Janielle Visits!

Hello Blog

Yup, I'm still here. I'm pretty sure I've lost all my readers, but I thought I'd jump in the saddle again for a moment (since this blog is narcissistic anyway).

What's new around here:

• I am now the bishop's wife. So far that's meant I'm eating a lot more junk food and yelling at the kids more. How holy is that?
• We had the first freeze of the year, so the lemon and lime trees came inside. They are both blooming. So grateful for that annual tender mercy, like a tender message from my little Samuel that my faith that there is hope for a better world can remain intact.
• We have a cat who showed up at our doorstep as a tiny kitten about 6 months ago when we started our kitchen remodel. Her name is Shadow. I think she's pregnant, since we've seen a lot of teenage male cats hanging around. She's not allowed in the house, yet our sunroom and garage smell like cat. Blech.
• Christmas is coming. As usual, I am not ready, and am to that point where I've stopped the delusions of grandeur and am just trying to survive and at least get gifts for my kids and husband.
• Henry is two. He doesn't sleep through the night and spends way too much time playing on my iPhone and iPod.

The Leap Year Frog

Once upon a time in my teenage lovestruck years (methinks it was 1996 or even 1992!), my best friend Sariah sent me this poem in the mail on Leap Day. I tucked it away in a file (my mother made me file all my papers as part of my Personal Progress), and carried it around with me to college, marriage, India, and back to America again. Today I dug it out of the garage for your reading pleasure. Happy Leap Day!

Hey my Pals—come forth to listen here.

I'm 'bout to tell a tale heard on each fourth year.

You've heard of Valentine, Patrick and other saints held dear,

Responded with eyes a-wonder to legends of nymphs and reindeer;

But, none creates such wonder when lands upon the ear

As the one never told but only each fourth year.

In a land distant from all that's near,

Lived a frog herewith called Lanceleer.

Truth be told—his name differs from that which does appear,

But for Rhyme's sake; to soothe the ear—

Names were changed, but the fable remains clear.

In moons gone by lived the family of King Leer.

(Do not mistake—he's of no relation to the famed of Shakespeare)

He'd a stunning castle with gardens on tier.

Alongside ran rivers lapped up by gold deer.

His kingdom was no different than those 'round here:

The peasants labored in constant good cheer,

Students anguished to choose a career,

And fair maidens dreamed of a brave brigadier.

To all who viewed, peaceful and joyous the lands did appear,

But resided among them one frog full of fear.

Had fallen to his heart a blow as 'twere by a spear

When over the palace wall he did peer.

For stood before his smitten eyes sat a fair frogess on the pier.

Instantly her royal soul to his did endear,

And through our hero passion did sear.

Hence from present course his life he'd steer.

No more the simple tailor for career.

Now endeavored he to prove cavalier.

Such noble actions pursued for a princess held dear.

Paralleled he of old who sought Lady Gwenevere.

Through many dragon lairs he did shear.

His discoveries of gold were all but mere.

The village came to adore the great frog Lanceleer.

But, despite his grand deeds he continued in fear

That if his beauty of his love did hear

He might receive an unkindly jeer

That said, "I am royal; You belong nowhere near."

Truth is, our lady, enamored of Lanceleer

Spent numerous nights wiping a tear.

She'd pass the day shoo-ing suitors so queer,

Adn lament her love who never drew near.

So, misery abounded—unconfessed love for the fear.

What pain this story must give you to hear.

To me—the same, for my life it does mirr'r.

Though courageous and noble, this love caused him fear.

In constant remorse o'er the bricks he'd peer

In hope that his cherished would near.

But you and I know life shan't be passed in such drear.

And many a day our frog knight would tear

For the void of his beloved held dear.

Not only noble, but wise—Frog hopped from the pier

And ventured forth to seek 'nother sphere.

He departed the land to search for some cheer

In hope of losing the mem'ry so clear.

But, Alas! Poor lad—he's wondered there and here,

His deep passion silenced by foolish fear.

Now this sorrowful tale has brought us this year—

A day stapled to February's rear

When lovers all pause and strain the ear

For distantly sings to all who'll hear,

A serenade to the b'loved of Sir Lanceleer.

Now my friends, the day so tragic is here.

Did you learn the lesson so clear?

Confess your love regardless of fear,

And you will win the prince you hold dear.

My Dream House

I'm thinking about my dream house again, mostly because things are getting a little crowded in our home. Here's a post from 2008 when we moved back from India and were house hunting. As I re-read the post, I'm surprised about two things:
1. How much our current house fits this description (it's just a wee bit too small, but I'm glad we stayed in it after all and made some changes to make it more our dream home).
2. How little my dreams have changed over the past almost-four years. Good to know that I'm consistent in something!

Lent

My lemon tree is blooming again inside my house. I fertilized it this year, and it has burst forth into bloom in the warmth of my house. Yummy. Remember this post? I must remember the value of bitter times. February always seems to bring them in some form.

Today marks the beginning of Lent. From now until Easter some Christians give up something, in part to remember Christ's forty-day fast. I think I want to play this year. What could I give up?

I'm a Mormon

My profile is posted online now. I sorta wish I'd come up with a snazzy way to paint my life as a little more, well, snazzy. But there you go. I'm a Mormon and proud of it!

Elegant, Messy Birth

Reading this blog post this morning reminded me of a quote I copied in the front of my journal on February 2, 2010:


"Freed from the demands of decision and intention, adrift on some inner sea, we observe our various movements as if they belonged to someone else, and yet we admire their involuntary excellence. What other reason might I have for writing this . . . ridiculous journal . . . if the writing it did not have something of the art of scything about it? The lines gradually become their own demiurges and, like some witless yet miraculous participant, I witness the birth on paper of sentences that have eluded my will and appear in spite of me on the sheet, teaching me something that I neither knew not thought I might want to know. This painless birth, like an unsolicited proof, gives me untold pleasure, and with neither toil nor certainty, but joy of frank astonishment I follow the pen that is guiding and supporting me."


From The Elegance of the Hedghog by Muriel Barbery

And yet. The first time I copied those lines I had to stop in the middle because my 4-year-old was yelling at me to get him a drink of milk and starting to get hysterical. I wrote: "Though the 'painless birth' of this journal is lovely, I still had to leave it to go remember the daily toil that awaits me downstairs, the fruits of three painful (and joyful) births. But I came back up to finish writing, believing that for me, in the writing comes the perspective I need to see the joy amidst the work, the unfinished, the frustration, the pain, the lack of control that means I am mother."

The second time I copied those lines (just a minute ago), I heard some splashing in the bathroom, and ran in to find my baby splashing in the toilet that my older baby had forgotten to flush.

Lovely.

It's never-ending fun around here. Good thing there's more than a pen to support me.

P.S. Sorry that the next few posts seem to be missing the first ten days of our trip. Sorry—got interrupted in the middle of posting and lost the first part of my blog and didn't have the heart or time to start over. You'll just have to wonder for the time being. Or be glad for less travelogue.