My Birkie story began in the 1970’s when my grandparents, spurred by maintenance problems, decided to sell their arctic-cat sleds and buy two pairs of Finnish made wooden skis. It may have also been a heart attack my grandfather suffered that caused the change-over. Whatever the inspiration, their purchase and his ensuing knowledge of waxing and tarring changed the way my brother and I experienced winter. I was about 3 when I first put on skis, though it was a few years later that I stood at the top of the first hill on Loop A on the Wintergreen Ski trail, just east of Park Falls on highway 70, a feeling of terror I had never imagined surging through me. The bottom was flattened out with previous skiers falling, and I wanted more than anything to get through that flat bottom and up the short hill that followed. I followed my brother, who being 4 years older usually could get through it. Most of time time, I did not. But each year we returned to these trails, taller, stronger, and ready to try again. We skied through the jokes of elementary school, the trials of middle school and high school. I skied alone, I skied with everyone. We rarely took our skis out in southern Wisconsin where we lived, but when we were up north, we couldn’t wait to be on the trails again. One year my grandfather packed a lunch and hauled some wood to a spot on a county trail where we roasted hot dogs and drank hot chocolate. I had no idea that I could eat outside, in the snow, in the middle of the forest, and how good it would taste. By skiing with us, our grandparents introduced us to the national forest in winter and taught us that it was just as beautiful and open to us then as it was in the summer. With the right clothing. Our grandfather has since died, and our grandmother lives outside of the forest closer to family. Last winter we were sharing time at her house during the week of the Birkebeiner. She told us how they always listened to the Birkie finishers on the radio. My husband, three children and I had just spent several days skiing at the Palmquist farm and all I wanted to do was more skiing. That is when I suggested to my brother that we register for 2014. He had never entered any kind of race. I had never been in a ski race. But we loved to ski, we loved the trail, the woods, the often-perfect snow. We signed up for the full race. Then the trail run. That is when I realized what a training endeavor this would be. The entire course is made up of Loop A hills! In January a death in the family brought us near the northwoods once again. It was the weekend of the Birkie Tour and we signed up again. It was during the last 9K of that crisp ski day that I had an overwhelming sense of my grandfather’s presence in the woods. It was more that him being there, though he was truly a man of the woods, from working in timber to trail grooming to snowmobiling and finally skiing. I felt a part of him living through me as I sailed down hills and struggled back up. I overheard some men taking a break and discussing carbon skis and wax. While I had barely any wax left on my well-worn touring skis, I had my grandfather and the gift that my grandparents gave to me when they trading their sleds for skis. It is partly for them that I ski this year, to say, thank you.

Mining

Dear Senator Risser and Representative Hulsey, I am deeply opposed to the way in which the Republican-led legislature is willing to repeatedly turn their attention away from the very things that make Wisconsin great and towards an ambitious but vague goal of increasing business opportunity and job creation. The mining bill is a short-sited but far flung hope that jobs are as easy to create as softening a few loop holes and bringing in the earth movers. If I had to chose one thing that makes me call Wisconsin "home", it would be the northwoods. It is in the lakes of the Chequamegon that I learned to patiently wait on fish to bite, to watch the sky, to anticipate the changing weather. In this forest I listened to my grandparents tell me the stories of my family and I learned how to be quiet. In the winter months I sought the silence of skiing as well as the courage to tackle surprisingly hilly terrain. I left Wisconsin after high school to pursue education and international experience. But as my own family grew, I longed to see my children in the woods, to pass on to them the life that I learned while visiting my grandparents in Fifield. But my return has been bitter sweet. The forests of northwest Wisconsin are precisely in the area marked to become nothing more than a means to line the pockets of an already wealthy business and provide a few jobs, many of which will be temporary and unnecessary once the mine is under operation. I am astounded at the lack of vision of this legislature. Have they not sat in a canoe in one of the lakes that will be destroyed by mining? Have they not seen an eagle nesting along the shore? Is our deprivation of the land so acute that we cannot agree there are trees, water and animals and yes, even dirt, that is worth preserving? Please continue to oppose mining in northwest Wisconsin. Sincerely, Amy Grunewald Mattison

