tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59919621590409496682024-03-13T09:35:07.729-07:00Miscellaneous Title XBut if I figure out what I'm doing, you'll be the first to knowDiana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.comBlogger318125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-49252891572010004772010-04-24T16:20:00.000-07:002010-04-24T16:29:09.412-07:00I've moved!This time, virtually! Come check out this old blog looking all shiny and new at its new home: <a href="http://dianaduke.com/blog">http:dianaduke.com/blog</a>. And just think: you don't even have to bring a housewarming gift. Unless you're really skilled at web design. In that case, you're just what I need.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-916506534164908812010-04-04T19:55:00.000-07:002010-04-04T21:57:42.737-07:00Happy Easter!I've loved a lot of holidays in my time--although never Halloween or Valentine's Day, to be honest--but I think Easter is edging out the rest. I love Easter. I love the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">springiness</span> of it, the cute little animals and the pretty pastels and the promise of summer vegetables in my freshly planted garden. I love watching the kids hunt for eggs, the giddy smiles they get opening them up to see what they find (my poor kids, sadly, found lots of spare change which they had to count in an impromptu math lesson, although they will shortly turn said change in for an actual item of choice). I even left their Easter baskets outside the patio door, though we don't support the Easter Bunny and his other holiday cohorts. When pressed, though, I couldn't bear to spoil their bright little faces. "Maybe one of God's angels left you a present for Christ's rebirth." To which they responded, "Um, maybe it was the Easter Bunny." <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hmm</span>...<br /><br />Which brings me to the best part about Easter: the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Although there's much more hoopla surrounding Christmas, Easter is really the more meaningful holiday. It matters the He lived, of course, and it matters that He died, but without Easter--without overcoming death--His life would have been but a mark in the history books. But because of Easter, He tells us: "Fear not; I am the first and the last, and the Living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades." (Rev. 17b-18). What a concept! The first and last, the bookends of our lives, and He holds the keys of death. He has conquered it, paving the way for His followers.<br /><br />I understand that not everyone relates to this notion. For them, Easter might be more about that Easter Bunny, or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cadbury</span> Eggs, or those creepy neon peeps. But all of those, in some way, stem from this idea of rebirth, of the way spring reflects the resurrection of life. And as one who knows Christ, who knows the sacrifice that was made and the promise brought out of it, I end Easter feeling blessed, awed, and a little less fearful than before. It's as though I've been walking through the winter valley of shadows and He's opened the door to a whole new day.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-56990908965727014932010-03-30T14:23:00.000-07:002010-03-30T14:49:27.721-07:00Biker girlsIt's a funny thing, those little moments that make you wonder.<br /><br />Yesterday, K and I spent some time being motorcycle girls. And no, I'm not toting a two-year-old around on a Harley. We deck out in our biking gear and go for a ride, which almost certainly ends up at some neighborhood park where K plays and I stretch--and usually we end up playing and stretching together. Consequently, I hope to end up someday fitting into that too-tight pair of jeans. Or at least not accumulate any other pairs that are no longer wearable.<br /><br />At our old house, we rode in the bike lane on a just-as-busy street, so that's what we do here. It took me a while to get used to the whiz of passing traffic, and I try not to let it distract me. But B had just commented to me the other day that this street is narrower than our old street, and more hilly, and more twisty. All things that percolated in my mind as we started out. Indeed, I hadn't noticed just how narrow it was, or how <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">unpredictable</span> the turns. But surely there wouldn't be a bike lane unless bikes were meant to ride in it.<br /><br />We neared a corner and there it was: a little whisper. Nothing elaborate, extravagant, or otherwise noteworthy. Just the nudge that yes, B had been right, and yes, it might be safer up on the sidewalk. I hate to ride on the sidewalk, though, because of all the dog-walkers and runners and up/down ramps bumping poor K. This time, in the nanosecond that I had, I popped up and off the street.