Sunday, November 7, 2010

One Week

"It looks like plastic. I'm not trying to be critical, but since you asked, it looks like you could peel your face off with a paint scraper."
My seventeen year old was giving me the truth I had asked for. I am turning forty in one week. I have never worn much make-up. I hate it. Sometimes I'll wear a little eye makeup...but that's about it. So I'm getting older and so is my skin. I thought maybe I should start sprucing myself up a bit more- you know, wear a little foundation, maybe some lipstick. Nothing too dramatic. It didn't go over well.
"That's not something you should say to your mother," my sweet husband says from the next room. I defend my son, "No, I asked for the truth."
I went to clean the makeup off. It's always better to be myself, anyway.  My children like my plain face, and I am happy.

The other day I had some peaches from a can (store bought) left over. I put them in a canning jar and thought, "How pretty these peaches look. You would never know they weren't canned at home. " I decided that those peaches are like blogs. We take our life experiences and 'can' them, sometimes making them look a little better than they are. I think it's important to focus on the positive, but I want to be authentic, too.

Turning forty is big for me...Only one more week of thirties!
 I am going to spend time this week reflecting on changes I would like to make in my life . I have been either pregnant/nursing or both for eighteen years!  In the next decade that chapter will close...

I don't want to think about it all too much, but I do.
I love my life, my husband, and my nine wonderful children. I am moved by nature and the glory of God's creation. In fact, I was thinking of the scenery around me; we have lived here eight years now. Month has curled over month, bringing changes in the landscape that reflect the changes of life. I am amazed by the fury of the days - the passing on of moments and dreams, the worries, the joys, the hopes; life unfurls in its ebbs and flows, pounding out rhythm. But I can't catch it; I can't hold it; it slips through these fragile hands. I can only be present to what is NOW.

Soil womb awaits the planting.

She has risen from her coiled slumber.

From icy splendor...

To Summer lush.

fertile and overflowing

barren but beautiful

A sea of peace

A gentle unfolding.