Monthly Archives: February 2011

A Colicky World

25 Friday Feb 2011

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer

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I’ve not thought about Libya until today.

And though I’m somewhat ashamed in admitting my truth, I realize I always draw boundaries tighter when my husband leaves town — as he did this week.  Maybe it’s a carryover from helping raise four children.  With one of us away, the other always tightened focus to keep a busy two-parent home afloat.

However, having a smaller world view is also, for better or worse, part of who I am; I tend to lavishly love the ones I’m with – when in Texas, it was friends; now that I’m home, it’s family.  Moreover, I attempt to live free of what will steal my peace.   For example, I avoid violent films because viewing them robs me of an ability to sleep – for a long time.  I can still remember in full gory detail a Dirty Harry film I saw in my late teens.  And now, without nudge to prompt them, my thoughts pull up the year I became a teen, when I saw Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood at the drive-in theater with my family.  Just writing the words of the film’s title flash up a slicer scene I shiver to remember.

So while I’m a dreamer, maybe it’s less by nature than nurture.  Maybe it’s what the world has made of me, the way I’ve learned to cope and live within a broken world.  I tell myself I don’t live life with my head buried in the sand but rather high up in the clouds — dreaming all sorts of good dreams of a better world – one full of beauty and truth and love.  But perhaps I’m  kidding myself; and it’s only silly semantics.

So this week, while my radius didn’t reach as far as Libya, it did extend a mile uptown to embrace not only my new home but more importantly, my new not yet two-month old granddaughter who suffers from gut-wrenching colic.  Poor Reese Caroline —  when she draws in her legs to cradle her belly.  She hurts without knowing the reasons why.  I wonder — is she frightened too?  And pity her mother who tries to comfort her without knowing how to offer relief – this time; because this time will not be like last time or the time before that.

This little girl cannot sleep by herself for pain and sometimes cannot eat without pain.  Medications have lessened the hurt without eliminating it.  Sometimes her special sensitive diet helps.  But there are no magic tricks left in the doctor’s bag – the only thing that seems to consistently work is never putting the baby down.  The photo above was last Monday’s “Kodak Moment”, when Kara shared her joy with family of a baby FINALLY sleeping solo.  Yet ultimately, I know, in spite of all the love and support my daughter has in the world in and outside her walls, Kara has to feel terribly alone in this.  Surely she must feel like it’s her and Reese braving the battle against colic, with the rest of us standing  somewhere on the sidelines.  Helping the best we can – waiting until the baby’s digestive system matures.

So.  I didn’t pray for Libya this week but I did for little Reese.  And I sat with her  to give my daughter a break from the scary front-lines of motherhood.  And though I was not the one my granddaughter wanted, I rocked her in my arms anyway.  Sometimes I sat in the rocker and other times I rocked her walking laps around the house.  And when walking alone didn’t work, I sang a silly little made-up song that seemed to bring comfort.

God love you.  God love you.  God love you, Reese Caroline.

I sang it over and over and over until ten or twelve laps around, Reese stopped crying to listen.  Until quiet dissolved into peace.  And drowsy eyelids fluttered shut.  Small facial features relaxed.  And relief came for both of us.

This morning, as I thought about Libya, I felt small.  I felt small for having my mile-wide radius.  I felt small for not realizing how the Libyan people were living in a colicky world too — for surely they too draw up their legs in bunkered down homes that no longer feel safe.  I felt small in thinking how violence in their real world – rather than one made of imagination viewed with the price of admission — had rocked away their sense of peace and well-being.  Like any on the front-lines fighting colic, I imagine the Libyan people too are suffering from a lack of precious sleep.

Oh Libya! I know you must feel terribly alone now.  How I long to reach out my arms to bind and comfort you, even by singing off-key my small silly song:  God love you.  God love you.  God love you, little Libya.  And how I wish I could whisper softly in your ear that it will be all better soon, once your system for life matures.  Yes, I do.  I really do.

Neither Here nor There

24 Thursday Feb 2011

Posted by in Life at Home

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I’m living a life of in-between, with thoughts scattered between two homes.

I know that I should focus attention here.  But the work —  a long list of to-dos  — overwhelms me.  Which explains yesterday’s flight to sweeter thoughts and activities; instead of dreaming about my new kitchen remodel, after returning home from Kara’s and holding that sweet not-so-dainty new granddaughter of mine, I should have been productive and painted.