<br /><br />Not a minute later, among a series of cars, one car drifted so close to me that I jerked my bike to the side in surprise. So close to me <em>on the sidewalk</em>. Maybe he (or she) was checking his teeth, or adjusting the radio, or making a call. Maybe he was distracted for just that moment, sliding from the narrow road to the bike lane beside it. Right next to me. Right where we would have been riding. Right where a little girl who likes to pretend we're a Thelma and Louise team would have taken the brunt.<br /><br />I know I spend too much time talking, thinking, worrying. I know that God does not often get a word in edgewise. But I wonder how often He tries, how often I'd miss out on less physical hurts if I spent more time listening and less time doing everything else. I praised Him then that He raised His voice just enough to break through, thanked Him for the safety of K and I, and rode the rest of the way without incident.<br /><br />I admit that the driver might have been more cautious if he'd seen a bike ahead, and I admit also that I'm not immune in any way. Nor will God be responsible for bad things that just, well, happen. But it was enough to make me realize that He's watching every minute, and maybe that was the whole point.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-33989098944055424422010-03-29T12:39:00.000-07:002010-03-29T12:42:03.772-07:00120 minutes agoMe: Two more minutes and then we need to head home.<br />K: Um, how bout three minutes?<br />Me: Okay, three minutes.<br /><br />The thing is, you don't know how to tell time and I'm terrible at managing it, so I'll end up letting you play for five minutes and you'll still end up crying when it's time to leave. But we're laying communication groundwork, right?Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-5451828356781929402010-03-26T13:50:00.001-07:002010-03-26T13:52:15.445-07:00Meet the neighborsSpotting a lizard on the retaining wall = fun<br />Spotting 5 lizards at once, all of them staring at you = creepyDiana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-25271381914004085432010-03-21T08:50:00.000-07:002010-03-21T08:56:16.930-07:00But perspective itself is still funnyWhen in the midst of a fantastically warm and wonderful day, I might think it's funny when I realize that I mistook the cup that B and M were sharing for the cup K and I were sharing. Ha ha, everyone's been thinking that was their cup.<br /><br />When M wakes up at eleven with a violent stomach flu, it's not quite so funny. More like a sinking, sinking feeling that just twelve hours earlier, we were all drinking from that mouth.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-68195646748890849062010-03-19T13:30:00.000-07:002010-03-19T13:38:57.708-07:00It's already too lateWhen I hear, from the corner of the room where I'm frantically trying get a few things done while the kids watch a rare and well-deserved movie, the narrator ask who could possibly be behind the flowers changing color and the wind blowing wild, I answer absentmindedly, "God." It's such an obvious question, and what does it have to do with the movie anyway? And then it hits me: maybe the fairy movie wasn't the best pick for our family. I had wanted, for once, to pick a something that K really wanted to see, something not based on cars or fire trucks or dinosaurs that she appreciates by default, and therefore hadn't quite thought it through when she picked up the movie at the library, her eyes all aglow. On the bright side, she did indeed like the movie, and we got to have a great discussion afterward about how God might <em>use</em> fairies to do his work. A little theological fudging, sure, but I'm betting God understands.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-41445504440395614832010-03-13T06:13:00.000-08:002010-03-13T06:10:44.901-08:00Hanging in the balanceWe're pushing into my least favorite territory in the entire moving process: picture hanging. I hate picture hanging. I don't know where to put things, so they all end up in the center of a wall, or, if there are more than one thing, splitting the wall evenly. Herein lies the problem: I'm a perfectionist. I have to measure five times to make a mark on the wall. Then once I've made that mark, I have to check it three more times because I don't trust my own mark. Was I not there one minute ago measuring and making that very mark? Then I put it up and obsess about the fact that it's not exactly perfect. Nothing is ever exactly perfect. It's too high. It's too low. Did I really mark it there? Really?<br /><br />In our last house, having let months lapse with pictures lined up along our hall waiting to be hung, the morning of my grad school graduation party arrived. I couldn't bear to leave them on the floor, so empowered by my new and totally non-related degree (plus a sense of urgency and some Hawaii-bound carelessness), I took and hammer and pounded in a dozen nails in random places, hung everything, and called it a day. I can remember my dad--from whom I inherited most of my perfectionist tendencies--standing at the end of the hall with his mouth agape. But the pictures were hung! Immediately! And they weren't all in the center of the wall, or splitting it, or anything. In fact, there was nothing organized about them at all. And yes, that did bother me for the rest of our time there. So while I got the job done without belaboring the details, it bothered me all the same.