how we spent our Earth Hour

I once thought there should be prorated levels of "earth hours" when it came to the real "Earth Hour." For example, if you have two young uneasily-occupied children, as I do, 50 minutes counts as a full hour. If you live in my neighborhood, you're most likely in bed by 8:30 p.m. (we have a lot of Ben Franklin types here), so you must forgo your mid-afternoon soaps that day--no TIVOing allowed. If you're single or married and without kids, you have to do 1 1/2 hours in order to help out the rest of us activity-challenged parents.

I thought all this until today's Earth Hour.

At 8:31 p.m., my kids and I ran frantically through the house to get the electricity off and dig up flashlights. It was like an early Easter egg hunt. The nays were: the refrigerator (it's old and crotchety), the alarm clocks (too much trouble to reset for one hour), and the fish tank (it would be the end of Earth Hour in this house if snail died during our little romp with energy savings).

We decided to head up to my room, far away from a TV set. The bed was made, so it felt cozy. (There is something about a neat bed that makes all the piles of clothes scattered around the perimeter of the room magically disappear.). I settled in and resolved to get through the hour, no matter how long it seemed to drag.

Starting at 8:32 p.m.:

1. We made circles on the ceiling with our flashlights.



2. We reassured our terrified dog, who is deathly afraid of wind and storms, that she was going to be okay.



3. We told ghost stories under the covers.


And even the newest member of the family, Mighty Bean, got the chance to tell a spooky tale.


4. We played Whac-A-Mole.



5. We played Don't Spill the Beans.

I think the pot was so happy for the attention that he started to drool.

At 9:25 p.m., the kids asked if Earth Hour was over. I could have easily said yes, and they would have been none the wiser for it. But in the darkness we had only eachother to focus on. No distractions from the usual background noises of a home, and the security of knowing that we weren't in a storm with the power out. It was nice. We had the fossil fuel/climate change discussion, and then I flicked on the lights so they could brush their teeth. At 9:37. It was one of the shortest hours that I remember having with them in quite awhile.

images of early spring

on the sales floor, part 1

I'm a natural floor model
and floor models have more fun
our bodies make thoroughfares that wind
like corn mazes in appliance stores
where aisle-weary kids come
to skip, laugh, hide
and play tag behind our doors
we never hear "close the fridge, you're letting the cold air out!"
to tell you the truth
I really like it warm

narthex confessions, or "The Church of I Suck"

I wish I was privy to all the random thoughts in people's minds during church service.

Here is a small sampling of mine:

I wonder if that guy is married. He's pretty cute. Oh good, his wife's here. A guy who looks like that should not be alone in church of all places. Wait, she's sitting down 2 seats away. Maybe they can get together.

The back-up singers always look like they're under 25. It's American Idol in here. They must've been short this week and pulled that one from the senior choir.

I think the pastor just saw me pass the collection plate without putting anything in it!

I hope the people behind me can't see my buttcrack when I sit down. The chairs have backs, stop worrying!

These socks look kind-of raggedy hanging out the back of my clogs. That woman next to me has much nicer socks. I like the pattern. I wonder where she got them from.

Haven't people ever heard of staying home when you're sick? They're hacking all around me. God's not going to be mad if you don't show up one week!

I confess that I purposely arrive late just to avoid "fellowship" time.

I once stood next to a woman who coughed up a bucket of phlegm and blew out last night's snot prior to shaking my hand. The entire service was ruined for me. I couldn't even touch my hair after that. I high-tailed it out of there and straight to the bathroom before the doxology was finished.

I was busy scrubbing up to my arms when I glanced in the mirror and saw the very same woman enter right behind me. Her face had this look of utter disbelief, like I was some sort-of germaphobe. As if!

I am consistently amazed by those who seem to "get into the spirit" by lifting their hands while singing. This is a foreign concept to me. I was raised in a church where you couldn't even suffer an involuntary tic without a glare from someone in the pew behind you. The whole scene is more distracting than anything. I spend much of the song trying to analyze the sincerity of the movement rather than worship God. I've tried to raise my hands, but it doesn't feel natural. And my arms get tired, so I'm not thinking about God then either, I'm thinking about my arms.

But I don't like stone-faced stoic people either. I'm not easily satisfied.

I belong in a monastery. My own.

I also don't want to clap to the rhythm (it's awkward when the clapping dies off and you don't know when to nonchalantly stop). I think to myself, are people just doing this for show to look good?

Basically, I belong in the Church of I Suck. I don't go to be seen. I don't go to make friends, because I know what those friendships would be all about. I go mostly for my kids' sake, so that someday they will take their kids, and so on, so on, and learn how to sing "Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man" like Claire did today.

The mystique and joy of church left me when I found out that two of the deacons in my childhood had drinking problems, and one decided to leave his wife and 5 kids for a girlfriend and a motorcycle when he was bald and 75 pounds overweight.

When my pastor was hospitalized for depression and his daughter tried to kill herself.

When there was more silence than support after my dad died.

I really lost interest in church when I gained a little wisdom and realized that everyone who goes there is human, but many of them want people to believe they're above humanity, which in turn makes me feel less than human. There seems to be a lack of authenticity that you don't see in real life.

I'm not blaming the people who go to church. Really. I'm blaming my disillusionment on my own misconceptions.

I find myself thinking about inane things during the service, forcing myself back to the present, only to start twitching and dozing off during the final prayer.

