Good days

Yesterday was simply a good day. Nothing remarkable happened. I had turned 25 two days before. I woke up to sunshine. I wore a vintage Pendleton wool shirt. I ate a bagel for lunch, and after lunch I took a nap. I listened to a recording of Maurice Sendak's 1993 interview on NPR's Fresh Air. I read some wonderful children's books.

In the evening, I made soup with potatoes and kale from the garden. I drank a blueberry beer, which made me slightly tipsy, and I painted my fingernails coral pink. I stayed up late, but not too late. I slept well.

Nothing remarkable happened, but I was happy, and in my happiness I remembered this poem:

The Life of a Day
(Tom Hennen)

Like most people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don't want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn't one I've been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when, we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night's meandering skunk.

The UPS Man

This morning the UPS man pulled into the drive and around, hitting the horn to get the dog out from under his wheels, his classic rock turned up high, and when he walked up to the house and smiled at me and said good morning, I thought that today, today with the sun burning away the dew and the wind blowing through the open door and the music loud, today I would be happy to be a UPS man too.

Goodbye, Summer

(first light at the fair, via minnesota public radio)

During the last weekend in August, I did my last summer "thing" - I went to the "Great Minnesota Get Together" with Aaron and one of my best friends, Erin, who was visiting from Ohio and had never been to a state fair. We wandered through the animal barns - rows of rabbits, chickens, and geese, freshly groomed heifers and steers, sheared sheep, sleeping hogs. We sat on the curb, ate cheese curds, custard, peaches, and donuts, and watched the crowds. We admired artwork and antique printing machines. We watched draft horse hitches in the hot, still coliseum while eating cotton candy that melted on our fingers. It was hot, sunny, and perfect. After 13 hours, I fell asleep on the way home.

I felt like I was grabbing hold onto the last days of summer with a feeling almost like panic. I was not ready for shoes or wool sweaters, for the dressing of layers. I was not ready for the winter I know is coming. I was not ready for shorter days. I was not ready to feel cold.

But tonight, while Aaron and I took an after-dinner walk along the bike trail, I felt suddenly open to the change. The leaves are beginning to turn. The landscape is changing from hot greens to warm yellows, reds, oranges, and browns. Flowers still bloom. The corn is drying in the fields. The air is lighter.

There are parts of me that are still mourning the long days of summer. But I am also looking forward to riding my bike through cooler temperatures. I'm looking forward to soft flannel, long-simmered stews, homemade bread that warms the kitchen while it bakes. I'm looking forward to gathering around the table with family and friends, hearing their stories, giving what I can.

Dear Aaron,

When I look back on our wedding day, I remember this: you squeezing my fingers as we stood facing each other, your thumb stroking the edge of my hand.

Your Grandma Jane told us last week that it's said that the first year of marriage is the hardest. That can't be true. Certainly we had a bit of a rough start as we learned how to deal with, and share, our first grown-up responsibilities. Those first few months were hard, we agree, but what I find amazing is how we helped each other grow, and how, as we strove to better our relationship, we bettered ourselves and each other.

Now things are simply, and in every sense of the word, good. When, one year ago, I cried as I read my vows, I could not have imagined how much my love for you would grow. It's grown with every meal we've cooked together, every walk we've taken, every story we've shared. It's grown every time we've argued and reached the other side, it's grown with every bit of laughter.

I can't explain how much comfort and love I feel in our marriage. I know that, no matter what, you have my back. I hope you know that I have yours, too.

When I look ahead, I see so many adventures waiting for us. I can't wait to share them with you.

Love,
Katie

Gull Lake

What I want to remember:

The wind that filled my mouth during boat rides.

Sitting with Aaron and his brothers at the end of the dock - talking, sharing a cigar, and watching the moon pass over the lake.

The burnt-orange moon, and how quickly it came up over the horizon.

A little girl with blond pigtails straddling a skateboard and propelling herself along with her feet.

The loon that surfaced near the shore, and flapped its wings to smooth them. Their calls, which I think are one of the most beautiful sounds on earth.

Laughing as we used bed sheets to toss a water balloon back and forth over the tennis nets.

Aaron and I sitting at the end of the dock, dipping our feet in the water while I read aloud from The Commitment.

Turning off the lights in the cabin and sipping a whiskey ginger while we watched a thunderstorm.

Lack of Imagination

My husband believes in magic. It's something I love about him. Last night as we were driving home, we saw a black cat walk into a corn field. "Hello," said the cat. "I'm off to kill some wildlife, and maybe drive another species of bird toward extinction."

