Signs of these awful times

You know it's been a long winter when the temperature peaks at 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and you see people golfing.

I'm not kidding. I witnessed just that scene last weekend.

This is the time in our cruel winter season when I ponder the purchase of stock in some heavy-duty skin cream—a time when suddenly, I begin to find greater merit in anti-depressants and sun lamps. Moving somewhere far, far south becomes an increasingly attractive option.

I read recently about a new condition described as "snow rage," or explosive behavior swings caused by a relentlessly cold, wintry season that drags on longer than some people can bear. Except what can I call it when I'm still experiencing the symptoms but there's no snow? My son suggested "salt rage." I'm thinking that plain old rage would cover it some days...

Adding to my rage-cum-depression is the fact that I've been to the mall more in the past 7 days than in the last year. The weather's made me do it. I loathe the mall on principle, yet it provides ample, warm, un-slippery walking space. So I've headed there a couple of times recently, and I plan to do so again before the week is up. It's a safe, free way to raise my heart rate without risking my neck on ice or causing our small, wobbly living room to quake violently while I jiggle and gasp to an exercise beat.

What's so depressing about a mall, you ask? Well, it functions as a cultural outsider alarm for me. Nowhere else do I feel so removed from our twisted vision of modern suburban America. All of my denials about how sick we are as a nation come crashing down on me when I'm walking through a shopping mall. It's sort of like standing near young, lovely, slender girls. I don't enjoy doing that, because it heightens my awareness of just how little I share with those pretties these days. And the mall? Man, do I feel like an interloper there. I'm surprised they let me in.

I stride along those wide, polished floors, past window after window of mostly naked women, young smooth-chinned lads embracing other handsome and hairless boys, flat-chested young females pouting at me with hooded, come-hither glances... We certainly do groom these innocents for tawdry and sultry, don't we? It's not just the over-saturation of sex that appalls me, though. Nearly every store is selling a lie: our furniture will help you relax more completely; this hand soap will transport you to an island getaway. And these pretzels will make you think of an elderly relative who cooked with far too much butter yet so much love. But wait, here's a new gadget with a flashing screen, and it's newer than yours... Do you have high-heeled, open-toed ankle booties like these? Never mind how hideous they are, you need them to complete your designer duds.

The whole place is designed to entice, to beguile, to mislead, and ultimately to separate you from your money. It's all crap, and it deflates the heck out of me.

I really hope the stupid weather improves; I'm about ready to pull a serious groundhog, people.

Scrabbling for spring and clinging to hope

Here's my latest: Robbie Robin. I'm scrabbling for a toehold on springtime, and it's a slippery slope for sure when there's yet more snow falling outside and the heat continues to blast. Goodness, what a tenacious winter.

(Robbie's for sale in my Etsy shop.)

Even if the weather had turned lovely, it would have been a rough few weeks. Not personally, thank goodness—but for friends, former neighbors, church family...

There have been a number of deaths. None of them were a total shock; all involved illness, sometimes a long, drawn-out illness. But as far as I can see, that doesn't make the loss easier.

Yet, while the memorial service I attended yesterday was sad, so sad, it was also uplifting. The one who'd left this earth was painfully young. A lifelong health struggle had finally worn her down. But the celebration of her life was joyful in spite of tears. She had lived well, changed people for the better, and she isn't "lost," the pastor reminded us. We know exactly where she is and Whom she is with. And that made it bearable, even when I hugged the young lady's mother, a strong woman who had suffered with and now mourned her only child.

I am very glad to have that hope. I am praying that if you don't have it, you'll stop reading right now and call out to Jesus, have a little tête-à-tête with Him. It's Holy Week. He bled and died for you and me, so we could have eternal life. What better time to invite Him in and make Him your own savior?

I can say with truth I've never regretted letting Jesus into my heart; I only regret that I didn't do it sooner.

I wish you peace, blessings, health. And warm sunshine!

Extroverts, optimistic party planners, and other menaces

Disclaimer: It's the mad, misguided Christmas season, and that can mean only one thing—Mel is in rare form and her bad side is hanging on the clothesline for all to see. And this rant has nothing to do with Jesus, for whom I am very thankful.
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Christmas inevitably brings many stress factors. Not just the shopping, the over-spending, the regular-and-expected lying to children, the preparations, the baking, the decorations which might be skipped in years past but are now par for the course with a child in the house... Those are all festive yet exhausting. But the biggest stress inducers by far, for me at least, would be the multiple social occasions that pop up and the people who pressure you to attend them.