I love God, but I don't know. This just isn't God to me. And honestly, I don't think that God cares whether I go or not. But I do think he cares if my kids don't know about him. And I have good memories of church and Wednesday night Bible groups as a child. So I go. Because I'm a little on the lazy side when it comes to whipping out the Bible and drumming up worthy life lessons.

Luckily I'm living here in Franklin, the home of Steven Curtis Chapman and countless other "professional Christians," as I've heard them coined, so maybe their knowledge of all things biblical will rub off by osmosis or divine intervention. Because I'm certainly not going to guilt them into it.

In the long run, I hope that my kids will notice that I strove to be the best person I could be, despite my qualms and aversions and frequent failures. They'll see that I tried to be a godly woman, and they will want to be like me. But I sure have a long way to go. Lord, do I.

moonflowers 2010

I just finished scoring my moonflower seeds for this year. As I come within micrometers of cutting myself a sixth finger I think, geez, how on earth did these things manage to propagate themselves in the wild without human intervention?

I lost one under the refrigerator. When I finally dig it out someday, I'll try to see if it will still grow--although the dust and pieces of dog food under there may be a good medium for its survival right now.

The cat chased a rogue seed down as it slipped from my fingers and slid across the kitchen floor. I rushed down to grab it up before she took off with it and came back wearing sunglasses and a sun hat. Remember, these things can be hallucinogenic.

Below are directions to grow moonflowers straight from the package. I almost want to call the company and ask how many repeat customers they have, because to follow these recommendations is a recipe for seeds that stay seeds and subsequently rot in the ground.



For a detailed and humorous method on how to grow moonflowers, unlike the above directions, which will 1) leave you questioning why you didn't just go to the Home Depot garden center and pick out a few hanging geraniums, and 2) cause you to ponder why you were so cocky as to think you could actually grow something this complicated on your own, please visit this post:

http://yankeeeyes.blogspot.com/2009/01/growing-moonflowers-slow-and-tedious.html

Happy gardening! :-D

state of the seeds

Distinguished blog visitors, it's time to catch you up on how the seeds have been coming along this year.


First, let's begin with the

Abysmal Failures:

1. Green bean seeds leftover from last year were looking a little fuzzy. I gently poked around in the soil to see if the problem was just superficial...

...and the entire seed coat bubbled over into a pool of thick white goopy mush that I'm afraid to go near.

2. The Roma tomatoes are growing slowly. Actually, I lied. They're not growing at all. They're in no hurry to make their appearance. However...



...the popsicle stick that marks their place shows enthusiastic promise.


3. Likewise, with the cherry tomatoes, although a couple have popped up in the other flat.



But if nothing else, I can make penicillin!




Okay, enough of that. Let's move on with the

Successes!:

1. Mesclun greens were the first seeds to germinate this year. Not unusual, since it is a spring vegetable and can germinate at a soil temperature as low as 40 degrees F.





2. Broccoli


3. Sunflowers--3 days growing and the lid from the flat had to be permanently removed



4. Green onion with the seed coat and drops of moisture hanging on.



5. Cucumbers, or as my little one used to say, "coomcumbers."

So here's the thing. I cried a little this morning.

My husband had run out to take B to school. I grabbed my ipod and uploaded the recent emails. One was from the church I occasionally attend that I haven't been to in months.

The senior pastor was recently diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. He started a blog so that the parishioners could follow his progress while he receives treatment. It's called "Rick's Journey."

I decided to take a quick glance at it...just a glance. I scrolled down and spotted a photo of Pastor Rick sitting in the chemo chair with the IV hooked up under his shirt to what I fathom must be a port.

He wrote about how he was sad to lose his hair; his mother had always loved his blond hair. That did it for me.

The thing that I don't talk about much, but which is probably well-known even outside of the medical field, is that doctors and nurses train themselves not to feel much for patients.

In my case, though, I learned to do this was when my dad was dying. He had lung cancer and was primarily my responsibility. The unspoken message from his side of the family was that this was the expectation. So I had to get down to business and be a single mom to my daughter, work, go to school, take my dad to appointments and check on him daily to make sure that he was clean and hadn't fallen on the floor. I was 26, and I think I handled it pretty well.

There wasn't much time for any emotions to set in. I did what I had to do. After he died, there was the task of cleaning out his house and preparing to sell it. I still didn't cry, not even at the wake or funeral. I was chided for that.

Fast forward to about 5 years later, when I was working at my first ICU job. There was a man in our cardiac unit who also had cancer but was in remission. I placed my papers and supplies for the night at the desk across the hall from his door. I could hear him talking with his wife, and I listened to him intently. It took a few minutes to set in, but some connection formed in my mind--suddenly it was my dad talking again. The next ten minutes were spent in the bathroom, which was right behind another nurse's desk. I felt pretty awkward when I finally came out of there as I tried to look nonchalant. But I'm sure it showed on my face--when I cry I get blotchy.

This morning was one of those days that sickness got to me again. It rarely happens. I can't let it. Some of the patients I take care of have end-stage cancer and come to my unit for a last ditch effort at a few more quality months. My job is to give them hope, because that's what they're there for. To do anything less would be to fail them. I read the H&P's that the doctors have written, learn their stories, ask them about their families. Then I push it back so it doesn't get in the way.

But sometimes it's nice to be reminded what it feels like to be a normal person who knows how to properly grieve--to let down the protective wall. And that's why I decided to write this today. The silly posts are safe in draft for the moment. Thanks for listening.