<br /><br />In my bible study, we've been talking a lot about generational sin. These are things that get past down from generation to generation--ancient ruins, as in Isaiah 61:4, and sour grapes, as in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ezekial</span> 18:2. Think big things, like depression and addiction, and small things, like perfectionism and people-pleasing. I'm sure one or two must come to mind. They're things I take as given--I got my obsessive attention to detail from my dad, for instance, and my people-pleasing from my mom. Good traits, except they <em>become</em> who I am, preventing God from honestly showing me. They are really traits that I have taken from them, things that I am now carrying on my own, and they weigh me down. God cannot do with me what He wants--at least not as effectively--when I'm carrying burdens that weren't really mine to begin with. And to be fair, they probably weren't my parents' either. The kicker? if I continue to carry them, M and K will pick them up too. That's how generation sin works (Exodus 20:5).<br /><br />It seems like it would be such a relief to just lay them down, except that, as mentioned e<a href="http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com/2010/03/pry-away.html">arlier this week</a>, it's a lot less about letting go and much more about prying them from my grabby little fingers. The haphazard picture hanging didn't solve anything, because I really didn't let go of that obsessive quest for perfection. This is, again, a job for someone bigger than me, and one that I know that I have to take on, as much as possible, one finger at a time, or risk passing these burdens along yet again. It boosts my spirits that the Bible promises that we can stop this cycle: "But suppose this son has a son who sees all the sins his father commits, and though he sees them, he does not do such things... He will not die for his father's sin; he will surely live" (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ezek</span>. 18:14, 17). If I can see these sins, if I can manage to "get a new heart and a new spirit" (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ezek</span>. 18:31), I can pass along this heart to the next generation--to a thousand generations (Exodus 20:6). It's worth prying, hard as it might be.<br /><br />Or in today's case, hammering without obsession but not without care, accepting and letting go, and perhaps using that need to hold on to grab the hand of God, who can hopefully lead me someone just a little more important. We'll see how that gets things hung.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-43048731384485652802010-03-10T05:40:00.000-08:002010-03-10T05:57:49.620-08:00Pry awayIt's been a tough haul these past few weeks, what with packing and moving and sickness (oh my). Yesterday piled on the last couple straws, and I, in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">desperation</span> and with many tears, broke down in an I-cannot-do-this-any-longer moment. After which I pulled myself together and promptly, well, did all those things I was sure only a second before I couldn't do. Isn't that the nature of the job? And not the <a href="http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com/2010/03/thanks-kid-i-needed-that.html">writing job</a>, sweet boy, but maybe the other stuff I do around here.<br /><br />What I realize, when this happens, is that I haven't been relying on God enough, or, if I'm going to be really honest, at all. I recognize this. God has the ultimate strength, the endless energy, the focus and patience and determination to get this done, if I just willingly tap into it. He can carry me in a way that no one else can. Yep. Again, I <em>recognize</em> this. But in practice--in the trenches, so to speak--it's so much more difficult.<br /><br />I think of the common platitude: Let go and let God. Okay, sure. But (bear with me for a minute) let go and let God... what? Mop the floors? Change the sheets? Figure out how to put handles on our cabinets without getting any crooked?<br /><br />I know: pray. Listen. Trust. They are all huge, beautiful, awesome things. Easy things, really. But it's hard for me to focus on those when there seem to be a billion other things that want to be focused on instead. Or, in my usual fashion, focused on for about two seconds until I get distracted by focusing on something else for two seconds. My pastor had a great moment in his sermon on Sunday that we should be asking ourselves not what God would have us do in general but rather what He would have us do <em>today</em>. Just today. How could I minister to my world <em>today</em>? But this is my ministry, or one of them, to take care of our home and children. And right now, it's getting the better of me. I feel my fists tightening around that ministry, and maybe that's the whole point to the platitude. Prying my fingers off one at a time might be the first step to not choking the life out of it.