Just to make it clear from the start, we are a dog family. My business-minded daughter, Robin, set me up with an Esty site to sell some things I had made out of yarn, and suffice it to say that, although the page advertised the items being from a “smoke-free” home, we definitely could NOT say that our home is a pet-free zone.
At this post, we are on our fourth, not to mention a few visitors that have come and gone. My husband bonds excessively with his canine compadres, so after #3 expired, it took me a whole year and a half to convince him that it was time for another. Such is the emotional connection we allow ourselves to get into with our pets, and as difficult as good-byes can be, those “live in the moment” times (something are dogs try to teach us, I suppose) are well worth it.
In fact, there are many good lessons our dogs can teach us. By the way, I might as well confess in this first endeavor that our dogs talk to us. Yes, I suppose that’s what I would call it. It’s not unusual for someone to talk to their dog, being such good listeners and all. Our dogs, however, have a propensity for verbal response, and many times somewhat uncouth ones at that. I have, as yet, been unable to train them to behave themselves in their choices of conversational topics, particularly with company present, and have resigned myself to thier unfeigned social inappropriateness.
Despite that, and at times because of it, dogs have added emmensely to my family’s collective personality as, if you choose to continue in this “category”, you will soon share…
…my father-in-law is a Master Gardener and I have turned to him more than once for advice and assistance. George does things correctly…the first time. He has patience and experience; he is a builder of things. He designed a special birdfeeder for my garden, and not only explained, but also got his hands dirty helping me “re-do” some potted plants that desperately needed to be, well….re-done. In spite of my obvious inexperience, there was no chiding, only gentle and joyful condescension like a father to a child.
Our lives, our relationships, our families, and our own hearts are so much the same as my innocent garden with all its mess in the midst of beauty. Who saw the divorce coming? How could anyone have prepared for the accident? Lost the house, what now? Why does life have to be so hard?!
Master Gardener or invested amateur, navigating through life’s gardens takes more than the basics, even more than the best planning. We, all of us, none excluded, need help, and usually more than a little. We need the original Master Gardener Himself to walk through the garden of our lives, tending the soil, rearranging the environment, mulching, weeding and nurturing us. And along the way, He makes us flexible, creative, patient, and attentive to what He supplies for our needs.
This is my offering. A few seeds and grains of dirt from my life’s garden to yours. I hope it helps good things to grow on your side of the fence!
Posted: MOM FOR HIRE, used but in acceptable condition. Still capable of giving unwanted advice, making you wear a hat in the cold, and generally being an embarrassment in public. Does not do windows. Inquire below–
That title is almost as pretentious as tagging myself as a “writer” in the new facebook page that still trying to link to this site! But if so, it’s probably of little consequence, due to the nature of the blogosphere. It’s not like being in high school when you had to read something and do a book report (I wonder if they still do that??) And I know that this post is mere nano-particle in a galaxy of worm holes and flashy comets (yes, I was a Star Trek fan back in the day–the original version, to be clear.)
And yet, there is something to be said about starting my twenties by having three babies and ending that decade with selling Girl Scout cookies while putting their father through grad school. (I.U.-Bloomington, go big red!) My thirties were filled with prepubescence and flaming adolescence, braces, sporting events, and the task of helping the girls “find themselves”. That’s right, we have no sons, and I was informed that our house rules were “strict” by their friends’ parents’ standards. My home became know as “the Convent” and I was nicknamed (affectionately, I hope) “Mother Superior”.
Forty-something was the transitioning from a full house to my little goslings flying off to college one at a time. I remember the night of my actually “empty nest” experience. Our baby girl, Heather, was on her way out the door for her first night in her new dorm room. Now granted, all the girls spent their first two years of collegiate existance at the small college where their dad is a prof. Basically, down the street and around the corner. But still, this was a bit of a milestone…at least for me! Goodbye hugs, etc. No more Boom Boxes competing on different levels of the house. No more choir concerts, band concerts, and various awards ceremonies at the high school. No more prom dresses, monthly allowances, or staying up waiting from someone to make it home by curfew. Wow.
The college starts their year like most, in August. Here in southern Missouri, August is not the most pleasant month, unless you’re a tropical iguana. Naturally, Heather’s dorm was un-airconditioned, and she was living (as I recall) on the third floor. It wasn’t long (a few hours, max) before I picked up the phone for a request to bring herself and two or three of her new friends “home” to spend that night in the cooler air.
The empty nest can be a bit overrated anyway…
People tend to refer to life stages as “seasons.” My life is better described as “spasms”. I am now in my mid-fifties, gray-er, somewhat more experienced. I have grown to appreciate my parents, who are now in their 80’s, and the humor through which they process life. I have grown to value my past struggles and mistakes, and embrace whatever God has for me (and my family) for the future.
So that. If you are over-heating in life, or even if not, I invite you to join my blog-nest, thoughts (and responses) from a well-used mother, from my home to yours. —- dawnlizjones