I wrote this is 2012. Thought I’d share again.
I went to an IL DIVO concert last night. It was awesome. The singing was transcendent and I found myself somewhere else, living some other life. (I’m listening to them as I write this). Some fairy tale life where I am the most important, most amazing, most loved, most beautiful and most desired woman in the world. Maybe that is why all the women fall for their music…because it gives us something that we never can quite find in our own lives. We live in reality…where we have husbands that we’ve been married to forever that are not usually romantic and they don’t regularly bring us Starbucks and flowers and they don’t rip our clothes off in animal desire anymore (maybe never did). They don’t spend hours gazing into the deep pools that are our eyes. They don’t have time to linger in bed and wrap us up with the sheets or get up in the middle of the night and make us pancakes (if they even know where the kitchen is) and we eat by candlelight. They don’t spend all their time focusing on how to surprise us with gifts and trips and romantic gestures. We don’t sail off into the sunset wrapped in their arms with the moon shining down on the deck and the waves slapping up against the boat. Rarely.

Real life is….well….too real. Too unpredictable. Too predictable. Too apathetic. Too urgent. Too full of crisis or totally empty. Men are not relational by nature and they really are not our soul mates for the most part. Most men don’t know there exists deep inside every woman a deep need and desire to be…well…desired. We want to know we are beautiful. We want to know that we are the most important person in our man’s life. We want to be appreciated. We want to be complimented, encouraged, affirmed and spoiled. We want to be cherished and protected. Is this happening in most relationships? Marriages? Or have a lot of us fallen into assumption and apathy. You know the old story….I told you I loved you at the wedding…if anything changes I’ll let you know. Our men are just not cutting it…and not getting it. Then IL DIVO shows up and sing songs of undying passion and love…to some mythical woman who is the most beautiful in the world and worth dying for. They can’t think of anything else. (at least we think that’s what they are saying since they are usually singing in Spanish or French…they could be telling us how their dog got run over by a pick up truck). And to we, supposedly short changed women…they become our heros…our knight riding up on a great horse to rescue us and save us from redundancy. They answer the questions that tear at the deepest places of our souls. And for one concert, one song, one moment…we can live out the idea that maybe, just maybe, we ARE worthy amazing loveable desirable women. The stuff movies and books are made of. And music…there is something about music that moves the soul almost anytime….never mind when the words of love and affirmation are being sung by young handsome talented men dressed in black tuxes surrounded by clouds of dry ice. Snap…concerts over. Back to reality.

I do some research on these guys. One was married for three years and is divorced. One is possibly living with a woman…the mother of his child…very cloak and dagger-ish. One is married with three children to a woman to whom pregnancy could be fatal each time. One is newly married…no kids. So these men are not single and searching and dateable…especially to us older married women. What were we thinking??? Slap slap. Wake up. These songs are written with poetic words and themes that are lovely and idealistic. Possibly the way God meant love to be but because of our sinful natures…it never really turns out quite that way. These guys are real men who live real lives with real relationships that struggle with pain and loss and failure too. They are also stuck in the human condition. It just so happens they have amazing voices and their day job is to sing to us and transport us to fantasyland…if they have done this then they have been successful. But its all a ruse. Unfortunately. And I wake up the next morning beside my aging husband of 31 years and wonder why my Grande Extra Hot Soy Tazo Chai is not sitting on my night table beside a dozen pink tipped roses. Its sad when Extra Hot is an adjective I only use for my favorite beverage and not the man I love and cherish.

These men of ours want to be our knights in shining armor. Our protectors and our providers. They want to be bigger than life to us but we have set the bar way too high…so unless they have fabulous voices and a Hugo Boss wardrobe we can’t seem to perceive them this way. Since when did I become the picture of womanly perfection? Justified in putting unreasonable demands and expectations on the man that has been faithful to me for 31 years. I must realize that I am: 1. Blessed to even wake up at all. 2. Wake up beside my husband of 31 years. 3. Wake up beside a man that has stood by my side through richer or poorer, sickness and health, better or worse 4. Wake up beside a man that IS real and not phony. Honest and stable. 5. Wake up beside a man that does protect me and provide for me in the best way that he can while all the time realizing that life can often really beat a man down. 6. Wake up beside a man that is the father of my two amazing children. 7. Wake up and know I have someone to face the day with and share life with….I am not alone. 8. Wake up and praise God for this man, this relationship and this marriage that has made my life so rich in so many ways. 9. Wake up and watch all our cherished memories play through my mind. 10. Wake up to know that most likely I will also be saying goodnight to this amazing man I am privileged to call Sweetheart, Darling, Honey.