To the Department of Natural Resources of Wisconsin: I am writing in strong opposition to the implementation of Act 168 to open our state parks to hunting. I am also dismayed that such a drastic change to the basic composition of our state parks has been enacted with little information offered to the public. If such a change is to benefit all residents of the state (plants and animals included) then why hasn’t the idea been offered openly? The first I heard of it, well after it was approved by the legislature, was on a day-time radio program, something that most people who work during the day would not have heard. The state parks were created to be a refuge -- for plants, animals and people alike. If the proposed changes prevail, the parks will become yet another natural area that I feel unsafe to take my young children to for exploring. The “closed” areas of hunting are adjacent to the areas open. How can I hike safely knowing that hunters are within feet of my children and me? We do not own a cabin in the woods or land to which we can escape. We live in a large city, surrounded by adequate parks, but we need the long trails of the state parks to truly experience the natural world. We visit the parks in the early spring, when trees are just beginning to show signs of life (and when the hunting period will be in effect). We long for snowy winters when we can ski on the many groomed trails and snowshoe on others (also when the hunting period will be in effect). And during the fall, when the most dramatic changes take place, when we love to camp, and when many other outdoors-minded families go to their land to hunt and explore, we seek out the state parks (during which time there will now be hunters with guns on the trails). All it takes is one mistake by even the most outstanding hunter to make this law the precursor to an unnecessary tragedy. My family and I seek out the state parks regularly, year-round, because they are the one place where we can go and freely explore the natural world without fear of being mistaken for deer or other animals being hunted. We moved to Wisconsin from another state in part because of the respect this state has shown for its natural resources. I will not visit the parks during the open hunting season, and will seriously consider moving our family to another state where the rights of hunters and hikers are equally respected. Please reconsider the implementation of Act 168 to allow hunting in our great state parks. Sincerely, Amy Grunewald-Mattison

Planet watching

Not our planet. For an hour or so tonight we waited for clouds to part and the sun to peek through and then dashed over to our friend's telescope to see a small black spot on a bright white circle. Cameras clicked, voices confirmed that we were seeing what we should be seeing: our neighbor in the solar system circling the sun. We marveled at this dot and for me anyway, I forgot about what is going on here on earth. Our kids mixed in with their friend and made new friends under an oak tree where they created a house of sticks, fit for a king squirrel. Even the lake, known for its green glow and distinct fragrance, spread out below us looking crystal clear from the hill. The actual celestial phenomena, the transit of Venus, has happened before in my lifetime. I don't remember it at all. Maybe there were clouds, or maybe we were just too busy, our one summer when both Ryan and I worked in a hospital. But this one I will remember. And whether it is the story of how the transit of Venus helped scientists of long ago understand the bigger world in which we live or if my memories are of the kids gathering sticks and running up and down the hill, this one I will remember. Just a mile away people were gathering to see if history would be made in a recall election of our state's Governor. That didn't happen. And as much as this defeat crushes the work and hopes of many of us, the planet watching helps. Not our planet, just for a moment. But who knows? Maybe there used to be people just like us on Venus watching the night sky until greed and comfort decimated their planet.

WI needs balance -- take a look at MN

This came from a friend in MN...glad to know our neighbors are thinking of us in the upcoming election on Tues! With permission, I'm posting it on my blog: Minnesota leaves Walker’s Wisconsin in the dust Since January 2011 Wisconsin has had a one-sided state government under Scott Walker. At the same time, Minnesota has operated with a balanced government: a Democratic governor and a Republican legislature. Through April 2012, Wisconsin lost 12,800 jobs while Minnesota gained 38,800 jobs, and while Wisconsin’s unemployment rate dropped to 6.7 percent, Minnesota’s unemployment rate is down to 5.6 percent. Over the past year and a half, Minnesota took pragmatic positions on a number of policy issues, while Walker passed short-sighted laws that weaken Wisconsin's educational system and threaten the well being of its environment. An educated workforce is key to strong economic growth, and Wisconsin’s fishing, hunting and tourism industry, and its general quality of life depend on sound environmental policy. If Walker stays in office, education will suffer, and air and water quality will deteriorate. Electing Tom Barrett on June 5 will bring balance back to Wisconsin. Barrett has a solid record on economic development, education, crime, and protecting the environment. No more playing catch up to Minnesota.

