Wine!

It's a grading week.
The stack is staring at me.
Staring, I say!
But I don't wanna do it.
Don't wanna do it.
Don't wanna do it.
Whine, whine...WINE!

Now I think I'll do it.
I think I can give 'em a grade.

It's a grading week.
The stack is staring at me.
I have to do it.
Have to do it.
Have to do it...
now no more whine.
WINE!

In the Land Of Judd...

there lives a toddler boy with honeyed hair and blue eyes, lashes so long they're hypnotic. Where he dwells, the word "No-ah" means all forms of the negative from "I just don't care" to "Ain't no way I'm gonna' do that, I don't care WHAT you say!" The view of his world boasts Scooby-Doo anything with little toy cars Vrrrooom!-ing over everything. Every item there is colored "ba-lue", and only that which tickles the most giggles is honored.

But it is the morning - from wee hours to breakfast - when the land is sometimes hard, when ease requires just two beloved essentials: his blankie and his milk. For in the Land of Judd, mornings are not a friend: they begin with a grunt and low whine, a rub of the eyes (one, then two, then 15 times), and necessitate an immediate demand for toddler coffee - aka warm milk with half a packet of Carnation chocolate mix.

In the Land of Judd, the boy has a minion at court (this land calls her "Mommy") who makes the jugs of milk perfectly and promptly. Then comes the blanket because, of course, sometimes mornings are cold in the Land of Judd.

After becoming cocooned in a manner just-so, here's what the toddler boy looks like...morning "cup of joe" in hand:

Then all is right in the kingdom where the boy's been bathed in the warmth of milk and the hands of love.
Just another grumpy morning passed...
In the Land of Judd.

P!nk?

I like P!nk. Not the color. The singer.
Or at least, I think I like P!nk: I only know what I know, and it's not like we're having lattes in her sunroom Tuesday mornings. (Does she even have a sunroom?!)
I like her complexity: part singer, part songwriter, part skateboarder and gymnast (where she honed a skill for acrobatics).
I like her passion: sometimes coarse, but rarely dishonest, she comes across as legitimately concerned about body consciousness and acceptance in girls - young and old alike.
I like her voice. I like her music.
And I like her artistry.

I also like her song "Glitter in the Air" - my newest listen-to-it-on-repeat title.
Do I have the lyrics?
But of course! (Note that co-writer Alecia Moore is aka P!nk)

Glitter In The Air
Songwriters: Billy Mann & Alecia Moore
Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?
Close your eyes and trust it, just trust it
Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?
Have you ever looked fear in the face
And said I just don't care?

It's only half past the point of no return
The tip of the iceberg, the sun before the burn
The thunder before lightning, the breath before the phrase
Have you ever felt this way?

Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?
Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?

It's only half past the point of oblivion
The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run
The breath before the kiss and the fear before the flames
Have you ever felt this way?

La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

There you are, sitting in the garden
Clutching my coffee, calling me sugar
You called me sugar

Have you ever wished for an endless night?
Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight
Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself
Will it ever get better than tonight? Tonight
© EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC.; PINK INSIDE PUBLISHING

I also like this video: recorded at the 2010 Grammy awards, it's avant garde in classic P!ink fashion and it combines her acrobatic athleticism with a beautiful rendering of how a song makes you feel - not just what it's about.

Have a look-see.

The Great Pumpkin Day

We are a family of traditions: if you read along as I chronicle our adventures, you already know that. While the practice of the traditions is a family operation, their inspiration commonly finds its source at my heart's stoop. I grew up with some traditions but, when Craig and I got married, I wanted our story to be woven by-products of the "Remember that time when..." or "Every year we..." that intentional traditions create. So, we started that rhythmic repeat of memory-makings from day one - and only added more when each child arrived. Some I carried from my childhood, some we continued from Craig's, and still others I "borrowed" from great families all around the country.

But one of my favorite traditions was neither sparked by my hand nor conceived by my head. No, this one is all Craig.

When Grace was in Kindergarten, she came home with her very first permission slip. Tra-la!!! I couldn't believe we were already at this stage of her little life yet, nonetheless, there we were, scanning the various tidbits of time, place, date, and need for chaperones. Over dinner that night, I expressed that shock (and excitement, by the way) to my husband who, in his unique fashion, smiled then nodded then took a bite of food. After a beat or two of silence he added, "You know, I'll chaperone the school trips. Our kids will see me stop life for 'em, and they'll remember how I loved them more than my job. These'll be our special memories."

Yes, I'll pause her while every child of father stops to consider THAT tear-jerking sentiment.

