in my wildest dreams

There is a barn outside my window.

Fading white paint perseveres under a (mostly) new green metal roof.  Glass-block windows punctuate the low north wall.  A neglected milk-house, used by my daughters as a rainy-day play place, juts out westward, toward the house.  Inside, sunlight pours through the smudged six-paned windows that line the southern wall.  Broken panes admit the swallows who take up residence every spring, dotting the beams above with their mud nests and swinging merrily from one glass pipeline to another.  Two gutters, full of three decades of debris, stretch along the stalls for the length of the barn.

Around the back, a bank leads to the upper entrance.  The light is dim.  Dust swirls around two old hay wagons, stacked boards, and bales of ancient hay.  The floorboards, here and there, are soft - even missing! - underfoot.  One treads carefully.

The barn has sat empty, except for swallows and mice and farm-cats and children and the occasional coon, since the 1980's.  It looks like the Rapture happened - tools and cow chains and various metal implements left lying where they were last used.  Manure never mucked out of the box stalls molders when the rains seep in.  Log sheets hang on a clipboard in the milk-house, next to a cupboard of long-expired antibiotics.  Milkers dangle in water-less sinks.


Some days, when I am feeling wildly optimistic, I peek into the barn and see visions.


I see the aisles of tie-stalls replaced by an art-lined hallway, sunshine streaming into cozy groupings of plants and chairs, doors leading off into monastic retreat bedrooms where there used to be calf pens.  A quiet library where the box stalls were, and maybe a dining room.

Upstairs, where now the air is thick with quiet ... I picture busy corners of creativity:  a pottery studio, of course, and where the hay is stacked against the northern wall, a bank of windows, and an easel for paints or pencils.  A walled-off workshop for woodworking, maybe, and a music room.  Supplies for basket-making, chair-caning, candle-dipping, or any other kind of satisfying handwork.  Weaving?  The large high-ceilinged center of the floor for dance, perhaps.  And skylights.  A vast space for the rich interplay of communal creation, and for more solitary pursuits sometimes, too.

A drum circle.  Poetry readings.  Movie night.  Jazz improv.  Writing workshops.

A corncrib stands sentinel by the upper entrance, stacked full of my father-in-law's winter wood.  It could be, instead, a compact one-man retreat, walled-in with earth and heated with wood, a respite from electric's hum.  The farm could hide half a dozen little havens, tucked under trees, secluded from all but the birds.

: : :

I love to create beautiful things - pottery, food, photography, garden - but most of all I yearn to create beautiful spaces for living, for Life to happen.  To take something dusty & broken, something that is the very symbol of disappointed dreams, and turn it into the joy of living ... would make my spirit soar.


What's standing between my dream and reality?
Research.  Money.  Hard work.  Guts.

Will the barn ever become The Barn?  I don't know.


This is my wildest dream.

who's making progress here?

This morning, sitting with a roomful of women, our eyes glued to the high-heeled, passionate Texan on the screen, I caught a word picture that I did not care for, not one little bit.

Bitterness, she reminded us, gives Satan a foothold in our lives.

alexindigo's photo

Merriam-Webster defines "foothold" as "A secure position from which further progress may be made."  Yikes.  2 Timothy 2:26 intimates that the devil has plans that he hopes to accomplish.  Guess what:  I don't want the devil making progress in my life!

So, am I bitter?  I asked myself.  According to Ephesians 4:26, it is the anger that controls me, that I hold on to past the daylight hours, that gives Satan a foothold in my life, allows him to gain ground, to make progress, to get done what he wants to get done.

And what is he after, this enemy, this accuser of our souls?  Satan, that thief, that father of lies, comes, Jesus says, only to steal and kill and destroy (John 10:10).

Do I want to contribute to that?  Is holding on to the wrongs done to me (be they real or imagined) worth that kind of price?

Of course not.  And the antidote is simple:  forgiveness.


So here's another image:  Satan losing his foothold - not gaining ground, but losing ground!

Mansell/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Image

Okay, so Satan losing ground is good.  But simple does not equal easy.  And forgiveness - not just once, but seventy times seven, daily(!) (Matthew 18:21-22) - can be formidable.