Koen walked today! I was rolling out pizza dough that didn't want to be rolled out when I saw him moving from his favorite spot in the kitchen, the pantry, towards his second favorite spot, the garbage. What he spotted was a tub of hummus on the counter and was so focused, he forgot to get down and crawl. He proceeded to eat out of the hummus tub I handed him while standing on his own. I think we have a toddler in the house! We won't have to worry about forgetting the date, as today is also Rob's birthday. Way to go Koen!

Jump Start to Spring

A week ago Ryan took the boys sledding while I sat on the couch and read the newspaper (Koen napped). We knew the end of the snow was coming, but there was plenty to sled on. By Tuesday it started warming and water rushed down the gutters and seeped into the frozen ground. Wednesday brought a hard enough rain to clean things up a bit, and Thursday I could smell the sweet spring dirt. Friday was cold and windy, but Saturday a warm front moved in and we moved out -- of the house and into the yard, street, anywhere that was unsheltered and in the welcomed sun. Everyone emerged from their houses, groups of parents and kids gathered together basking in the warmth of the sun and conversation. Kids made up games, rode bikes up and down the sidewalk, and shed layers of clothes as the afternoon went on. But it is tiring. Just breathing in the air for hours at a time when I am used to being in the heated domes of home and car and store made me sleepy by dinner time. We sprung the clocks ahead, but I feel like I am an hour behind. Elliott collapsed on the couch, no meltdown, no whining, just pure, beautiful exhaustion. Dietrich put his head on the table after he was done eating. They still rallied for bedtime and put on their usual show, but it was subdued and short-lived, the air now turning cooler and beckoning them towards a deep sleep. And it calls me too. I'm sure we'll have another dumping of snow -- after all, it isn't even April yet -- but what a treat. What a joy to be given a taste of spring so early.

Sparkly Ski

There is nothing like a drought of snow to bring out the sparkly magic of a perfect ski. Before last week it had snowed exactly twice -- November 9th (a Thursday) and December 17 (a Saturday, happily the day we went to the Christmas tree farm). Besides those two days, nothing. Without snow in Wisconsin is tolerable, it even had its bright spots. The sidewalks remained wide, the car relatively clean, the smell of soggy mittens absent. No backaches in the house from over-shoveling (pretty sure that is a medical diagnosis here) and no headaches from driving on snow covered roads. What we've missed though was worse. It felt like the ground was left outside naked, as if someone forgot to dress her and she just keeps showing up anyway. Bare trees, bare lakes, even open water. Not enough stillness for winter, not enough fresh, warm dirt for spring. We felt caught in the in between times and nothing we could do about it.

And then, the snow started to come. Not a lot and it didn't last real long, but we had a snowy day or two last week, and then another few inches and below freezing temps this week. It really feels like winter may come after all! The quiet that the snow ushered in surprised me. I kept wondering what was different? Why so quiet? Then today I took the boys skiing while the baby napped at home with Ryan. For the first time they wore real skis and used poles. Their coordination has changed so much since the last time I saw them ski -- for Elliott, probably two years ago with his broken arm last January. I would even say we had a pace going, a rhythm. As we came to a bridge that crossed over a frozen creek bed, the snow caught our attention. It sparkled. In all the stillness and quiet that a blanket of snow offers the earth, the light it reflects is what captured our attention. We swished over the sparkly snow until the boys' rentals were due back (and Elliott's tummy grumbled). Who knows, it may be the last sparkly snow of this crazy winter, but it has lightened us, and I am grateful.

Vacation Day One

We are 111 miles from Mauston, where we got onto the freeway after taking a state highway over the rolling hills of south central Wisconsin. Just a mile shy of what iron-athletes travel on their bikes before embarking on a marathon (and after having swum nearly two and a half miles). Now we're in Eau Claire at a hotel on the side of the road, along with a good portion of Minnesota's little leaguers. Here's hoping they have 7am games tomorrow and are going to bed soon. It's our first night in a hotel with all three boys -- cozy! Tomorrow we drive the rest of the way to Duluth where we will first go shopping because, once again, the weather up there is going to rapidly change upon my arrival. The last time was in 2002 when the temperature went from 80's one day to a brisk 50-something the next. The high on Sunday? 67. Do we have even a long sleeved shirt? Doubtful. At least Ryan won't overheat at the triathlon (not an ironman, but a long distance one). Sounds like the baseball players are quieting down, guess I should too.