I'm an introvert. I've confessed that here before. It doesn't mean I don't like people; I genuinely like a lot of people. I even admire some of them, emulate a few, respect several... But anyway, being an introvert simply means that I am not fueled by my time around people. I find that it makes me weary. I am fueled, fired up, and energized by time alone or with just a close friend of two.

That said, you can imagine that the Christmas season is fraught with peril for people like me. Suddenly, a relatively open schedule is littered with events, parties and dinners and family occasions. It's hard to squeeze them all in, but more than that, it's difficult for someone like me to embrace them and anticipate them with anything other than a heavy sigh. I already know what they will entail. There will be long hours of conversation, often about things I don't know (at the many occasions that my happy, friendly, extroverted husband has been invited to); there will be lots of fattening, rich, sugar-laden food (that I will have to avoid so as not to aggravate my prediabetic condition); there will likely be other women I don't know fawning all over my guy, which makes me a tad uneasy. There will be several events which don't allow children, and that's fine here and there but introduces some friction into the works because although they're not my events, I am expected to find childcare—which can be challenging anytime, let alone at Christmastime...

To make matters more complex, my spouse loves people, adores these gatherings, and is happy not to miss a single one. Indeed, all the people who are like him, who also happen to be planners (thank Heaven the spouse is not), are delightedly setting up all sorts of fun evenings (and some daytimes) in which every attendee can come and happily revel in the wondrous company of all the other scintillating people.

Well, here's a newsflash: some people just don't revel in it. Some people find it tiresome after awhile. Maybe even after a very short while.

Just because people have good intentions does not guarantee that they always have good ideas. Sometimes, other people need to be honest and explain the flip side of all this Christmas activity. I don't want to be a hermit, but I am worn out with biting my tongue and saying yes, with shouldering blame for simply being who I am, for the implications from others that I am a strange, twisted, mean-spirited misanthrope when all I really want is meaningful time with my favorite people instead of frenzy.

That is all...for now. I apologize for being a damp dishcloth.

Happy, happy
Joy, joy.
-Ren and Stimpy

Wholesome family activities

Well, I told you last time around that I'd share some information regarding our household supply of meat. So, here goes.

My husband hunts. I have no moral dilemma about this, because I know he is a responsible adult who has been trained properly in this arena by other responsible adults. Plus, I know he respects life of all kinds, and the creator of life to boot. Additionally, he does his best to prepare himself and his weapon so that when a hunting opportunity arises, he is ready and can aim with practiced care and accuracy so as to make the animal's death quick and as free of suffering as possible.

(I also know that my little son is not with him while he engages in this pursuit, and I am more than a tad relieved that the kid has not yet shown serious interest.)

Anyway. We try to be honest with our child, and that involves talking openly about hunting, wild animals, death, humane treatment of life, and our food supply. (Most kids can handle the truth; it's the adults who turn away and get squeamish.)

So, my hunter was successful on one of his recent archery forays, and he made an excellent, quick-kill shot on a very large buck. For the past few years, thanks to some knowledgeable hunting friends from church, my husband has begun to process his own animals. I won't lie; this freaked me out at first, mostly because it happened in our garage. Yes, my father hunted also, as did many of the people (kids, too) in my hometown. I'm comfortable with that, as long as the people who hunt are cautious, mature, and respectful of life. I'm not so comfortable with animals being skinned where the station wagon should be... I'm also not so comfortable with large pans of flesh, or with an electric grinder making a horrific racket in my basement. But? I'm getting there.

The whole experience, now that we've been through it more than once or twice, is actually very informative. I've learned a lot about different cuts of meat on grazing animals—which ones are typically tender, which ones are tough, which ones require a full day of roasting in juices but deliver wonderfully when granted patient, proper cooking techniques. I've learned how deer carry their fat in a totally different way than beef (the fat is layered just under the skin, not marbled throughout muscle... although most of the heavily marbled purchased meats are coming from cows that were fed corn, a totally unnatural and harmful food product for them...) I've learned that honestly, doe meat tastes better than buck. I've learned that a whole lot of garbage can be hidden in any purchased sausage product. (Don't say you haven't been warned! Some of those sausages could make hot dogs or gelatin seem pretty harmless, folks...)

Anyway, mostly I've learned that butchering is bloody, messy work, and that for all my concerns about our garage and basement, they're likely just as (if not more) sanitary than a typical butcher shop.

