the sacred ordinary

When I was little, I loved playing dolls.

Here’s how it went:

I spread out my Little Kiddles set, which held the collection of dolls and accouterments.

The afternoon was spent arranging miniature closets for miniature dresses. Ribbons becamse room dividers, match boxes became drawers for miniature pairs of shoes. Once everything was set up and perfect it was time for supper and bed. The play was all about organizing things!

And so… on my day off I derive extreme pleasure from setting things in order. I notice this as I cover my winter sweaters with plastic. As I group the furry things together and the shiny things together, and put them in the back of the closet.

This gives me so much pleasure that I look for something else to put in order.

Since the house is already fairly neat (you can imagine this) I decide to take my scraps of pesky passwords out of the pesky password bowl and put them in a file folder under a broader category “important documents.”

I’m not O.C.D. It just feels delicious when things are in order.

It feels so good that I start a new project – putting my paper calendar on a google calendar!

students in blue
church in green
dentist, etc in red
personal in purple

Ahhhh!

Better than going for a massage.

This is my favorite corner of the house:

The Letter Nook

buddha sits with words.  written with ink on paper.  blessing friendships.

Do you have a favorite corner?

I’ve been “finger painting” on my Asus E-Reader.  I sit with the crazy small machine and my technological ignorance.  Tracing  my finger across the screen like a Japanese brush painter, I go to a state of zen meditation without even opening an ink pot.  Or cleaning a brush.  And if you don’t like a picture, all you have to do is “delete”!

Here are the masterpieces:

Girl at the Piano

Picasso’s Potatoes

This  New Year we started paying about $90 per month to sponsor three girls who live in India.  This is a new and delightful complement to our full lives.  I’m so thrilled with the organization, Unbound, that I’m thinking of one day going to India to meet the children.

I’m also on a New Year’s mission to spruce up the house.  Framing our friend’s sketch of tall grasses is top on my list.  It will cost about $300.

But you could sponsor a child for an entire year!

ugh

But I need the sketch of tall grasses framed and hanging in our bathroom, which, otherwise, is a wasteland.

tee hee

I wonder if the girls we sponsor are part of 50% of India that reportedly defecates on train tracks.  I wonder if they could even imagine me paying $300 to frame a picture of tall grasses to hang in my bathroom.

As I hold the girls in my thoughts I feel, more and more, like a very rich person.

I’ve always wanted to adopt. One look at a soulful wide-eyed, cleft-lipped child and I quickly flip the magazine page before bringing her home and buying penguin pajamas.

Adopting a child would require a major life-style shift. I’d need to quit my job, go to ball games, drive to scouts and supervise music practice. We’d eat dinner at 6:00 sharp instead of the extended cocktail hour that starts around 8:00.

Then we’d sit at the table with homework and art projects.

I guess we’d have to get a table.

Not to mention our adult son’s feelings about suddenly getting a little sister.

My husband found the perfect solution – two organizations that connect needy children with sponsors.  Usually hyper-critical of the high overhead, minimal effectiveness and the proselytizing of many charitable organizations, he carefully researched Compassion International and CFCA and came away impressed with their low administrative costs (18% and 8 % respectively), measured effectiveness and cultural appropriateness.

“Would you like to sponsor a child for $30 per month?”

“Yes! Yes!”

I really wanted 6 children, but thought I’d start with two girls who live in India. My husband also chose an Indian girl for himself, so now we’re a blended family. The girls will write twice a year and tell us what they’re learning in school.  We will write twice a year and tell them about our lives. (I might leave out the part about the vacation in Barbados.)

This virtual adoption is a good match for my busy schedule. I’ve barely had time to look at the website to learn about my own new children. Except a moment ago I clicked on the link.

OMG!  They have names. Ramya.   Vaishnavi.

I’m in love.

O God, I want a cookie.

I want an Oreo Cookie.  or several ….

It’s the fault of the Washington Post, which reported that a study by students at Connecticut College found Oreos as addictive to rats as cocaine.  The short article included an image of a stack of Oreos.

I don’t even like Oreo Cookies, but I suddenly and absolutely needed a stack of them, presumably to satisfy the opiates and dopamine running around in my head.

All I have in the cupboard is a jar of olives and some sunflower seeds.  These are not giving me the fix I need.

And so I am reduced to lamentation.  I sit alone at my computer.  I pray.

O God, I want a cookie.