Tribute to Pastor Kevin

Our pastor from our church in North Carolina, Reconciliation UMC, is moving on this summer. Here is a reflection on our experience of Kevin's ministry during our 3 years there.

It could not have been a more North Carolina Easter Day on April 16, 2006 when we brought our twin baby boys forward to be baptized into Christ's death and resurrection. It was hot, sticky, and the sun beamed down on us as one by one they were handed over by their sponsors to Pastor Kevin. I remember the look of surprise on Elliott's face, and that Dietrich seemed ready to play in the water and with the shell. It marked the beginning of their life in Christ though they had long been loved by the congregation at Reconciliation.

Each year while I was in seminary at Duke, Pastor Kevin was an integral part of how God was awakening me. Kevin was the small group leader in my "spiritual formation" group and he wasn't interested in having us feel good about ourselves and our sacrifices we made going to seminary. After a week or two of getting to know each other, he pushed our comfort with church as usual. We read articles that helped us check our assumptions about everything at the door; I began to ask questions about reconciliation in Christ -- which was what I came to Duke to learn -- that I hadn't even imagined. It wasn't long before Ryan and I began going to services at Reconciliation. Even that word -- services -- changed for me while working with Kevin as I began to see that reconciliation means service in Christ to each other.

My year as an intern under Pastor Kevin's supervision remains one of the most surprising parts of my seminary education. I would have never imagined being drawn into parish ministry when I started at Duke; now I cannot imagine ministry apart from the parish. Kevin faced the struggles of our church head-on while remaining humble. He followed through on the questions he asked and was a model for how to keep asking questions. He gave praise and constructive criticism, but I always felt that I was part of the church first, and that I belonged. But he always remembered to have fun, to smile, to keep on.

But a tribute to Kevin would not be complete -- would not be possible -- without a tribute also to Denise. When I came into a Monday morning meeting sick as a dog but with the exciting news that we were expecting twins, Kevin was excited for us. But it was Denise who gave me the reassuring look every time I saw her that it will all be okay. It was Denise who planned the best baby shower ever, and Denise who kept us fed in the early weeks with our babies. If there was ever a model of team ministry (without the compensation) Kevin and Denise would be it!

Thank you to both of you for your many years of sermons and salads, baptisms and baby-showers, honesty and hospitality. The amount you gave to this congregation cannot be measured, nor can the amount you will be missed. God's speed to you and your next adventure.

Ascension Day

Had it not been for a quick click on the Daily Text in my inbox, I would have missed this, but here it is, the winding down of the Easter season with remembering Jesus' going up. Something like a pianist after the final chord, after all the themes and repetition, crescendos and diminuendos, the rests, the scattered notes that are all pulled together into that final chord. And then she lifts her wrists, fingers falling softly underneath. Lifted up. The somewhere isn't even a thought because it is the music that is left behind that we hear echoed in our minds. Her wrists dangle there for a moment while she takes it in and breathes before the organized raucous of applause. So here it is, Ascension Day.

Yesterday I dared to pick up the winter coats from the lower hooks in the almighty coat closest and shuffle them over to the washer. Is this just tempting a last cold blast before summer swooshes in? After all it was just a couple of weeks ago that I sent the snow pants into the washer, dryer, and finally the attic. I first peeled off a sticker from Elliott's pocket that said, "I met a farmer today!". It came from an exhibit at the children's museum on the rooftop where we drank chocolate milk, petted baby pigs and sheep, and made crayons from soy beans before ducking back into the heated exhibits. His hidden pocket inside his coat held a long piece of purple yarn, rolled into a ball and a quarter along with the remnants of the last washing when a beeswax sculpture made it all the way through the dryer cycle.