<br /><br />Of course, God, I might find it a little easier to focus, minister, trust, and serve if I could possibly sleep past 5am. But look--it's six and the sun is rising, with small children soon to follow. Another day, another opportunity.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-47145102201988923952010-03-09T21:30:00.000-08:002010-03-09T21:47:26.660-08:00Thanks, kid--I needed thatM: Hey look, my cup was empty before, and now it has water in it. It's magic!<br />Me: <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hmm</span>. Who do you think might have noticed that your cup was empty and filled it up so that you'd have water when you were thirsty?<br />M: Um... you?<br />Me: Maybe. You think that's in my job description to notice when your cup needs water and refill it?<br />M: (Laughs and shakes his head) No, Mommy. Your job is to write books.<br /><br />Yes, well, among other things. But it's nice to know that even the little people have my back.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-47188345783592525622010-03-06T12:41:00.000-08:002010-03-06T12:56:40.912-08:00And we emerge!It's sad when the most relaxing part of your week was getting your teeth cleaned.<br /><br />I can't believe that it's been a week since the move began, but we are finally feeling settled in the new house. This means that both cars are parked in the garage, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and the clutter has settled down into a level that might just be confused for my household's general chaos. Sure, we have loads more sorting out to do, but I'm feeling ready to let B go back to work and our lives drift back to (new) normal.<br /><br />I'm lying.<br /><br />It hasn't been the quietest of weeks, move or not, what with ear infections in both kids, a giant castle cake for a friend, B's birthday coming up, and a men's party at church for which I provided desserts. I hate chaos. I hate not knowing where things are. I hate that the house still smells of the previous owner's dogs. I hate spending money on more things, even if they are necessary, and I hate that the cake didn't turn out <em>perfect</em>, as I always think it should. Above all, I'm so, so tired of keeping up a cheerful and encouraging front, feeling like I must carry the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">discombobulated</span> weary on my back. If I lay down, would anyone carry me?<br /><br />As with all things, it will get better. Over time. Over a long, long time. We praise God that he brought us here, because we love the house. And while we're loving it, we'll get it all sorted out, with a bit more prayer. We have a saying in our house: patience is a virtue; it's just not mine. But maybe now that God's got us in the right place, He's gonna work on that next.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-9981802119218750502010-02-25T13:07:00.000-08:002010-02-25T13:14:27.153-08:00Hair today, gone tomorrowWhen you* are in the middle of a crazy move, and tolerating unexpected additional amounts of stress and torment, you might think that this would be a great time to get a haircut, because it will immediately boost your spirits. DO NOT. Have chocolate or take a long walk. Do anything else, because if you go and get your haircut in the week of "If it can go wrong, it will", well, just take a guess at what will happen.<br /><br />If you do, against all good sense, get yourself into the sort of crying/miserable shock, try not to focus on the fact that the hair you have been so patiently growing out is now up to your ears. And especially ignore that it's only <em>some</em> of that hair, leaving you with a mullet-y sort of poof. Instead focus on the positives, like hair will grow, and the key to your new house is sitting on the table, and you can finally pack up all those last bits because, come Monday, you'll be starting new. Starting new is good.<br /><br /><em>*I mean, "me," of course. Because who else would get into this situation? But it feels better to make it into some sort of helpful lesson for others. Makes it slightly less like a personal dump, anyway.</em>Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-61109605199521840042010-02-24T21:13:00.000-08:002010-02-24T21:18:15.285-08:00Because it's important to challenge yourselfJust in case this week wasn't crazy enough, let's add an ear infection! Oh, what the heck--let's add two! And while we're at it, throw some asthma on top of it! Let it keep us up all night long! Insert additional witty exclamation here! It masks the lack of sleep! And insanity!Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-59532400104022506492010-02-22T05:50:00.000-08:002010-02-22T19:10:12.929-08:00Packing the unpackablesWith less than a week until we move, we spent much of the weekend packing up all the nooks and crannies of our home. We're excited to go--ready, in fact--especially since we don't technically own our house anymore (which lends it's own secret pleasures: "What's that funny smell in here?" "I don't know, it's not our house." etc., etc.). In turn, the rooms have taken on an echo, as though they are longing for their shelves to be refilled. Don't worry, precious house--it's coming soon enough.<br /><br />What seems strange to me are the things you leave behind in a house, the things you absolutely cannot take with you even though they <em>belong</em> to you just as much as any book or chair. Like the stain on the garage entrance to the house. To the new owners, it will look like some Jackson Pollack splatter, but I know it's from my thirtieth birthday dinner with my friends, buttery Moroccan juice from a leftover promptly consumed--that was one good meal, night, memory. There's a raised spot on the kitchen floor where the cooler leaked. We didn't notice because my sister and her kids were here, and we were frantically trying to get all the little ones clean before bed while I dealt with the plumber. Seems my sister took off the faucet in the tub with the water running full blast. During that episode, I also learned that you can in fact get hot water from a neighbor using a cooler, and that you shouldn't leave a leaky cooler on your brand new laminate floor. It's probably less noticeable now because there's a fine haze of scratches from those silly ride-on fire trucks that the kids cannot give up, even though M's knees are tucked to his chest when he rides them.<br /><br />There are, of course, the intangibles. Any house is full of them, but especially one that has housed small children. I went into labor in the inexplicably large second bedroom, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sequestered</span> with a cough. It was K's first stop after eight long days in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">NICU</span>, and where we introduced her to M, who regarded her with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">warranted</span> suspicion. It was in these rooms that both kids learned to walk--K got led around gently while M got pushed back and forth in the still empty but carpeted sun room--and later that we played endless rounds of chase over the circuitous <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">floor plan</span>. Birthdays, holidays, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">play dates</span>, and countless firsts all owe their backdrop to this house. But these memories come with us, packed in our minds. It's the tangibles that I leave behind that make me ever-so-wistful, the marks we've left on this landscape that are the signs of good use and great love, marks that will be regarded as nothing more than curiosities by the new owners, if at all.<br /><br />I try to see them, then, as my gifts, a legacy of happy living to bless the people who will come to add to them, overwrite them, and ignore them with the best of intentions. They are the echo of our lives, a reflection of the interconnection between us all, and a way to gift them with a little bit of our life abundant. And I look forward to creating new marks galore on the home we eagerly anticipate. There's just the matter of finishing all that real packing first.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-87066267668500892732010-02-16T14:16:00.000-08:002010-02-16T14:20:29.655-08:00A Valentine's MiracleWhile granted, it wasn't the most shining Valentine's Day ever, there was one incredible bright spot: I found the card. You know, <a href="http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com/2008/02/in-true-spirit-of-valentines-day.html">the one I lost two years ago</a>. Yep. It was hiding among my socks all this time, which is kind of frightening that something can hide in one of my drawers for two years without surfacing. But it did surface, and in time for Valentine's Day, too. So craziness in one year might be the up side to another. This is really good news for me.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-36950274798100391502010-02-14T15:20:00.001-08:002010-02-14T15:22:03.807-08:00Happy Valentine's Day!May you remember today not only the love that you receive, but also the joy brought by the love you share. And then share some more! On my end, I'm sharing it with a very sick B, making this maybe not the fun or romantic Valentine's ever, but at least one in which we all recognize the blessing that is being loved.