Between mediating fights and picking up sweaters and doing dishes Rainbow had more than her desire of alone time. Supine, tears welled in her the corner of her eyes as she stared at the ceiling, which was about as responsive to her needs as I was. One tear ducts seems over-productive because of her cold. Picking her up I nestled her into my face, feeling the transfer of life and simple amazing power of another's elevating touch. A confirmation that together we'll be ok. I wouldn't be surprised if something physically changed within us when we feel the touch of another. At least there is a spiritual transformation just as when the spirit leaves the body the mass weight is changed. How woven are our spirits and our bodies. And in a baby, they are so connected still. They don't know how to compartmentalize these strong parts and they shouldn't be. To develop ourselves the way we are intended we need all our parts and passions in a balanced unison. We see a baby and are drawn in because they are so amazing. Feeling her soft warm chubby cheeks I can't think of anything more wonderful or soft. The warmth of the sun on my face and the smooth feel of nearly perfect grains of sand beneath my feet is as close to the feeling of heavenly ascension. A feeling that we feel so rarely, like a precious gem. The wonder a newborn baby attracts to draw in strangers doors are opened and brick overcoat's of resistance are put aside. The baby mediates and reminds us of the intricate and gentle details of our Creator. We feel drawn to the baby and feel affirmation that as children of God, we ought to accept that draw we have toward one another. Personally wonderous to feel the trust and gift I have been given as a co-creator. I take a few moments to sit with Rainbow as I wait for the other kids to complete their orders of cleaning their bedrooms. In awe, I watch Rainbow. In my lap she sits reaching for my magazine. I turn her around so I can see the details of her face and to watch her think. She reaches her hands, like little stars and fingers my pinky. She keeps grasping at my finger, touching it again and again. Each time she touches with a different pressure, a different stroke, like a delicate paintbrush painting the smallest of details, the mast of a boat, the light in a child's eye. Her touch is special for what it is not: strong, deliberate or well-thought out. Her curiosity is fresh and completely optimistic. The painter may choose not to paint the light in the child's eye-instead, he manipulates the white paper by painting around it, leaving only that sparkle alone. But his choice was considered, her Godly inspiration comes like water cascading from a spring into every choice she makes. The wisdom of allowing nature to reveal its beauty with subtlety. She never seems to tire of something so simple. Her eyebrows furrow and change. Maybe she is trying to spell a message with her eyebrows. I love how she causes me to wonder what she wonders about.
Adrianna and Carolina frolicked in a circle with enough happiness that pansies and posies might have blossomed underfoot. They sang together, "The sisters! We're sisters! The sisters!" Only trouble was Moses, the brother-felt ostracized. Eli called over to the girls referencing Moses crying in his room, "Girls, I am glad you are happy to be sisters but do you see Moses feels sad and left out because he's not a sister? Could you be nice to him and sing 'brothers and sisters'?" Thankfully they were in a receptive mode and quickly shifted gears and invited Moses to join the fun. The happiness Moses felt from being brought back into the flock reminded me of the unconditional, unwavering love I feel from my Savior when I repent. Instantly the love and trust cascades affirming my self worth and delivering joy and hope for the present and the future. What happened moments ago no longer matters at all. There is a residue of remembrance only because we compare the great feeling we have now to the dark and dismal state we were in. Moses wiped the tears with the back of his sleeve. His blotchy face had an illustrious, token lip-corner turn up Moses style as he completed the fulcrum of the pinwheel. With their arms joined and laughter in the air the siblings sang on.
A hopeful, vibrant and full of life little piglet named Wilbur has an uncanny resemblance to myself. And Eli, my dear love, an awful lot like a wise spider. Charlotte shares her ways of spinning a web and her tools of spidery with this curious soul. They become fast bound friends as they admire one another's ways. Wilbur asks too many questions but never fears asking too many questions. He sees no harm in wondering and using his resources and friends around him as a source of inspiration- a place where answers can be found. As Charlotte explains how to spin a web Wilbur is thrilled to try his hand at this creative endeavor. After Templeton, the rat ties a piece of sting onto Wilbur's tail he gives it another go, "Wilbur climbed again to the top of the manure pile, full of energy and hope. 'Everybody watch!' he cried. And summoning all his strength, he threw himself into the air, headfirst. The string trailed behind him. But as he had neglected to fasten the other end to anything, it didn't really do any good, and Wilbur landed with a thud, crushed and hurt. Tears came to his eyes. Templeton grinned. Charlotte just sat quietly. After a bit she spoke. " She fairly surmises that Wilbur lacks know how and spinnerets. He can't spin a web, but that it is ok, he has his meals brought to him each day. He has other talents. Wilbur sighed. "You're ever so much cleverer and brighter than I am, Charlotte. I guess i was just trying to show off. Serves me right." I think this exact scenario has played out in my household. I recall the time I had a grandiose idea. My palette was large and i had a vision to paint my razzled beauty, Adrianna in a scene by the ducks. I sketched quickly and bought the paints and chose the colors. I sketched quickly but was most excited so I jumped right in. The result was flat, unbalanced colors, nothing stood out, no distance or depth existed. most disappointing was the lack of execution that I had delivered to the little spirit of my baby girl. My slop of paint had no life. Like Wilbur I cried in my little pile of manure. I put off spinning all together. Eli with out bias tried to direct me to improve it. To start anew, to find new directions and to bring my strengths into it. To give it time and space. Wilbur desperately wants to find out how Charlotte plans to save his life, her naturally patient ways are not begetting the answers he craves. She encourage him to take care of himself. Never hurry and never worry. Another time I sat behind the drum set and experimented with the symbols, the snare and an occasional bass thump. I did it with a misguided thought that Eli might notice a hidden talent I had for rhythm. Well, my Christenson DNA reared its unrhythmic head and well, the truth shall set you free. I looked beyond my misgivings and found I have other tricks up my sleeve more suited to my development. So the story goes and we find Charlotte's slow steady ways create a magnum opus, an egg sac that she has created perfectly and will be her kin. Without Wilbur, those eggs would not have survived. She needed him and he needed her. They learn and complement one another beautifully. They lift one another to a higher beam in the barn. This week I watched Eli and his band play. It has been so long since I have been to a show. I love to go and to be reminded that this is what Eli must do. His music and more precisely Eli, himself elevates me and causes me to think beyond the mundane.