Why is it that since signing the purchase contract this weekend, I’m seeing my current home with fresh eyes?  All I know is that I am now awake to the fact that there is more painting touch-up required than I first imagined.  Doorways especially — living room french doors, the interior side of oft-used doors in the front and back — even the little midget door entrance into the basement.

But before I paint, there’s a need to remove collected clutter.  And it will take time to do this properly.  I must pace myself in order to sort carefully between giveaways and keepers.  I know if I don’t take this work in small doses, my heart will grow hard  so that even keepers will end up as giveaways or trash.  Experience from last year’s clear-out of my parent’s home has taught me not to part too swiftly with evidence of everyday life.

All those books of mine — mostly unread.  I fear a need to find a new home for many — as my reading taste has evolved from those acquired in the early nineties.  All that cobalt blue glass, which probably needs to come out of windows to not distract potential home buyers from the charms of the house.  Then there all those things we don’t part with when we should, but save for a rainy day.

It’s no small irony that today is a rainy day.  An off and on again shower that is sometimes soft and steady, before hushing to a bird-chirping silence before it strikes up cymbals and lightning to drive down hard.  Not pounding.  But determined.  As I must also be with this last bit of house-tending.  God help me.

Besta Mesta

22 Tuesday Feb 2011

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park

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I deeply love this old neighborhood — the one I call home — the one most call more formally by first and last name:  Mesta Park.

While it’s never easy to describe why, I always begin by pointing out  its central location, how it’s within easy walking distance of downtown.  And how by car, with nearby access to two major highway arteries, I can get anywhere in the city in 20 minutes or less.  (After years of driving Houston expressways highways, I count this no small miracle.)

I like how whether I head north or south, it’s close to fine dining and local art and entertainment districts.  How residents need walk only a few blocks to grab a good cup of coffee.  Or something to eat from the many local cafes and bakeries that dot its crisp rectangular edges.  There’s a quaint charm afoot, when the neighborhood’s one small grocer and several churches sprinkled here and there allow most to cover daily needs of nourishment with only their “Chevrolegs.”

Life in Mesta Park is definitely slower — more so than other parts of the city, even those a mere three miles up the road by Penn Square Mall.  Residents excuse people for thinking otherwise, nestled as it is, against shadows of skyscrapers.  But more than slow, the neighborhood pulse is also steady — as a historic district, one can rest assured that the house next door will not schedule a date with a wrecking crew any time soon.

When traveling over Thirteenth Street — the historic district’s invisible drawn lower boundary — it helps to regard the crossing  as time travel.  It matters not whether carried by memory or imagination — one will arrive securely embraced by small town Americana — early twentieth century.  It’s a place where endless old shade trees line the curbs to attend the parade of neighborhood life.  It’s a place where patriotic banners proudly hang from beams of front porches — still well used.  And summer ice cream socials still gather neighbors in the park.   Where one finds residents – both two and four-legged – barking out friendly greetings as they pass on the sidewalk; voices of children chirping as they ride bikes to the park or sit behind  their lemonade stands, waiting for thirsty customers they know will stop.

Living here schools me in patience.  The neighborhood is home to many different stages of life and the houses and gardens do a good job of telling who lives where.  Immaculate lawns and gardens spell retiree or the absentee rich with hired help or perhaps a passionate gardener.  And while the neighborhood has more than its share of finely manicured lawns, most land somewhere near the “good enough” category.  It’s easy to imagine owners of these places spread too thin — trying hard to cover all the bases but running out of steam somewhere between third and  home plate.

Then there are those other yards practically begging for an explanation.  You know the  ones — talked about behind their backs rather than lent a helping hand.   Sometimes, when seen kneeling in the dirt of my own gardens, a passer-by will strike up casual conversation.  A few sentences in, they’ll pose their question, punctuated with a finger-point or nod of their head, “What’s the story on that corner house over there?”  And playing the part of mother to child, I’ll tell them what they already know but for some reason only God knows, like also to hear from me; something along the lines of how these neighbors of ours will get around to “it” sooner or later; and if too late of later, when reported to the City for having foot-high weeds.

Soon, it will be me passing through this old neighborhood on my way to a new-old home uptown from here.  And though I won’t stop to ask questions, I hope to always stop — at least mentally — to recall how lucky I once was to call this place home.   This old neighborhood and I go way back — every since it captured my childish heart while gazing out the window from the back seat of my parent’s mid-fifties Chevrolet.

Neither time nor space can change that.  It never has.  And I suppose it never will.