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-36059002496759498582010-02-10T13:26:00.000-08:002010-02-10T13:35:49.274-08:00So where did we pack the wand?It's a crazy thing, packing for a move. B and I, we're of two different minds on this subject. He'd prefer to begin right away, packing little bits each day in a slow steady process. As for me, I'd rather wait until the week of our move, then throw everything in boxes at once. Frantically! With great stress! This is a theme in my life.<br /><br />So B handles the packing, mostly. Which is great. Just a little disconcerting. I open the cabinet to get my pancake making bowl and find its spot empty. Or I walk into our bedroom and wonder, <em>why does it look so small?</em> Then I realize it's because all the pictures are off the walls. Or I'm in the middle of making dinner and turn around to discover that there's a mysteriously empty place in the corner of the counter where I once had a plant. A very crazy thing, to find your life <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">disapparating</span> before your eyes.<br /><br />But all this means that I've very good at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">apparating</span>, and therefore while B handles the packing, I handle the unpacking. Frantically! With great stress! And I almost guarantee that one week after we move in, I'll have all the boxes empty and life as it once was--pancake bowl, pictures, and plant included.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-21123672555632573472010-02-08T13:51:00.000-08:002010-02-08T14:07:34.767-08:00Way to ruin a good thingWe've had much coughing and sneezing and other sickness induced <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">unpleasantness</span> around here. It's actually the third cold in five weeks, unfairly enough, not to mention the <a href="http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com/2010/02/breaching-wall.html">pneumonia</a>. And do you know what's caused it? Surely not the rainy weather or the compromised immune systems or the stress of the move. No--it's because people kept saying to me, "You guys haven't been sick much this year, have you?" or "You certainly have been a lot healthier, huh?" To which I always replied, quickly and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">fervently</span>, that it's just <em>seemed </em>that way, when in fact we'd had more than our due share, even though up until this point in the season we <em>had</em> been healthier. But don't people know that you NEVER say those things aloud? And look, they went and said them, and so we'll be sniffling our way to spring, thank you very much.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-14661683744041221792010-02-02T12:49:00.000-08:002010-02-02T13:24:29.092-08:00Breaching the WallThis past weekend was the 2010 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">SDSU</span> Writer's Conference. It's basically a chance to spent a boatload of money to sit indoors, hear conflicting information about vital one-shot things like pitches and queries, and breathlessly throw out what you hope are key details about your project to any agent willing to listen.<br /><br />Ahem.<br /><br />I went into the weekend in a foul mood. The days leading up seemed to be a train wreck of kids not sleeping, colds, house inspections, etc. I found myself on Thursday afternoon making homemade pasta sauce (must. use. up. frozen. tomatoes), washing dishes and doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms and building a train out of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Legos</span>. Did I mention I was also recovering from pneumonia? Yeah, really, like heavy duty antibiotic pneumonia. After trying to eat--did I mention that the heavy duty antibiotic absolutely killed my appetite?--and getting the kids in bed, I started working on that manuscript that I promised myself would be complete by the conference. At 2am, I finally finished.<br /><br />I also hit a wall. It's been a year since I published <a href="http://www.mamaphonic.com/node/1936">this essay</a>, almost a year since I started writing a novel that would resurrect my life as a writer. And I did it. I squeezed every last drop of time I could with energy I didn't know I had, and I produced something of which I'm very proud. Not only that, but I felt connected with my writer self, fired up in a way that I honestly have never felt. And at 2am, it hit me: this is how it gets done. By staying up late, by squeezing hard, by somehow dividing my single self into two. They're full time jobs--parenting and writing--and I've done them fully. At the same time. And insanity ensued!<br /><br />Okay, not insanity. But I hit that wall and thought: I am tired. I do not want to do this any more. Granted, the pneumonia didn't help. But I was tired of feeling like I had too much to do and not enough time. I was tired of not enjoying a moment's of rest. I was tired of cramming so much into that little hour I had so that I was cranky on either end. I was tired of doing all this for something that I didn't <em>have</em> to do. Why not just one job at a time?