So a tradition was born. One that Craig now carries to Elijah and one that, I've no doubt, will transcend to Judsen. So Craig takes the day off work and, much to every teacher's delight, arrives early to assist with the potty line, name tag stickings, and bus loading. He never seems to mind he's the only father and never has a problem with his assigned group - snicker, snicker. (For those who haven't met Craig, imagine their David to his Goliath and you'll get the general idea).

This month was Craig's first field trip of the school year. He went with Elijah's first grade class to Venetucci Farms to learn about plant life and picking pumpkins. A week before the trip, Elijah reminded daily anyone who'd listen that his daddy was "chappalonein" (chap-pa-lone-in) his outing.

They got to select their fave gourd and, in classic E fashion, he picked a 10-pounder that was less than easy to cart home. But, he said, "It was easier when I crammed it into my backpack."

He sure is proud of that pumpkin, which he affectionately titles, "The Great Pumpkin."

And he's abundantly proud that his hands are "just like my Daddy's."
True that.

Later, Judd and I walked a block to our neighborhood park where we met the class returning for a picnic lunch outside. I packed them some yummy treats, delivered their satchels, and left them to enjoy a perfectly sunny, moderately temped, fulsomely joyous end to a memory-making day of tradition.

And, when I looked back, I saw a tiny boy sitting criss-cross next to his giant Daddy (also sitting criss-cross), and my heart snapped the picture...for one day, I know I'll struggle to recall how small my firstborn son once was and wonder how he ever sat so near his father without consuming all the space.

And I'll think of The Great Pumpkin Day.

And I'll smile.

That Tiny Space

My friend, Alycia, is insightful and smart. She lives in Alaska, so I obviously don't see her much - which makes me all the more thankful for Facebook since I can keep up with her life, her kids, her world at large. She's a reader, too, so (of course) she's high on my list of "Must Check" where FB status updates are concerned.

Do you all have that list, too, or is it just me?

Anyhow, I remember she likes quotes. Actually, I remember her mom likes quotes, too. And they often have a real gem to toss at you seemingly precisely when you need it.

So here's her share from today...I'll let it speak for itself.

Thanks, A!

A
wonderful realization will be the day you realize that you are unique
in all the world... You are a special combination for a purpose-and
don't let them tell you otherwise, even if they tell you that purpose is
an illusion... Don't ever believe that you have nothing to contribute.
The world is an incredible unfulfilled tapestry.

And only you can fulfill that tiny space that is yours.

- Leo Buscaglia

Yesterday, I Visited Family

I looked up "family". According to Merriam-Webster, here's what it means. Notice that, while the variety of type is rivaled only by the nuances of each one, a single aspect remains unchanged: familiarity. Intimacy. Likeness between that makes the units cease to function as singles and more contentedly function as a whole.

Yesterday, I visited family.

Craig and I attended Peters Creek Christian Church for 5.5 years. It took us four months after moving to Alaska to find it. We lived in Eagle River (about 25 minutes outside Anchorage) and resorted to trying "town" when we couldn't find a church more local. But the one we found was south-side with a lengthy commute: when we expressed our hesitations to the pastor, he recommended Peters Creek.

I called the church and spoke with its secretary, Marita. What I thought would be a one minute chat to discover service times and location became nearly two hours of shared stories and connection. So we gave it a try.

Our first Sunday there, Marita and her husband, Scott, invited us to lunch after service. The teaching was good, the people were nice, and the commute was a mere 12 minutes or so. But what brought us back seven days later was not the teaching. Or the nice people. Or the brief commute. It was that lunch: that personal touch that said, "You matter. Do you know you matter? Do you believe you are not expendable?"

Years later, we're still blessed by great friendship with Scott & Marita but, more than that, we've been blessed by family...by knowing value is about what matters, not about a five-letter catch word to falsely comfort when we've no more energy to love.

Yesterday, I walked into a church and watched faces light up upon spying me - and I could feel mine light for them in return. They did not hug me: they wrapped their arms around me and squeezed the very air out of me. THAT is a hug.

They did not ask me how I was: they looked me in the eye and said, "Is Craig still healthy?" and "How tall is Grace now?" and "Does Elijah still look JUST like Craig?" THAT is knowing someone. THAT is asking how I am.

They did not ask what I was doing after church: I went to a home-away-from-home that has fed me and loved me and put fire into my belly time and again. THAT is hanging out after church.

This is the Covak's model of family. It's one for which we strive - and sometimes fail. Sometimes, others fail us. Often, we become beleaguered, disenchanted, worn out by the work of wanting - not what we believe could be true, but what we know is true.

But, yesterday, Peters Creek reminded me of how important family is...reminded me in a way that, lately, I've needed the most. And I am re-inspired.