"Now, how do you know he's going to do that?" asked Aaron. "Maybe he's gathering a few ears to make popcorn."

"Oh, Aaron, I'm fairly certain that cat isn't going to make popcorn," I said in my "now you're just being silly" voice.

He smiled and said, "Katie, your lack of imagination is disappointing."

There's a low, wet place along the river where a thick grass grows sparsely, and at almost perfect intervals. He wants so badly for it to be a garden created by someone who, in protest of our industrial food system, took a hoe to a bit of state land.

I, on the other hand, am too grown-up for such things. I say to myself, "I don't believe in fairies," and I kill one every time.

I wonder why some of us, in our hurry to grow up, are so quick to throw out that sense of magic we felt as children. Aaron is giving it back to me, a little bit at a time. Now I imagine a bit of dialog for the Red-winged Blackbird chasing a Great Blue Heron across the falls. Sometimes, on my way to work in the morning, I imagine fairies on the cliffs along the river, hiding in the heavy moss and ferns.

This world needs more dream weavers.

Joy Ride

One of the things I love most about riding my bike is that I feel intimately connected to the weather and the sometimes subtle changing of the seasons. If it rains, I get wet. I feel the cold spots on the trail where there's little sun during the day. Usually I must press against the wind, but today it's blowing from the southeast, so it felt pleasantly warm and didn't hamper my commute.

It's amazing how quickly the woods fill with green. Only weeks ago they seemed quite brown and barren. Then small white flowers cropped up among the dead leaves - thousands of them spreading across the ground. Then the flowering trees and shrubs - delicate pink and white blossoms. And now the lilacs are blooming, as well as purple flowers on tall stems and a multitude of dandelions. The spaces between trees are filling with green, and the rapid change makes my ride seem so much shorter, because I am constantly looking around me.

Today I saw, across a narrow corn field, a wild turkey tom displaying to a rather uninterested looking hen. It seemed like such a perfect Midwestern scene, and I would have missed it if I had taken the car. In fact, if driving I would probably only notice that the grass and cedars were greening, and that the trees were just starting to leaf out. I would miss the progression of wildflowers, the turkeys, the geese on river islands, the ducks that fly across my path in the city park.

image via paradise garage

I'm also taking a new bike to work. Last weekend Aaron bought his first-ever grown-up bike, a cream Linus mixte, and he is generously allowing me to ride it in to work in the mornings, so that he may drop off the car for me after work and ride it home. It is so encouraging to see companies designing good-looking, affordable bicycles already decked out with fenders, a rear rack, and a bell. No gradient color, no loud graphics. Just simple, clean design. It's a bicycle that makes you smile when you ride it. And the gearing is so nice and low that even on three speeds, I can bike up all the hills on my route without too much trouble. Now we just need to save up for a leather saddle.

Speaking of feel-good bicycles, Schwinn is running a TV ad:



Bicycles really do make the world a better place.

(via Urban Velo)

Today, a kind of sadness

I took this picture of my little turkey on Monday afternoon. This morning I buried him beneath a flowering wild plum.

When I heard last week that three poults were available for me to pick up, I was thrilled. I had read that as babies, turkeys are harder to keep going. With three poults, they would have company even if I lost one. I wonder if maybe through this first act - preparing myself for a fatality - I had already failed him.

On Tuesday all of them seemed bright and active, but I noticed that my lavender cross was making a clicking noise when he breathed. I've never raised turkeys before, so I believed that because he seemed healthy in all other respects, the clicking was nothing to worry about.

Yesterday morning, the lavender was lying at the edge of the brooder. He was extremely lethargic and couldn't stand on his own. He was panting and still clicking with every breath, and after a few protesting peeps when I picked him up, his head lolled back and he closed his eyes. I couldn't get him to eat. I dipped his beak in water but he wouldn't drink. I started to cry because I knew he was dying, and I was already running late for work. I didn't want to leave him alone.

He was still alive when I came home that evening, and while he was still clicking when he breathed, he was no longer panting. Mom dug up an eyedropper for me and I mixed a little honey with some water and starting feeding him a few drops every hour. He felt cold so I tucked him under my shirt, holding him against the skin on my chest.

He was just getting his wing feathers in - beautiful lavender feathers. I wanted to see what he'd grow up to be - to know if he was even a he. I told him to live because there was a big, green world outside that had all sorts of treasures waiting for him - new grass, insects, sunshine. I tried to send him positive energy, and I cried.

