.::still blinking::.

Um.

This is really, really inspiring. JJ, who has lived in Russia, said he was cracking up in the other room.

I like my baby (he prefers big boy).

I especially like when dad keeps telling us to stop giggling while he is reading the scriptures. I continue to tickle and poke him, forcing him to squeal with laughter and resulting in my own defiant laughter.

I finished this book today and loved it. Loved it. I haven’t really known what to say about it, and I really feel a struggle lately to come up with any words to write here.

It is about the relationships in our lives, mostly the relationships we have with women and how they unite us. Laila and Mariam. Strangers to friends. Hatred to tenderness. Learning to love inspite of, but more importantly loving just because it is needed.

Isn’t that what we all need anyway. Just a few to love us with no demands that follow.

“When Aziza first spotted Mariam in the morning, her eyes always spring open and she began mewling and squirming in her mother’s grip. She thrust her arms toward Mariam, demanding to be held, her tiny hands opening and closing urgently, on her face a look of both adoration and quivering anxiety.

“What scene you’re making,” Laila would say, releasing her to crawl toward Mariam. “What a scene! Calm Down. Khala Mariam isn’t going anywhere. There she is your aunt. See? Go on, now.”

“As soon as she was in Mariam’s arms, Aziza’s thumb shot into her mouth and she buried her face in Mariam’s neck. Mariam bounced her stiffly, a half-bewildered, half-grateful smile on her lips. Mariam had never before been wanted like this. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, so unreservedly.

“Aziza made Mariam want to weep.

“Why have you pinned your little heart to and old, ugly had like me?” Mariam would murmur into Aziza’s hair. “Huh? I am nobody, don’t you see? A dehati. What have I go to give you?”

“But Aziza only muttered contentedly and dug her face in deeper. And when she did that, Mariam swooned. Her eyes watered. Her heart took flight. And she marveled at how, after all these years of rattling loose, she had found in this little creature the first true connection in her life of false, failed connections.”

I have never felt love like motherhood. Do I love him because he needs me so desperately? Or did he love me unconditionally first and I returned it in kind? I really couldn’t say, but I am addicted and I love when he shows me his love in small childlike ways. When he touches my hand. When he cuddles with me in the morning. When he tells me to stay and lie with him in bed and watch Enchanted one more time. I love the way he loves me.

I hope as I live I am conveying the importance of living and being. I don’t want to be the one rushing from thing to thing and ignoring ants and not taking hour long walks around the block to look at every leaf. I want to be able to appreciate the beauty that is around me, the beauty that is my life, the beauty that has come from me.

“Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last.”

My consequence doesn’t have to make me rich or well-known or powerful. I just need to to know that the things I touched were better when I left them than when I found them. I am trying, in my own way. Mostly, I feel the love of you all and am so blessed by the good friends that have been placed around me. You truly have made my world better.

“To a chorus of flipping pages, Laila makes her way to the curtainless window. Through the glass, she can see the boys in the playground lining up to practice their free throws. Above them, over the mountains, the morning sun is rising. It catches the metallic rim of the basketball hoop, the chain link of the tire swings, the whistle hanging around Zaman’s neck, his new, unchipped spectacles. Laila flattens her palms against the warm glass panes. Closes her eyes. She lets the sunlight fall on her cheeks, her eyelids, her brow.

“When they first came back to Kabul, it distressed Laila that she didn’t know where the Taliban had buried Mariam. She wished she could visit Mariam’s grave, to sit with her awhile, leave a flower or two. But Laila sees now that it doesn’t matter. Mariam is never very far. She is here, in these walls they’ve repainted, in the trees they’ve planted, in the blankets that keep the children warm, in these pillows and books and pencils. She is in the children’s laughter. She is in the verses Aziza recites and in the prayers she mutters when she bows westward. But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila’s own heart, where she shines with the bursting radiance of a thousand suns.”

I can feel the quiet reverence here. I can feel the light coming in the cloudy window. I can hear the noise of boys. I love/want to be able to see this beauty and feel this reverence all the time. I want to always be able to look and find it always near. I love the people who have quietly left their foot prints on my heart. I love them that have treaded lightly, and shown me a better way. I love finding people who have such respect for others. I love being humbly surrounded by greatness.

I am reminded of this.

Also, there is a new post by me over at the Daybreak Bookclub.

The fun has arrived.

For most of life, nothing wonderful happens. If you don’t enjoy getting up and working and finishing your work and sitting down to a meal with family or friends, then the chances are that you’re not going to be very happy. If someone bases his happiness or unhappiness on major events like a great new job, huge amounts of money, a flawlessly happy marriage or a trip to Paris, that person isn’t going to be happy much of the time. If, on the other hand, happiness depends on a good breakfast, flowers in the yard, a drink or a nap, then we are more likely to live with quite a bit of happiness. :: Andy Rooney ::

I am trying.

I have hauled Gentry’s mattress into my room so that he will stop jumping on my bed while I fold the laundry. My room has become a small three ring circus. There is running and jumping and hiding and throwing of small squishy balls.

We also have Charlotte’s Web playing. Fern’s mother is concerned about her daughters best friends being a pig, sheep, and other farm animals. She has taken her concerns to the town doctor. Dr. Dorian. He replies, “There is a name for her condition, sadly it is one she will outgrow. Childhood.”

:: easter lilies :: they smell like heaven ::

:: sweet fine days ::

:: silliness ::

:: tasty/healthy dinner ::

:: this photo set by gentry ::

:: him ::

:: + him too ::

1: Little boys who’s ears have vacated the premises.

2: Forty+ (well, actually 12+) year old women throwing tantrums.

Photo from here.

If you set up a Russian chicken and an American chicken on a date, they would speak the same language.

How is it then that when we imitate the sounds an animal make around the world, they all sound so different. I have pestered jj on this subject before, trying to get him to tell me the sound a dog makes in Russian. I have a cousin who lived in Finland and I tried to get her to tell me the sound animals make there. To no avail.

I guess when you are living in a foreign country, you are trying to learn what the other people are saying and not what they neighbors cat is trying to say to you.

If you have ever wondered like I have, here is the list of animal sounds from around the world.

I signed up for my garden plot today, speaking of kiss me I like green. Our seeds arrived after much pestering from jj to see if they had arrived yet? Are they here yet? Are they here yet? Are they here yet?

We are talking of starting them, you know, six weeks early and then transplanting them when the garden police will let us in. We bought big bags of manure. Oh gardening. I am so excited.

We only have one batch of homegrown/made spaghetti sauce. It is so good. I can still taste the sunshine on my homegrown tomatoes; even here in the bitter, wishy-washy, warm spring.