<br /><br />But I'm on a roll. I've ignited something within myself that is difficult to ignore, and almost impossible to walk away from. Will it be there if I wait? Oh sure, probably. But do I want to wait, with two manuscripts now? I've made it so far--<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">super-humanly</span> far--that I'm torn between wanting to be realistic, and wanting not to give up on myself.<br /><br />So I found a door. I guess that's what you do when you have a wall. I went to bed and I went to the conference and I groped along all those little chinks in the brick before me until I found a way to get through. It was tough--overwhelming, tear-inducing--trying to push myself forward in the midst of so much conflicting information. But I reached the other side with enough brain power left to assimilate most of what I learned and put it to good use.<br /><br />That's where I am now. Not a good place, maybe, but it's less pneumonia-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">ish</span>, and there's no wall. Just more rocky path, hard hills, long distance. Everyone has a journey. I've come to know this as mine.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-16131432574443207322010-01-27T11:19:00.000-08:002010-01-27T11:28:52.319-08:00What's in a name?Today, after four weeks in gym, K finally said something during the opening name song. She loves gym, don't get me wrong. I've never seen a kid so <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">uncontainably</span> happy, not to mention that she has a wicked sense of balance and endlessly daring energy. This has replaced swimming as the high point in our week. But during the name song, she usually retreats into my lap, pinching her lips shut while I, at last, say her name for her.<br /><br />But today, we got to her spot and the teacher asked "What's your name?" and she replied in the most bright, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">exuberant</span> voice: "Fireman."<br /><br />Yes, well, I filled in her name for her again. And maybe explained what she said to the confused people around us, who just don't look at us quite the same. But I'm really proud of my little Fireman.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-55480337763276716292010-01-24T12:50:00.000-08:002010-01-24T13:02:16.385-08:00Rocking outB and I both own newish <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hondas</span>. My car--or the one that I most often use--is the minivan. Trusty and practical, it has enough room for all our strollers and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">sand toys</span> and even the travel potty. Plus it's white, so as not to retain to much heat or show too much dirt. It's also a giant MOM beacon. B's car is a zippy Fit, fast and flexible and shiny jet black. Can you already tell where this is going?<br /><br />I understand that the minivan is the most sensible car for me. I love that the doors slide open and that we can move throughout the cabin when need be. It's handy that we can take a potty break in the back or carry extra friends.<br /><br />But I've noticed recently that both cars have a variable feature for stop lights. On the minivan, the windshield wipers, which come in a slew of intermittent settings, slow down. How very safe. On B's Fit, the radio automatically lowers the volume, so as the road noise decreases, you don't blow out your eardrums. This is especially helpful to me, because I drive the Fit when I'm without the kids, and when I do, I turn that radio up so loud that the windows shake and my ears just slightly hurt. And I'm now understanding one more thing: I'm the kind of person who needs to drive without kids, without practically, and with eardrum blowing music lowering very thoughtfully for me. At least sometimes. It'll be too fun when the kids get old enough for me to let them in on Mommy's little secret.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-45165837275803593762010-01-22T13:25:00.001-08:002010-01-22T13:32:33.233-08:00Good thing dreams are freeI drove past an RV for sale today (and no, contrary to our <a href="http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com/2010/01/god-in-action.html">recent whimsical purchase</a>, I didn't buy it). The sign in the back read: "For sale. 14,000 actual miles." Hmm. Are there any other kinds of miles? And then it hit me. That's a person who bought an RV, pictured themselves traveling all around the continental United States, and then got 14,000 miles into it before realizing how crazy expensive RVs are to drive. But in dream mileage, I'm sure they got their money's worth.<br /><br />Speaking of crazy expensive, have you seen Conan O'Brien's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr6mOGPDceQ&feature=player_embedded">latest tactic </a>to stick it to NBC? I'm not siding with anyone here. Okay, I'm siding with Conan. Dude, he waited five years and moved his whole family to the West Coast. I'd be upset too.