Can't. Stop. Reading.

I'll be back.  I promise.  I just can't stop reading And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini.

What is it about him?  I will never forget sitting on our living room sofa sobbing at the end of The Kite Runner.  Chris thought I had surely officially lost it.  Hosseini's stories just undo me.  So wrapped up and redemptive and REAL.

A few other Weep Fests for me have included in no particular order:

A Thousand Splendid Suns 
Harry Potter books 6 and 7
Pride and Prejudice
Things Fall Apart
Love in the Time of Cholera
The Prince of Tides
The Book of Lost Things
Water for Elephants
Cutting for Stone
The Language of Flowers
I Am the Messenger
The Book Thief

Of course those aren't the only books that have moved me to tears, but they definitely made my list.  

What books have you read that ended with you in a puddle of tears?

Where I Am

My last post was about where I'm from.  Today I write about where I am.

Awhile back I wrote with painful honesty from a place of darkness.  It's probably my most-read post ever, and the encouragement and empathy expressed to me still give me goosebumps.  

I decided it's time for another honest update.  Some of you know me in real-life and perhaps know some of these details.  Others of you might not care.  Return next time for more photos of fluffy puppies and baseball-throwin' children.

Starting in January I took an unpaid leave of absence from my very beloved teaching job.  I needed to focus more on helping the boys find some healing.  I also needed some rest.  I didn't get much of that rest, but I dumped and poured into the boys in ways that weren't possible when I was working full-time and trying to find my way out of the piles on my counters.  Between driving to appointments and building some trust, I didn't have much time for me, but that was okay.  The time off from work was necessary for a reason different than I had anticipated.

I always planned on the leave of absence being temporary, but the decision to return to work was more complex than I imagined it would be.  As a family we haven't arrived.  We still have hard work to do, and really, we always will.  We prayed and discussed, and I decided to sign my contract in early May.  I'm done believing that God's will is black and white, but I'm no longer afraid of embracing the gray.  (Of course for about three days I couldn't find my contract which led to the come-to-Jesus sorting and labeling currently going on.  I'm optimistic that being more organized at home will help the transition back to work go a bit more smoothly in the fall.)

I started to see a pinpoint of light at the end of the dark tunnel a few months ago, and now I'm officially "off my meds."  It's nice to feel more of that life-giving hope coursing through my veins again.  Post-adoptive depression is real, and I was living daily with the secondary trauma experienced through my sons.  Truly I am grateful beyond words that I had a husband who recognized the changes in me and was comfortable enough in our marriage to speak truth to me.  I'm also proud of myself for being secure enough in myself to seek the help I needed.  I don't think I was that person a few years ago.  (I would beg other adoptive mothers to be brave enough to reach out for help.  We don't have to walk this journey alone.)

Of course it's not all hand-holding, kitchen-dancing bliss around here.  Sometimes I still cry to Chris and say, "I never pictured my life like this."  (That song has been stuck on repeat since Eve, hasn't it?)  We have sons who are wading through darkness.  The Word commands that we mourn with those who mourn, and I'm trying to do that well with my children.  Hurting with him, wearing that grief thick like this Iowa humidity, it sucks me dry.  So a lot of the time I am tired.  It's a fighting kind of tired, though, and I'm now used to feeling spent at the end of each day.  There is a peaceful joy that can come with that.

So that's where I am.  And I'm okay with it here for now.

where I am

Where I'm From

A few years ago I taught this poem with my writing students, and they crafted homages to their own homes.  There's something to be said about being comfortable with your own sense of place, where you're from.  

Today is my parents' 45th wedding anniversary.  That's something, isn't it?  Forty-five years of loving and living and farming and raising a family and growing a garden and sometimes disagreeing and getting messy.  That's marriage in a nutshell.

Today I'm filled with gratitude for the lessons in commitment they have taught me.  Marriage is hard, you know?  (Understatement of the century.)  The give and take, the push and pull.  It's not all "once upon a time" and "happily ever after."  (We have the period in our own union that we refer to as The Big Ugly.)  Because of the example set by my parents, though, I knew that sticking together was worth it.  

So today I'm reflecting on where I'm from.  

from…

I am from the creaky wooden bridge over the dredge ditch

with murky water and margins of night-black Iowa dirt.

I am from pink peonies pushed open by ants,

the sticky milkweeds uprooted and laid-bare by a hoe.

I am from gorging on syrupy sweet Swedish pancakes and

licking the cold ice cream dasher clean,

from dark brown eyes mirrored in Grandpa Merle

and Grandma Bernie and both of my parents (and now my sons).

(They are more than a parenthesis.)

I am from worrying about the little things

and praying about the big ones.

From “Wait till your dad gets home”

and “Take your vitamins.”

(I surreptitiously hid them under the farmhouse table.)

I am from “How Great Thou Art” belted out

from stark wooden pews,

from box elder bugs making their home in the

second floor Sunday School room with soldier rows of metal folding chairs.

I am from really believing in “Jesus Loves Me” --

a forever family legacy.

I’m from the family farm in Pomeroy,

from Grandma Dorothy’s melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookies

and salty Swedish potato bologna,

Grandma Bernie’s “awful” pie and famous brownies.

I am from the stubborn leg my mother has from polio

and my colorblind dad playing Candyland on the shag carpet

with his five-year-old daughter.

(No wonder I always won.)