So what if he buys his clothes at Costco and Value Village (he actually bought a Hugo Boss suit there recently). So what if the only time I hear him sing is beside me at church. So what if he doesn’t bring me Starbucks and flowers…he risks his life climbing up onto our plant shelf every time I want to redecorate (which is quite often). So what if he doesn’t surprise me with Mediterranean cruises, he picks my mom up at the airpot in the middle of the night and buys my kids flights to the places they need to go to follow their dreams (while we stay at home and work all week). This man I wake up to is flesh and blood and my reality and I find myself singing the words of IL DIVO’s songs in my heart in regards to my husband because I DO think he is the most amazing man on the planet…at least the most amazing one for me specifically. He is not a ruse…he’s the real thing.

And I know if I dressed him up in HUGO BOSS and put him on well lit stage with a microphone in his hand and surrounded him with clouds of fake steam that there would be oodles of women throwing their underwear on stage for him. So I think I’ll keep him and just remember that IL DIVO are great male singers….not my soul mates. They won’t be there when I wake up tomorrow morning….my faithful amazing real husband will be. The words of IL DIVO’s ditty’s sound far to trite to express my love for you Sweetheart.

Now I think I’ll go out an get my own Starbucks. Oy Vey.

 

 

 

What is it about August? There is something romantic, deep and residing about August. Historically, August days are usually sort of hot and dry and viscerally,  meant for reflection and just lolly gagging in general. A great month for the taking of summer vacations. June and July are usually having an identity crisis…are we summer or are we not? But August knows. August feels like deep inspiration and wisdom. August reminds me of a prophet warning us that autumn is on the cusp and take advantage of these lazy hazy crazy days now. Take time to watch the sunrise. Take time to soak up the heat. Take time to let your toes play in the grass, the breeze, the sand or the water. Let your hair blow in the wind…don’t take yourself or life too seriously in August. Get lost in a great story. Don’t think about September at all. Just live in the moment. Get married. Have a baby. Visit your great aunt and have tea on the porch. Swing. Water the flowers. This is not a time for cleaning the basement or painting the living room or doing a financial audit. It’s a time to have afternoon naps or pick berries and make pies. It’s a time to go fishing. Summertime and the living is easy, fish are jumping and the cotton is high…. Put away all the trappings of the city and the hustle and bustle and slow down. Slow waaaay down. Listen to the birds and the crickets and the frogs. Listen to the night sounds as you lay on top of your sheets with the windows open and the fans whirring in the background. Better yet…sleep outside on the porch or the deck or the dock. Pick flowers – fill your surroundings with the sweet smell and luscious color of bunches of blooms. Paint…write…quilt on the porch. Wave to passersby. August doesn’t require hosiery, belts, stilettos or ties. Wrap yourself in flowing cool white linen or cotton and hide under a great big brim. Get out the lemonade and sip slowly savoring every drop. August is a time for abiding…abiding with our favorite peeps, abiding with the Lord, abiding with what is. Living in the moment. It’s a time of preserving. Whether its fresh fruit or fresh friendships…..preserve. It’s a time for deep meaningful growth. What you do in August will live with you for the rest of the year. It will sustain you during the hard, cold, busy winter season. August is wisdom and healing and restoration.

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I did not want to get out of bed today. The sky was overcast and I could feel the cool breeze blowing through the bedroom. I told myself it was too ugly for walking. It just felt so fine to lay under the covers and realize that I could do anything I wanted. Get up, not get up. Go for a walk, don’t go for a walk. I could just pull the covers back on and lay there to my hearts content. It was my choice. No one was expecting anything from me at all. I argued with myself for about an hour after Mike left for work. Sometimes we just need a good lazy day. How many times, when I was working, did I just long to stay in bed and hide from the world and all it’s responsibilities and expectations and harshness? I was now in a position to do just that.

