More Birthday Wishes

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Or start over

Birthday Wishes

Now go here
Or start over

The Composer

One night, I awoke from a dream where I could hear, in some distant room, the most beautiful music I had ever heard. It was composed with violins in harmony, piano and other complimentary sounds that enrapt me in the dream and even after I woke. I laid there trying to remember it, wishing I could still hear it, and that I could somehow be able to compose something so beautiful.

As I thought about it, I realized that I WAS the composer--it was in MY dream. This is a very dear experience to me: to think that I have the capacity to do such a thing and that somewhere in my mind is something so beautiful. Man is so much more than skin and bone.

There is a piece I have since heard that reminds me of the music in that dream. It is called "Live to Love" by Paul Cardall.

Revival

I enjoyed reading my three daughters blogs so much that I thought I would blog (again) too.

Bad Hair Year

What was I thinking? Somewhere in early spring, I cut several inches off my hair: ten to be exact. It brought it to my shoulders where I would curl it under in a classic look. Cutting a few bangs was a mistake. A big mistake. It was like having to style two hair dos, one for my shoulders, the other for my face. This may suit other women, but I’m a wash and wear hair woman and this was the opposite of what I wanted to do and be. It looked all right for a few weeks, but then it grew into my eyes and the trial began. Oh, for the good old days, when my hair was all long enough to pull into a pony tail. Now when I pull it back, two clumps of hair hang on either side of my face, getting longer everyday, but not long enough. None of the accessories (clips, combs, barrettes) and none of the appliances (curling irons, blow dryers) can make the clumps look decent. It’s a daily challenge. The bangs are just barely behind my ears now, but won’t stay there.

The last time I cut bangs, one of my kids got married and all those wedding photos documented the nightmare. I should have known better. No weddings this year, but it’s a long road to long, and it’s bad hair year.

46 Passion

In her book Stop the Insanity, Susan Powter said, “I’m not angry, damn it! I’m passionate.” Boy do I resemble that remark about an assortment of things: religion, home birth, home school, doctors, immunizations, stay-at-home moms, flying…

Anger is a waste of time, but passion is life! It means we care enough to have an opinion, a passionate opinion. Sometimes passion isn't important: should we eat at Outback or Olive Garden? Either will produce the same end result. But there are things that matter a lot, like having a doctor misdiagnose your illness as bronchitis when you have pneumonia, which is why I have a passionate distrust of doctors.

You can’t fake passion. Passion is involuntary. It causes the heart to race and the palms to sweat to talk about your passion. It dominates your being for the moment. It means something matters so much that it excites you! Passion is the heart revealed.

47 The Smell of a New Baby

A week after my first baby was born, a friend came to visit and held her. When I got her back, I could smell my friend's perfume on her. Now let me say that there are things relative to being a woman that you don't have to be taught or told to do. For instance, when it's time to push, it's involuntary. You can't imagine it, yet there you go, grunting that baby out into the world. Your connection to your baby's smell is just as primal, and when she picks up the scent of Chanel no. 5 from a stranger, your instinct is to chase off the intruder. Now that is not what I did, but I did hear a low, growl-like rumble in my throat. The friend never knew, but that experience stays with me.

My daughter just had a baby, and he had that sweet, new baby smell. I fell in love with him and adored his sweet disposition... and enjoyed that smell and velvety skin. I stayed two weeks after he was born to help out. If she smelled a foreigner on her baby, she never complained. Maybe I smell right.

48 Memories

Sweet memories nourish my life. A smell or a song can take me back to another time and place. I took my kids on a cross country trip that became a special memory for all five of us. We went to meaningful places and visited family and friends, but the best part of it all was the closeness we felt with each other. We spent so much time in the car, it was home. I have joyful memories of penny surfing in Northern Missouri, sailing over hill and dale with fireflies in the roadside grasses. In Illinois, we dodged a tornado. There are icky memories of a fleabag motel in Indiana, and a sleepless night fighting off mosquitoes at a campground in Virginia. Each is a precious memory because it was shared with people who matter in my life. Although memories are really a thing of the past, the memory book is not finished and I look forward to making more with the people who matter most.