I am from stacks of photo albums piled high in the closet,

from visual love letters in black and white and color.

I am from big anniversaries and promises that last.

I am from Iowa.

I am from Love.

On Stuff: Part 2

I once wrote an entire blog post about how messy and disorganized I am.  I'm not going to link to it now because I'm just embarrassed.  The font and background color is a nightmare, and the photos of my messy countertops are a disgrace.

You see, by nature I am not a neat person, and I used to be shamefully kind of prideful about it.  "Oh, she's an organized person?  Well, she's obviously not living life to its fullest.  I'm too busy taking advantage of really living to put things away neatly or get rid of extra junk in my life."

I'm over that now.  I began to realize that having extra stuff shoved in nooks and crannies, having every drawer become the junk drawer, made me stressed.  I felt claustrophobic and panicky every time I opened my pantry.  Our built-in kitchen desk caused hyperventilation.  Any space with a door that could be closed was crammed full of the unnecessary, disorganized STUFF.  And the last thing I needed in my life was extra stress.  So I decided I could change.

The metamorphosis began a few months ago, and slowly but surely this little house is becoming more of a sanctuary.  I'm taking it room by room with my process of reorganizing, purging, and labeling.  I'm donating by the truckload and not feeling guilty.  It's becoming more about simplicity here because, by God, I need to breathe in my own house.  (My classroom is another story....)

I'm terrifically horrible at remembering to take before and after photos until the after, but I do have a couple.  

I'm finding it helpful to completely empty a space before putting back in.  I'm also spending a few extra dollars on organizational tools, but it's been worth it.  (By the way, this will NEVER become an organizational blogs.  God bless it, I'm just hoping this lasts until September.)

I'm just writing to say that for me less stuff + better organization = more peace.

So does anyone out there in blogworld have some favorite organizational tips they'd like to share?  I need all the help I can get.

On Stuff

Here are a few of the conversations we've had lately.  Draw your own conclusions.

Exhibit A:
Endale (at any place that sells any form of candy/treat/snack):  "Can we get something today?  I'm so hungry."

Me:  "No.  We had lunch approximately 20 minutes ago, and we will have a snack when we get home."

Endale (15 minutes later):  "We never get special treats.  Can I get some food?"  (ad nauseum)

Exhibit B:
Getu (at the local sporting good store):  "I want a new bike.  No other kid has a bike like ours."

Me:  "I'm fairly certainly EVERY child starts with a bike like yours."  (one speed, back-pedal brakes)

Getu:  "No they don't.  We are the only ones."

Me:  "You have only had your bike for one year.  Perhaps we will get new ones next year."

Exhibit C:
Getu (after summer vacation has been in full swing for 30 minutes):  "I'm bored."

Me:  silence

Getu:  "Really, I'm bored."

Me:  "I don't think that word means what you think it means."

I know if you're still reading you are thinking to yourself, "Yes, you're just dealing with regular kids with regular wants and complaints."  And I think that is true to a point, but I can't leave it at that because I've been to Ethiopia.  I've seen the children at the orphanage thrilled with a half-inflated soccer ball and some plastic bubbles.  I've watched the boys and girls in vibrant-colored clothing playing in the streets with smiles that glow.  I've walked through the neighborhoods with tiny houses and roaming roosters, and I felt joy radiating.  Just this week Chris and I were looking at photos of the boys when we first met them last January, and their smiles were real and genuine.  And I'm not saying they're not happy now.  I'm really not.  I'm just saying that the introduction of more stuff did not bring about more happiness.  In fact, it has perhaps had the opposite effect.

I've been in conversations with other adoptive moms who complain about their adoptive children's sense of entitlement after coming to America, but I don't buy that.  Sure, I think some children come to America thinking that everything will be served to them on a silver platter with a side of caviar (or Oreos, in our house).  But really, can you blame them?

After all, we are the land of bigger and better.  

Our houses...

from habitat.org

from thehouseplanshop.org

Our cars...

from hobotraveler.com

from edmonds.com

Our celebrities...

from running.competitor.com

from style.mtv.com

And I'm certainly not immune.  When Chris and I first came home from Ethiopia, I vowed I would never see possessions in the same light again.  I knew that it was possible to live with next to nothing and still maintain a sense of joy and contentment.  

I wanted my life to be about simplicity.

And then a year or so passed.  Suddenly our little house just wasn't good enough anymore.  I "needed" my own bathroom and main floor laundry and a mudroom.  The American Dream can be so damn compelling.  Its voice is the voice of consumerism, and it rings in our ears until they bleed.  Bigger, better, more, more, more.  My house discontentment went from talk of changing paint colors to remodeling an addition to building a new house within a matter of weeks.  No, days.  That's how seductive the whisper is, and when it's coupled with the sweet succulence of envy, you are facing a fierce fight.  (We have chosen contentment with our house for now, but of course we're currently in the market for new vehicle as our sweet little Accord has 200,000+ miles.  I can't escape.)

So I get annoyed when the boys ask for more and better, but it's my own sin, too.  Sin I wear like skin.  It never takes long to get sucked back into the vortex of stuff.  Right now I'm treading water, and the boys barely know how to swim.  And I'm not writing to share the answers.  If you've been around this blog long enough, you know that's not my style.  Mostly I pose the questions and express my confusion and beg for meaningfulness.  And also forgiveness.  For still wanting more.  For not having the answers.  And maybe even for bringing them here.