Family is commonality. But it's more than that.

It's love.
It's value.
It's comfort.
And it is, most assuredly, legacy.

And, yesterday, I visited family.

The Last Frontier

is a place of simplicity. Contrary to what you might imagine if you've never visited - let alone lived here - this is not a place of hardship. Inconvenience, yes. (In fact, I'm sitting at Jessi's laptop listening to her vent about the idiocies of special offer promotions where you discover, after countless minutes of data entry, that "Ha ha! We faked you out! We neither ship free to Alaska nor will we let you have the aforementioned 40% off since you apparently live on the ends of the earth!" It's rather like having a corporation stick its tongue out, seal it lips, and spit upon you in glee).

So, cold weather, yes.
Breathtaking skylines and mind-blowing vistas, yes.
Incomparable rhythm and majestic bounty, yes.
But hardship?
Definitely no.

But, here, the highway sports no billboards. The birch trees are brilliant and the pomegranates hang heavy on the bold rusts and marigolds of autumnal leaves. The sun is rising around 8:30 and, by the time the city's Happy Hour makes its first call, Alaska's shadows have long grown long, heralding the impending close of another day in The Last Frontier.

The pace is calmer. Smoother. And, although Anchorage is fast opening its routes of consumerism to big markets like Target, Old Navy, and Imax, the era of the boutique and artisan shop is far from over since, after all, what man makes with man's hands has beauty and value because it is just that: made by man's hands.

I find I'm happy here, not because I've seen the faces of friends and family or felt their embrace or seen them smile (though, undoubtedly, those are all true). Rather, I'm happy because I feel as though I'm in the cradle of God's creation - rugged, untamed, but gently coaxing...wanting but not demanding I see past its harshness in the hopes I'll embrace its inner beauty.

That's rather like me, really. Hoping inwardly that you'll love who I am, despite my quirks, my eccentricities, my penchant for correct grammar and acts of service or inexplicable love of elephants and order...that the world will look beyond my obstacles and see me for the grandeur of possibility I can be. That they can help make me.

If I, too, were The Last Frontier.

Where Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops

One of my favorite movies to watch this time of year is Love Actually.
A compilation of vignettes depicting various relationships in their
various stages - of both growing and decay - composes the set of scenes
all depicting one simple (and painfully complex) emotion - love.

Liam Neeson plays a stepfather, recently widowed, whom we meet as he prepares to give his wife's eulogy. Take a look.

Now, my favorite part is that his wife, in preparation for her untimely
exit, chooses music to convey her parting sentiment. Recently, an
episode of Glee showcased my pick for such an occasion, though
the show is hardly the first to do so. In fact, I originally came across my
favorite version of it while watching the ER episode entitled "On the Beach" where beloved character Dr. Mark Greene dies. The scene provides a snippet of the rendition by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole which is, by far, the best one out there.

If I could imagine a song depicting a vision of heaven, this is it: so kudos to E.Y Harburg and Harold Arlen - lyrics and music applause all around.

"Somewhere Over the Rainbow"

Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high,
And the dreams that you dreamed of, Once in a lullaby.
Oh, somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly,
And the dreams that you dreamed of, Dreams really do come true.

Someday, I'll wish upon a star,
Wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where trouble melts like lemon drops,
High above the chimney top,
That's where you'll find me.

Oh, somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly,
And the dreams that you dare to. Oh why, oh why can't I..?


Someday, I'll wish upon a star,
Wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where trouble melts like lemon drops,
High above the chimney top,
That's where you'll find me.

Oh, somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high.
And the dreams that you dare to, Oh why, oh why can't I..?

To List a Miniscule Few

The other day, my Facebook status read: "Candice Covak ecstatically reports that Judsen is routinely pooing in the potty. You may say I'm a dreamer...but I'm not the only one."

A true statement if ever I wrote one.

But one reply stood out to me, and it was from my friend, Jana. She commented, "Oh, you delightful, artful wordsmith, you. Love the things you say." Jana, my cup runneth over. This is, by far, the best compliment I've received in some time, and I treasure it fully.

So, when I came across this post from a fellow wordsmith (and blogger), I had to repost. He titled it Ingenuine Isn’t a Word? Check it out: I relate both to his point and the raucous way he writes it.

There's simply no humbler moment than one that marries man's love of language with his total mishandling of it into rubbish! In consideration of ALL of our foibles, I'll add these to the list entitled, "Yes, you said that. But it's STILL not a Word": intentionality; irregardless (still gettin' hits, that one); snuck (that's slang: the past tense of sneak is sneaked); brang, "for all intensive purposes"; offen; and preventative.

