off the top, and Scout was off again.

Just slightly more dangerous: We have a fifty foot metal tower in our yard that allows us to connect to the world wide web. It's big and green and dangerous. Today, I found Scout about 10 feet up it without a care in the world.

Two reasons to celebrate:

1: the postal system works here! My editor tested it out by mailing me my author copy of

2: The Mother in Me, a beautiful book of essays about the gritty, lovely, rich and affirming role of everyday motherhood.

We celebrated by feasting on Indian food, and later on I sat quietly weeping as I feasted on the poetry. I just love these women.