Dietrich's sticker never made it off the waxy paper, and it read, "I voted today!" from what would have been a non-news election had it not been for the wild Wisconsin winter when a governor grabbed hold of power and whipped it around like a jump rope with a weight on the end -- no one, even the governor himself, knows where it will land and whom it will hurt. But we voted (or at least I did). Dietrich and Elliott were home recovering from another Kindergarten virus. He also had some string, just a short bit, and a stick that had no bark left on it at all. It barely fit into the pocket. I can see him struggling to squeeze it in, only to be left there for weeks, maybe even months. I found a black sweat band made my Grandma Carol to adorn complete his Packer outfit reminding me of the months (yes, months) that he wore yellow pants and a green jersey. The purple karibeener (sp?) I have no idea where he found, but surely had something to do with the yarn at one time, and will likely have some use when he finds it again in the pile of things on the laundry table.

Koen's fleece snowsuit goes into the load, too, though he has no pockets to empty. Just a veneer of baby chew from the velcro he liked to nibble while snuggled into the snowsuit, a hat, a carrier, then zipped underneath my jacket. By the end of the season his hands could actually peek out when the flap was flipped back, and the zipper was snug across his belly. The pockets will be here soon enough, and I wonder what they might carry?

In they go, washing away the haze of salt, the playground sand, and the wiped noses. I doubt they will fit next year, but I will keep them up with the snow pants, stowed, quiet, until old man winter whispers to us again.

Flash Mob Snow

Midnight and I am sitting in the rocking chair nursing Koen but just behind the blackout shades the city lights are as bright as a November afternoon, every night. I peek out to see if we are indeed getting rained on, or if the low pressure system shifted just far enough to whiten the streets. Rain, just rain, I see. Koen is amazingly efficient for a change and goes right back to sleep. My dreams shift between the mundane (but welcome) discovery that we did, in fact, save some of Dietrich and Elliott's spring clothes from babyhood and need not get new ones for the baby; to disturbing dreams of our city's shopping district turning red light in the face of a budget shortfall.

It seems like minutes before Koen is shifting around, but it is nearly morning and I am giddy with the knowledge that I've had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Knowing this is his last deep time of sleep, I dash to the bathroom before the back and forth sleep of the early morning hours begin. Something is different. There is no need to turn on a light in there and I know it before I even look out -- we've been hit by the snowstorm. I just learned that a flash mob can refer to a completely innocent and fun coordinated effort to show up, together, somewhere, and dance, or sing (I learned this from one of the few high school kids I know who knows just about everything in current trends). And that is what those soggy spring snowflakes decided to do. They just showed up! They were supposed to go north, we were below the "snow line", we were in the green, not the blue. But there was no denying it, we were snockered again (that should be a word if it isn't already).

I broke the news to my husband and household-snow-shoveler-of-the-year (while I take full advantage of having birthed a baby surgically as long as the snow season lasts). Once the sun was up, the sticky surprise offered the first of many contradictions that we are sure to encounter during Lent. It's a day we remember our fragility, a day that feels dark, a day we even accept ashes smeared on our foreheads. And yet it is beautifully blinding to be outside, every inch covered in more inches of snow.

Chase

We went out the front door, instead of squeezing out the side door, which, while energy efficient and directly up the stairs from the best edition to our house -- a closet -- is tight. Maybe that was the inspiration. Or maybe it was the stark blue sky and the moon rise, the reward of a clear, wind snapping January day. When we turned the corner towards the library (which turned out to be closed) we broke into a chase -- instigated by me, definitely something I have not done in nearly a year, maybe even more. In fact, I've felt unable to play, even unwilling, to play. A lot of that has to do with carrying a baby, first in my womb, now in a carrier. But the stars aligned and the pager cooperated that I could skidaddle out of the house late this afternoon. And so I chased those bigger boys, those boys who have looked sad with my reasons for not playing, for not picking up the football (but I can hike it w/ baby in the ergo). Down the street, down another street. Dropped off the books. Back up the street. One boy, then the other, then me. I no longer have to fake that I can't catch Dietrich -- I really had to work hard. We stopped to shop a post-Christmas sale, we grocery shopped. But it was the chase, the simple act of being in the game again, that delighted me. Does this mean I am going to start running again? Hardly. Does it mean I feel something like the sparkling crisp night that fell on us as we ran? Yes.