To list a miniscule few.
Chuckle.

"Little" Value, Big Love

Value isn't in the big.
It's not.
Value is in the little.
Of this, I am convinced.

Lending money, buying a present, hosting an elaborate party, composing an eloquent toast to give at said elaborate party: these are all grand gestures, to be sure. And perhaps its the voice of youth's frivolity which whispers lies of equality between big and deep in matters of love. Whatever its root, the tree of value, we're culturally convinced, is centered on big. So we find ourselves pleading insanity due to no time, no money, no energy, no interest and, well let's face it....no value.

In the little, we are free to look someone in the eye when we ask "How are you?" and then wait for their reply. In the little, we are open to dinners with near strangers if for no other reason than to hear a refreshing story not our own. In the little, we can demonstrate "I have your back" rather than relegating it to a nifty phrase with no backbone. And, in the little, we see smiles. Hear tears. Feel embraces. And show value.

I'm spending time today considering value in light of little.
And hoping that it leads me to loving big.

You Complete Me

I have Oprah issues. I'm caught in a tug-of-war between the allure of the captivating guests she hosts and the overall annoying interview habits she employs. I don't agree with her politics or even her morals (at least, not entirely). Yet, I applaud her generosity and humanitarian efforts to improve the world at large.

At times, she's insightful and funny; others, she's agenda-based, pushy, and even hijacking in her tactics ("I don't mean to interrupt you" followed by interrupting: the latter action cancels the former sentiment, no? And "Let me tell you what you really think" makes me want to zoom into the stratosphere while waving a banner of "No, Oprah. I can think for myself!")

Craig calls her the anti-Christ. I call her wildly popular with as much pop-cultural influence as President Obama has political. So, as with most such tug-of-wars, I vacillate between taking a stand and seeing the fruit in it (kind of like shouting at the tv during a sports event...I do it though I know with certainty the fellow can't actually hear me).

Now, during her final season, I'm intrigued enough once again to dip my toes in the water of my self-made controversy....what can I say? She equally fascinates and irks me. Regardless, I'm catching a show now and again thanks to the ever-gifting invention called DVR.

Last last week, Jenny McCarthy sat for a segment and addressed, in detail, her breakup with Jim Carey. It was interesting, I thought, how adamantly she claims her romance didn't define her: yet, here she was talking about it for 25 minutes of air time. Anyway, she spoke about the line from Jerry McGuire. Near the movie's end, Jerry announces to his wife, "You complete me." Yes, a famous line all around and, yes, we can all hear the hapless sighs of "Ohhhhh....how sweet!" from miles around. McCarthy made reference to the line, labeling it "a farce", to which Oprah decried, "And it has messed some women up!"

Okay, well, probably true since everything under the sun messes someone up somewhere, I suppose. They went on to speak of how no man "completes" you since "you complete yourself." Now, I don't actually agree fully with either one of those statements, but the next step in the conversation really got me going.

Oprah asked McCarthy: "Did you some part of you know this man wasn't your life partner?" to which McCarthy replied, "You know, my inner self did. That's probably why I kept my own house and controlled my own money." And the audience applauded.

It's saddens me that we see marriage as adversarial: a me-protected-against-you-protecting-yourself-against-me mentality never leads to a statement like "You complete me" because we're always encased safely within our walls of defense. I'm not a romantic, but I believe in giving my all: what's so wrong with cautiously plowing the row of love and commitment until you reap the harvest of permanent and lifelong partnership? What's wrong with casting off the reins of what defined solely "you" as he does the same for him until you've fashioned a merged life of "us"?

It seems these two notions - "You complete me" and the walls of defense - are two extremes of relationship outlook. What we really want is the healthy middle, right, since this is where real "us" lives? So why was that audience so ready to applaud separatist actions...especially in light of their context which, let's not forget, is a failed relationship (and, let me add by the way, that I think, had it been Carey keeping his house and money separate, that same audience would have accused him of having fear of commitment or readying to cheat. I'm just sayin'.)

Yes, it's good to maintain self: pursue our interests and our identity to thrive as a human being. But is it not equally critical to maintain "us", to pursue that which unites us wholeheartedly, no holds barred, all-in no matter what?

I don't know...am I totally off my rocker here?

I only know that completion is good. I believe it happens in multitudes of relationship venues and that marriage -if you have one- can be the most fulfilling. I don't want to live separate in any key relationship, celebrating how I've kept myself separate in the interest of my own protection. I want to put it all out there, living in abandonment, exercising crazy love.

I know I sometimes fall short.
I often fail.
But trying to my utmost every day is reaping profound rewards...
not the least of which is having the privilege of telling someone
"You complete me."