But…. I dutifully forced myself to put feet on the floor, walk upright, because that’s just the kind of gal I am. I’m a creature of duty and guilt. I quickly made the bed, adjusting the sheets, duvet and cushions to perfection, lest I crawl back in. I sauntered down the stairs to the kitchen just to make sure I was fully awake and fully alive. Then I unlocked the patio door and wandered out onto the deck and then the lawn. I wanted to make sure I would not talk myself into returning to my comfy lazy safe bed.

I did some putzing around the house, rounding up a load of laundry to match one item. Did the dishes that miraculously appeared in the sink overnight. Ironed a top that I wasn’t planning on wearing today, I just wanted it to be ready when I did get the urge to wear it. Checked my emails, Instagram and Facebook. Made my daughters bed just because. I was stalling. What I really needed to do was slip (and by slip, I mean wrestle) into my lulus and joggers and hit the pavement.

I decided to treat myself and drive to the reservoir for my walk. I get tired of walking through the neighborhood critiquing people’s lawns and backyards. I needed to get into nature. Be surrounded by mountains or trees and water so I drove myself to the reservoir. I parked my car at the shopping centre bordering the reservoir and began my workout.

It was still partly overcast and windy and sporadically chilly. Looked like rain but I just tied my rain jacket with hood around my waist and set out. It wasn’t long before my eyes caught side of some purple wildflowers blowing in the long marshy grass along the trail. As I made my way at a decent clip along the path, I was passed by bikers and joggers. The paddle wheel boat from the park across the reservoir was out on the water blowing its horn. I kept walking until I rounded the corner to the sailing school. A perfect day for learning to sail. I took pictures and videos so I could rewatch these calming moments. Watching those crisp white sails shooting across the waves speaks to me of purpose and destination. Of skill and fearlessness. Of clarity and resolve.

I kept on. Past sailing students enjoying a BBQ lunch. Past some leaves already yellowing on August 4th. Past an elderly lady sunning herself with eyes closed on a memorial bench. Until I had completed the loop where I entered the path. I hadn’t been walking long enough so I paused to decide if I would go further or succomb to the call of Starbucks. I decided to go the extra mile (literally) because that’s the kind of gal I am. I pressed on. Past larger private sail boats moored in the water, moms with strollers, old couples with hats, holding hands, until I reached the Heritage Park end of the trail. That’s not actually the end of the trail but it was as far as I was going. I turned back, glad I’d made the effort. One deliberate choice after another.

Always feeling accomplished when I make the effort.  I know it’s good for me but maybe laying in bed until noon, just because I can would be good for me too?

 

 

 

 

 

Just reflecting recently on all the years, when the kids were school age, that I canned everything in sight. I filled my freezer with fall harvest. I can still visualize the vibrantly colourful shelf in the laundry room made so as a result of the neatly lined up mason jars filled with peaches, pears, cherries, pickles, pickled beets, homemade salsa and spaghetti sauce. The freezer bulging with homemade apple pies, frozen blueberries, saskatoons, strawberries, rhubarb and raspberries. I blanched and froze corn-on-the-cob. We bought sides of beef from a friends brothers cattle farm and roasting chickens from the Hutterites. We were set for the long cold winter. I always found such satisfaction, purpose and joy preparing whole, healthy food for my family. Proverbs 31:14-15 still reverberates in my conscious. ‘She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar. She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family.”

I have fond memories of doing exactly that. Waking up while it was still night. 5:00 am. To get ready to go wait in line at Heritage Park with wagons and carts, to purchase fresh produce at rock bottom prices. We stopped first at Starbucks and then off to get a decent parking spot at the park. We laughed and joked and made designs in the air with our breath. The chill of fall nipping at our noses this early in the morning. When the gates of the park were finally opened wide, it was as if the people just fell in as a result of leaning on them. It was a mad rush for case lots of apples, peaches and corn and all other marvelous food fresh from the earth.