Tea time

There is nothing that takes away the sting of winter than a warm cup of tea, though hot chocolate is a close second, especially when made slowly by scratch on the stove. Yet there is something about the lightness of tea, the barely-there-ness of its taste, that balances the harshness of winter: wind that sneaks through gortex and fleece and down all the same; dry skin that cracks and opens and leaves a nagging pain despite the Norwegian formula-lotions, udder cream, even olive oil treatments; the pile of snowpants, boots, gloves, hats, neck warmers, scarves that collects at the bottom of the stairs (and the ensuing ripe odor that the pile leaves behind if not ushered off to the dryer right away); and the dark afternoons that seem to creep up just after lunch. A cup of tea, timed just right, can ease the elements.

Yesterday I stopped over at a friend's house who, along with her sister, makes cakes and bottles of soap and sends the profits to a local housing advocacy group and to the East Asia Institute, the organization started by Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea. I could have guessed from her website the scents of each variety, but she lives just down the block so I went to take a sniff before buying gifts for all the amazing women in our life. Of course she offered tea, and of course I accepted. Baby Koen snuggled and nursed while I let my to-do list slide to the afternoon and we all drank tea. I walked home with warmth: Koen under my jacket in his carrier, lightly scented soaps in my bag, and a cup of tea inside me.

At school, the boys have tea with their morning snack. They drink it out of earthenware cups and light a candle on the table. Dietrich isn't a hearty eater at school, though he does try everything, but he always drinks the tea. I can picture it calming him from the inside, out and preparing him for his outdoor adventures, his favorite part of the day. When the afternoon begins to drag on, I know that suggesting a cup of tea brings us all to the kitchen, gets us to sit down, and lets us regroup for the evening ahead. Its not that our tea times erase the hectic scramble of dinner-clean up-bath-bed, but as with the elements outside, it eases it somewhat.

And now the wimpers of that warm baby call, but maybe I will make myself some tea.

There are a lot of things having a new baby in the house makes hard to do -- writing this blog is clearly one of them. Yet I have so many fleeting thoughts throughout the day that I'd like to see what happens to on the page. Having a new baby somehow awakens the world around me in a new way too as if I, too, am seeing everything for the first time. I would like to write through the fog of the first weeks of Koen's life and how I had days of seeing through it clearly and days where the fog seemed to lift and fall all day day long. But there are so few moments when I have two hands to do anything.

Today Dietrich was picking at his peel-less apples while licking the peanut butter (into which he was supposed to be dipping) when he asked me to tell him the story of his birth. He watched my every word which made me reach for more details. It stormed that night, there were 28 babies born along with Dietrich and Elliott, we were so confused when who we knew to be baby B became baby A because, during my surgical birth, he was born first. He asked for it again, and again. When Ryan came home, he asked him to tell it so he could hear his version, his details. And then again, tell it again.

And then I heard the news, on facebook, that a professor from St Olaf died yesterday, too young, too much in the prime of his life, too great of a family to leave behind. The news of his death leaves a sting that reminds me the brokenness of this world runs deep. And so we need to tell the birth stories, the stories that give life and try even a little bit to describe that place where life happens -- not just the birth stories, but the times each day when something looks new or when we see something we've glanced before but for the first time really take a look, or give a listen. There are moments all day long ready to be birthed into our imagination and then told, and retold.

Blooming Vinca

We are in the midst of a low pressure system that has hounded us with rain and wind and now just more wind for the past three days. It feels like the beginnings of the hurricaines in North Carolina, only these winds promise to move out and leave behind them the crisp fall days that I have been quietly craving. When there are so many days of cold and damp and snow and ice ahead of us, I haven't voiced how I'd rather be cuddled up in fleece than still considering turning on the air conditioner. But now that fall seems up on us, I think it is safe to say I'm happy to see it, feel it.

Yesterday, however, the wind seemed to wear me down. So incessant, so loud. It was the first day that I really over-did-it since Koen has been born, and by the end of the day, I was spent. After finally reaching home, where I knew I would be for at least the next night and following day, I relaxed and shuttled Koen into the house. As I went back to get the boys, I noticed that our vinca plants were blooming. My dad and I had picked them up on a steep discount on a rainy day in late June. They did nothing all summer. They didn't die, but they didn't grow taller or show any color. They just sat there, plucked into the ground looking just as they had when I popped them out of their flimsy black containers. But yesterday, after a night of pounding rain and howling wind, they bloomed. One is purple, two others a fuchsia, another almost blue. I still hadn't had a great meal, and it would be a few more hours before sleep could overcome me, but these flowers welcomed me home, welcomed me to the end of a long day, and seemed to tell me it was okay to be spent, undone, unable to do it all. I went inside to our sweet baby boy, our tired but freshly showered big boys, and knew Ryan would be coming home in minutes.