To just let go, like that, exposes me to more pain, more injustice, more wounds.

On the other hand, it also frees me, to receive love.......

..... to receive abundant life (John 10:10), and the flowing of the Holy Spirit in my life (Ephesians 4:30).

Whose progress do I want to cooperate with?

I am certain, Paul writes to the Philippian church, that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.

I'm letting go ......


...... will you?

rained in

Hurricane Sandy is approaching.

We all mob the stores for milk, bread, or our own personal emergency supplies of choice (chocolate, for instance, or sardines, or pretzels).  Excitement and dread transform the checkout lines:  everyone is a friend with whom to discuss the weather and your preparations.  Facebook abounds with photos and commentary, predictions and confessions.

Our bathtub is full of water, the trampoline is weighted down with pellet bags, the pantry and fridge are stocked with no-prep foods, and the children are going stir-crazy.

I feel a certain poetic obligation to regal you with tales of how we all gathered in the kitchen today to bake chocolate chip cookies and play board games together .... but alas, it would be pure fabrication.  Mostly I tried to block out the piping voices of four excited, house-bound children - no, wait, they weren't even entirely house-bound!  We actually sent them out into the storm this morning to play for a bit (well, sort of:  they were allowed to dash through the rain to play in the barn for an hour, and they took a walkie-talkie with them for communication purposes).

Power outages do give me warm fuzzies, sort of.  Preparing for them, not so much.  Candles and story-telling and singing are the stuff of memories .... but as long as the lights are still on, the noise levels tempt me to use my Farmer's target-shooting earplugs.

Just sayin .....

drops of rain

The talk at church this morning was as much about Hurricane Sandy as it was about communion, almost.  Facebook was full of it (as usual).  After lunch, I hard-boiled the eggs, filled water coolers and five gallon buckets, baked a gingerbread, and, feeling a little crazy, invited a friend's family to come for supper.

Outside the window, the sky was overcast but calm, the windchimes far from frantic, yet.

Our last-minute social plans fell through, and we gathered around, just us, for our usual simple Sunday night fare:  popcorn, fruit, pretzels, cheese, trail mix, and - just for tonight - my gingerbread & applesauce.

Night fell quietly, and Sugar & Spice laid aside their earlier squabbles to play Mancala.  Nice & Lil' Snip made their own peace, and built forts out of the sofa cushions.  My Farmer strummed his banjo thoughtfully and I peered over my book at my lot in life, spread out across the livingroom.

I'm low today, a little.  Ungrounded, adrift.  It anchors me to watch my children play, to hear their happiness, to bear their fighting, even.  They're mine.  They came from me, and God knows where they'll go.

A night of family shores me up, fills in the cracks of dryness in my soul.

The rains begin, outside.

wasteland no more

Reading in Isaiah this morning:

"... for I have hidden my face from this city because of all their evil.  

Behold, I will bring to it health and healing, 

and I will heal them and reveal to them abundance of prosperity and security.  

I will restore the fortunes of Judah and the fortunes of Israel, 

and rebuild them as they were at first.  

I will cleanse them from all the guilt of their sin against me, 

and I will forgive all the guilt of their sin and rebellion against me.  

And this city shall be to me 

a NAME OF JOY, 

a praise and a glory 

before all the nations of the earth 

who shall hear of all the good that I do for them.  

They shall fear and tremble because of all the good 

and all the prosperity I provide for it.

"Thus says the Lord:  In this place of which you say, 

'It is is a waste without man or beast,' 

in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem that are desolate, 

without man or inhabitant or beast, 

there shall be heard again the voice of mirth 

and the VOICE OF GLADNESS, 

the voice of the bridegroom 

and the voice of the bride, 

the voices of those who sing, 

as they bring thank offerings to the house of the Lord:

"'Give thanks to the Lord of hosts,

     for the Lord is good,

     for his steadfast love endures forever!'

"For I will restore the fortunes of the land as at first, 

says the Lord."

          {ch. 33:5-11}