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-19304587076110588512010-01-17T13:52:00.000-08:002010-01-17T14:16:55.729-08:00God in Action(1) Drive through a neighborhood on a whim. Tell one of B's coworkers that we were in his neighborhood, at which point he mentions he'll be selling his house in a few months and that we should look at it after the holidays if we're serious.<br />(2) Get all excited about the way God put the most amazing opportunity in our hands: dream house in dream neighborhood, etc.<br />(3) Talk to said coworker after holidays, only to find that he's changed his mind. Wonder why God would dangle said opportunity only to take it away.<br />(4) Decide that, since we've gotten all excited, we might as well look into other options. For information's sake, of course.<br />(5) Pick an agent, only to discover that he won't be back in town for us to sign with and we'll have to wait until Monday. Wonder why he wouldn't tell you this information ahead of time.<br />(6) Spend the time, somewhat bummed, driving around just checking out options.<br />(7) Stumble upon an open house, fall in love, and discover that since we haven't signed with an agent yet, we'll get a better deal by selling our house through her.<br />(8) Frantically get our house ready to sell while going back and forth over the house we want.<br />(9) Buy said house. Three days on the market, sell your house to first-time Christian couple buyers who want to use it for their fellowships and day care and just think it's the most perfect house ever (which is was, really). Without even having to fix all those things we thought would keep us from selling!<br />(10) Realize, looking back, that all those pieces--all those mistakes and frustrations and missteps--were there to put us all in the right place at the right time.<br /><br />I know that not everyone will see my week the way I see it. But having lived it, I cannot help but see God's hand in everything. I wish I weren't in awe, that I could say that I always trust that God will work everything out perfectly. Logically, I know He will. In practice, though, I'm must more likely to worry/puzzle/fix.<br /><br />Still: one week. One crazy, unexpected week. And we're on the move, hopefully, in a month or two. I feel so blessed, so in awe, so very very lucky. I'm also tired. So very tired. I'm probably one of the few people in San Diego looking forward to a quiet week of rain.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-85410565180908789442010-01-16T06:39:00.000-08:002010-01-16T07:01:25.581-08:00Omens aboundAs a writer, there are some people that I admire more than others. Of course, almost everybody has their favorites. F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of mine. I love <em>The Great Gatsby</em>, as many people do, but I really love his short stories. Much of this is probably because he writes very good ones and I, alas, do not. "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" is perhaps my top pick. So because I love Fitzgerald, and because I took a course on him in college, I have a fat collection of his short stories around. When I finished the movie version of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,"* I immediately picked up that collection and read the original story. For the record, it's nothing like the movie, but much funnier and less sentimental.<br /><br />What caught me, in this story, was a single line, one that reminded me why I find him such a fine writer to begin with.<br /><br />"Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty disapproval, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and reproachful eyes."<br /><br />"A dowager of evil omen": That's a tiny snip of a fat line that crackles with perfection. It even sounds just like it means. I read things like this and admire, ponder, and sigh, hoping only that one day I can come up with a line that's just that smart, even if I'm prepared to never be on par with Fitzgerald himself.<br /><br /><em>*Yes, that movie came out forever ago. To be honest, that collection of stories has sat on my desk for maybe six months waiting for me to write this blog post and then put it away. I figured it was now or never, since it will shortly be packed with all my other belongings and moved to the new house. But more on that later...</em>Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5991962159040949668.post-46703233497698837422010-01-12T13:33:00.000-08:002010-01-12T13:35:40.767-08:00Thanks, Wild ThingM: I'm all finished with my peanuts.<br />Me: Great!<br />M: But I'm still hungry. Can I have something else?<br />Me: Nope. It's too close to dinner. You'll have to wait until then.<br />M: Then I guess I'll just have to eat you up.Diana Dukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11074777662253374901noreply@blogger.com0