I haven't checked to see if the vinca survived the winds from today. But I wouldn't be surprised. After all, they are only about 4 inches off the ground. Maybe they knew something we didn't back in June. Regardless, thank you, blooming vinca.

Meetings

I'm reading a book right now (taking a break from both novels and beautiful birthing stories) about our sense of time called Receiving the Day by Dorothy Bass. She has twins and is a theologian and writer who was first recommended to me when I was in div school. Five years later I am finding why she was recommended! One of the many gleanings I've had from her book is to think about our days as places of meeting -- how we meet the sun, wind, rain; how we meet our family members, our neighbors; how we meet the tasks we have to do and wish we didn't as well as those we would enjoy doing; and how we meet God in the midst of all those other meetings.

Something she another mother ask her kids before going to bed was, "how did you meet God today?" We have always ended nighttime prayers with thanksgivings, "what do you give God thanks for today?" Lately we've had a lot of gibberish and silliness after the question. Maybe it is having a new question, or maybe it is how this question is different. What does it mean to "meet" anyway? But as we've been asking it, I've been surprised to hear the answers. There are still responses of, "I'm too tired," but more often than not we get a glimpse at what it means to them to "meet" God in their day to day.

Tonight Elliott answered right away, "I met God today when I came out of school and saw you and greeted you in the hallway!" That is an answer I will tuck close by and one that will keep me looking for "meetings" tomorrow.

Crowded classroom

Just as the summer was winding down, the boys and I began making trips to the nearby school yard to play baseball and climb on the new, challenging, play-structure made for the 3rd-5th graders who go to school there. Elliott climbs, Dietrich has batting and base-running practice. On our last day there before school started the building was bustling with janitors making repairs, teachers setting up classrooms, and everyone catching up on their summer adventures. We could hear the chatter from the playground and peek into the classrooms. I was trying to focus on my pitching, but between baby resting on my tail bone and keeping half an eye on Elliott going down the slide without edges, I was distracted from the game, and drawn to watching what was going up on the walls in the classroom.

I first noticed this at our visit to our local elementary school last winter. Stacks and stacks of books, paper, materials, flip-boards, and laminated you-name-it line the walls of the classrooms. Does anyone ever sort through these stacks? Over the course of a year are all these materials actually used in some way? Or have they been there so long they have become part of the room, as unnoticed as the colors on the walls or the placement of the light fixtures? In the class I watched from the playground, the walls were covered with posters. One was a set of 12, the months of the year. They hung quietly next to the clock. Brightly colored scenes depicted children frolicking in the snow, digging up a garden, splashing in a pool, raking up leaves. The kids were colored appropriately to reflect the diversity of the kids attending the school, the faces all smiling. I pictured the teacher putting in the work order to have the months laminated, then carefully cutting them out and masking-taping them to the wall.

Maybe the children feel comfort seeing the same posters day after day and maybe the teacher uses them to mark the time as the year goes by, using a long pointer to reach up to each new month. Likely the stacks of materials lining the walls and files of materials stacked on the tables have no ill effect on how children learn. I know that our boys have created elaborate scenes of space travel and fire rescue despite the tall shelves of art supplies, games, and toys that mostly stand idle in their play area. But the effect it had on me was a question: what if all these materials are what make a crowded classroom? What if it isn't as much about class size as it is about class composition? How many materials do we really need to learn as is appropriate to a child's age? What if children created their own materials and took ownership in the contents of their room because it is their work? What if we took a break from the images handed to us from scholastic and instead let children create their own images of the months and seasons changing? What if we took a break from the flood of primary colors and smiling faces and laminated posters? Would a classroom freed of unused materials foster more creativity with the materials that are used?

In yesterday's NYT week-in-review Thomas Friedman suggested that American children lag behind children of other industrialized nations not because their teachers are inadequate or their schools lack funding but because students do not take charge of their education. He sighted large numbers of students who feel unmotivated and teachers frustrated with the lack of student motivation. He took our culture of instant gratification to task along with its fuel -- media, video, and computers. But in a crowded classroom, thick with materials, technology, and manufactured images can we be surprised that there is little energy for students to be innovative, creative, and responsible with their education?