This harvest trip usually resulted in getting together with a friend the following weekend to spend a Saturday making salsa. I was always excited to have my house smell like an Italian restaurant (even though salsa is technically Mexican). We always made sure we had plenty of taco chips on hand so we could feast on the rich warm tomatoey substance before we filled all the jars. The aroma filled the kitchen and permeated my hair (as I found out in the shower). I could smell the salsa in the steam emanating from the water as it ran through my hair.

I felt like such a farm wife and I loved it. I had a very similar feeling yesterday when I decided to drive out to the Saskatoon farm to pick a few buckets of berries. The drive out was gorgeous. The rolling hills, ranch fences and fields of green and yellow lined with trees were layered in hazy tones of green and blue. It was going to be a hot one. I tried to arrive right on the dot of 9:00 when the farm opened its gates but wasn’t standing in front of my first Saskatoon bush until 10:30. The lady at the register informed me that I might have to go deeper into the orchard to find bushes still ripe with berries as these were the last days of the Saskatoon harvest. But I stopped at the first section of Saskatoons I saw and was amazed at how many awesome branches of berries had been  overlooked by previous pickers and I  set out to fill my first bucket. If it was too hot and buggy and sparse my goal was just one bucket. I found branches loaded with perfect purple and wine berries towards the middle of the bushes and low to the ground where they weren’t as obvious. I had a full bucket in no time and I was enjoying myself immensely.

As I listened to other mothers who brought their children along to pick I was reminded of the time I brought my own kids along to pick berries. They were not enthusiastic. It was the hottest day of the summer if I remember correctly and we were out at midday. There were bugs and it was hard work. All I heard was complaining. I think I finally has to bribe them to fill a bucket and I’m pretty sure that neither of them were even that fond of Saskatoon berries.

Yesterday I could hear one very patient and loving mom, on the other side of my aisle, instructing her toddler, Maria, on the perfect color of berry to pick and to get the ones close to the ground. All the while the mother kept saying to Maria ‘isn’t berry picking fun?’ and Maria agreed. Smart mom. Next time she says she is going berry picking Maria will probably cry if she doesn’t get to come. Soon after they left I heard another mom with a couple of little boys picking and talking to them. At one point the older brother wondered up to his mom and she asked where Jacob was and he said ‘Jacobs in the next row and he’s taken off his shorts and underwear’ and the mother set her pail down and ran to find Jacob and redress him. I was glad I hadn’t brought children along.

I filled my first bucket so quickly I decided to get another bucket for mom. It wasn’t really that quick but I was enjoying myself so….I did not realize the sun was burning a design on my back exactly the outline of my racerback tank top. The white portion of my white and black espadrilles was filthy as was I. But I just kept picking. The activity of picking berries made me feel like all was well with the world. I mean, I had time to pick berries. And clearly didn’t have any other crisis preventing me from doing so. I found it quite cathartic actually. It was reminiscent of the cotton plantations and the pickers singing to make the work go by. Not that I was there but I’ve seen a lot of movies. I know what they are referring to when they talk about back breaking work but no problem, I’m married to a back healer.

Once I had filled two buckets I tore myself away and proceeded to pay for my berries. At this point one is very possessive of ‘their’ berries. I was extremely grateful when the gal at the checkout tied a bag around each of my buckets easing my nervousness at spilling the lot.

Saskatoon berries are very near and dear to the hearts of my mom, myself and my siblings. The morning of my dad’s fatal heart attack he had been out on a walk around the reservoir and had picked a handful of Saskatoons to show mom they were ready for picking, with the intention of going back later that day to get enough for a pie. He returned home and showed mom the berries and that was his last act. As therapy, in the days following his memorial,  we all ended up at the reservoir picking Saskatoons and making pies and reminiscing about our dear father. Saskatoons still remind me of dad.

Once home I washed the berries and sorted them to remove the shrivelled ones and pieces of sticks and branches, not to mention spiders. I measured them into bags and placed them in the freezer. I think I’m getting the bug again. Now I want to can peaches.