It's hard to ignore the fact that you're eating animal flesh when you watch the stuff getting ground up and mixed with other stuff, emerging like little worms from a loud machine. There's pretty much no getting around that image. You're eating meat. But hear me on this: Any time you eat meat, even prettily packaged plastic-wrapped store-bought meat, you're participating in this procedure in some way. You're funding it. For anyone who's labeling my family and me as barbarians right now, I ask you only this: when did you last eat a burger? a pepperoni pizza? a good steak? The more marbled the steak, the more likely that the cow it came from was close to death from corn consumption even before it was slaughtered. Fish? Yes, it too had a face once. Not cute and fuzzy, not pretty and big-eyed, but a face nonetheless. For all the people who are shaking their heads at us right now, ready to dial CYS to save our child from this horror, I say to you that you are part of it, too, every time you go out to dinner and watch your children happily, mindlessly consume chicken nuggets.

If you eat meat, any meat, then some creature had to die, in some form or fashion.

I'd rather know what I'm supporting than not know. I like helping to determine exactly what goes into our meat supply regarding flavors and source foods. This deer was fat, healthy, and happy; he had a good life. And frankly, I'd rather participate personally in his death this way than support some of the cruel, sick, and unusual practices that are rampant in modern feedlots. If I ever have the acreage, I like to think I'll try to raise my own chickens and turkeys.

That's how we spent a few hours during the past week or so. And I like to think that in the big picture, we're no worse than anyone else. At least we're informed. We know where the food came from. We know how it was prepared. Yes, we all washed our hands repeatedly, and sterilized the necessary surfaces with bleach. But I have peace of mind about it all.

Do you?

P.S. I hope I didn't scare anyone away permanently. It's a topic worth pondering, I assure you.

Winding down and shifting gears

We're in the last week of school here; some districts have already finished for the year. It's exciting and also hard to believe. My little guy will be a first grader—egads!—and we'll be spending lots more time playing and less time hurrying to get somewhere on time. At least that's the plan. I am eager to spend more time with my sweet little boy.

It's hard to find balance, though. I'll go from having too much time alone to being deprived of it altogether. I don't know how often I'll be blogging, let alone painting. Unless I can turn the kid on to painting, too—I do have multiple easels, and he's loaded with tempera thanks to a generous Christmas gift from pals. A family plein air session, anyone? Todd did go to Art Institute... but seems less inclined to do old-fashioned paper-and-canvas art unless it's sketching. He's just too good at that Adobe Creative Suite.

So, I won't bid you adieu, but I will say that my posts for the new couple of months are likely to be hit or miss. This is the last painting* I will finish while the kiddo is institutionalized. It's the entryway for a building on my church's campus. For me, this door signifies my stepping into the world of choir rehearsal. I pull that handle, mount the steps inside, and join a throng of voices raised in worship. We'll have the summer off, so perhaps I can see this doorway hanging in my home, and be reminded to revisit my arpeggios occasionally. (Not that we sing those at rehearsal. There's no time! We get right down to business, man! God's praises won't wait for warm-ups!)

Have a great kick-off to the summer season. Remember, the whole point is to do less. It's perfectly okay to achieve mind-liberating, creativity-feeding boredom.

* Thanks to Rick C. for the great photo source!

Last gasp

It’s about this time of year that panic blooms in my heart: what? What day is it? It’s SEPTEMBER?! The pools are closed already? I should have gone swimming more! How can it be so late? Why didn’t I drink more iced tea? And sun tea!? I never made sun tea, not once all summer! And we still have green tomatoes! How did this happen???

I felt a hint of panic earlier in the week, when I was forced to turn the page on the calendar. But the panic intensified on Wednesday, when I awoke with a weird feeling in my throat; the rest is history. Apparently, cold season has begun early in our house. Each time I hack and wheeze until my chest is raw and my eyes are weeping, I am cruelly reminded that not only is my favorite season coming to an end soon, but also the horrific sickly season is nearly upon us.

You all can have your crisp autumnal days, your brisk nights, your lovely leaves floating down with every stir of the breeze. I prefer summer. I prefer sandals to boots, and tank tops to electrified sweaters. I want to leave the house with only a cold drink in hand, to pack a windbreaker for my little boy knowing he won’t need it. I want to sip coffee outside in the early morning of another splendid balmy day—no heavy robe needed, no slippers thank you very much, my bare feet are just fine.

I want to travel light. I want to see green. I want uncomplicated errands, meals outside, and dew instead of frost. I want to be warm all the time, not just when I’m wrapped in blankets in front of the heater.

The only good thing about all this? Once I stop coughing, I can start planning what I’ll bake. Cold weather is good for that, at least.