Yet I know how hard it is to weed out what is needed, and what can be let go. Those shelves in our basement were part of an ongoing effort to free up some space to rearrange and make an office. I physically went back and forth on what to throw, what to keep. And I do not expect our load of recycled paper and cardboard that we let go of will make a difference in the next effort at recreating space travel. But it has already helped make space for new art on the walls.

Was that this morning?

I know it has been a long day when, despite my husband's attestation that indeed it was today I was in the dining room sipping tea and reading the NYT magazine at 4 in the morning, I do not believe him. Maybe it was the restorative sleep that mercifully took place between 5:30 and 7 a.m. when, after a brief screech about something-or-other, Elliott and Dietrich bounded into our bed. But somehow I had completely forgotten being awake at such an hour, reading about Deepak Chopra's latest book, the advice column, and starting an article that was way too long for the hour, probably something about education. It is just as well. Here's to not repeating the tea, reading, forgetting, cycle tonight. Though I have a new Christian Century that just arrived, so it wouldn't be the worst thing.

Winds of Change

My first autumn in Thailand I heard time after time that the heat and humidity would soon be over. We just had to wait for the day for it all to change. There would be a steady wind, dark clouds, and a hint of cool that day, and by the next day, winter would be here. Everyone told me this, but how could I believe such a drastic prediction (even though I had been there all of 3 weeks and they had lived their entire lives there)? But when I walked out of class one day and the wind had picked up, the clouds had accumulated, and there was a distinct breath of cool air somewhere out there, I waited to see if it would really happen.

Now, winter in Thailand is hardly "winter" in the Midwest sense, or even the North Carolina sense. But the change in the air is such a relief from the heat (and, I would learn after my first rainy season, rain) that it hit me as hard as the first dumping of snow, the green grass not to be seen again for months. And that it comes in a rush of a day or maybe two makes the contrast all the more stark. I was basking in the cool relief, and baffled that it had somehow arrived with such little notice.

When I experienced my second autumn, I was more prepared and less skeptical. It was later than the previous year, well into November, but it arrived in the same way. That year the arrival of winter coincided with the realization that I would be living my first years as an adult away from home, family, and many friends. Friends back home would be easing into jobs with health benefits, grad programs, relationships with potential of marriage, apartments and even houses they would fund by themselves. This may no longer be the case (see last week's NYT magazine article) but at the time I felt isolated and longed for the comfort of a paycheck, a syllabus, a box of furniture to assemble.

As the fall unfolded and I began to know more students, neighbors, workers at the market, and my lifeline of friends who were also volunteering post-college-graduation, the changes that seemed insurmountable when the wind was rushing through the rambatan trees outside my house held less emotional and spiritual space for me. The life I left behind held less of my imagination than the experiences I was in the midst of living. I began to trust that the relationships that held together while I was away would be those that held together through my adult life. Hindsight has proved just that.

This year our September has has a Thai feeling to it. Just a week ago I took the boys to the outdoor pool and I sank my ever-expanding belly into the cool water with a breath of relief. It had been sticky all day and the pool, once again, offered relief that lasted beyond our swim. The boys went down the slide, Elliott even jumped off the board, and they made their rounds of water play -- in the shallow end, in the deep, and then off to the sand box (repeat). A cold front moved through at the end of the week as Elliott and Dietrich exchanged their swimsuits for rain gear and their t-shirts for sweatshirts.

Today the wind blew small branches off trees and the streets are littered with leaves and acorns. The clouds hung as if they were from November. The windows in our house are open and the air is crisp and clean, but we had to close one during lunch as the wind gave us goose bumps. It seems only fitting that the world seems to be changing around us even as our day-to-day world is changing in our household. The boys are off to Kindergarten each morning, and in a few short weeks we will welcome another family member. Somehow, the seasons changing with us has encouraged me, and opened me to the wonder of change. Something in the crisp air and powerful breeze has given me strength to watch my little boys venture out on their own a few hours a day and given me even more excitement about welcoming another child into our lives. Not that I wouldn't mind a few more days of summer...