I wanted him to live, but selfishly, I also wanted him to die. I wanted him to do something, because I was drained and exhausted with waiting. Every so often the clicking noise would stop, and I would hold my breath, listening, but he was still breathing quietly. I tried to feed him a little egg yolk, but he wouldn't take it. He kept his long pink toes curled together.

Poor Aaron didn't know what to do. He came in a couple of times and kissed me, but he mostly tried to stay out of the way. He doesn't know it, but he did everything right. Without me asking, he brought my tomato plants in for the night and made up our bed.

I settled the poult into a box lined with a wool sweater, with a small dish of water and a little food. I climbed into bed and Aaron put his arms around me and said, "I'm here." I think at that moment, it was the most comforting thing he could have said.

I wanted to believe in a miracle: that when I woke up, he'd be wobbling around his little box, drinking and picking at his food. But when I looked into the brooder, he was dead. The edge of the wool sweater was pulled over his body like a blanket, and he was still warm and soft underneath the brooder light. I couldn't move him - it was Mom who finally lifted the box out of the brooder, out of the heat.

I went back to bed for a little bit. I thought, what if I hadn't put them on shavings right away - would he still be alive? Did he eat them? What if I had changed the water more frequently? Did it make him sick? And, what would he have grown up to be, with those beautiful lavender feathers?

I wrapped him in a paper towel and picked a small cluster of flowers from my mom's bleeding heart bush. I walked out to the hill where my horse is buried, my dog, my day-old chick. The apple tree and plum bushes were blooming. I dug him a little grave and lay him in it with his head facing east. I put the flowers on top of him, and I sat on my heels and cried. I told him how sad I was that he was only a baby, and how sorry I was that part of me had wanted him to die even as I was willing him to live. That wasn't really what I was asking for. I just wanted an end to the sadness.

When my Sussex chick died, I couldn't see the place in the brooder where he was missing. There were so many other warm little bodies, so many clamoring for my attention. But when I look in there now, when I look at my other turkeys, I see where he should be. And the fact that he isn't there breaks my heart.

Lunatic Farming

On Sunday, Aaron and I drove up to the University of Minnesota to attend a lecture given by Joel Salatin. Joel is a bit of a pioneer in sustainable agriculture and pasture farming, and he is featured in Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma and the documentary Food, Inc. The lecture was titled, "The Sheer Ecstasy of Being a Lunatic Farmer."

When I was a senior in college in Virginia, several of my classmates and I took a day trip to Polyface Farm as part of a class on food systems. It was one of the most inspiring trips I have ever taken, because it illustrated so clearly that what Joel preaches is possible. And that is, this:

That farming can be environmentally conscious, and not only that, but also environmentally beneficial, because carefully managed grazing can enrich soils and encourage the return of native plant species.

That there is a moral thread that runs from the field to the fork. While many in our agricultural system view life in a manipulative or cruel way, there are farmers out there who are allowing their "pigs to express pigness." By allowing a plant or animal to express itself, we can move toward respect in our food system.

That we can attract more people to agriculture by "romancing" them onto the farm - that is, by creating farms that are aromatically and aesthetically pleasing. And that instead of encouraging our brightest students to leave rural areas, we need to create a farming system that attracts them. Farmers are, after all, the stewards of our land, air, and water.

And finally, that it should be our mission to bring beauty and healing to everything within our sphere of influence.

There are a lot of people today who don't want to think about where their food came from. They don't want to visit the CAFO where their meat was raised, and even if they did, in many places they wouldn't be allowed in. But I think many people enjoy watching the ballet that occurs on diversified farms where animals are raised on grass.

When I was walking through Polyface, it was incredibly clear to me that this was how I, or anyone else, could leave a positive mark on the world. I thought of the pigs that could clear the underbrush from our native oak savannas, the cows that could, through rotational grazing, calm thistles and encourage the growth of prairie grasses. Thriving rural communities, and, at its simplest level, good food.

When I imagine a future where such practices would be considered normal, and not lunacy, I could cry.

Growing Food

I start tomato plants in my bedroom. They're growing wild, and every morning I have to do a little rearranging to keep the tops from brushing against the lights. When I touch them they release their green, spicy scent - one of my favorite smells.

Outside, the radishes, peas and spinach are poking their little green heads above the soil, and I dream of green salads.

I love food, and I love it even more when I know where it came from and who cared for it. When I eat a salad in a restaurant, I don't think about it in any agricultural sense. I may think about its taste and texture, but nothing about where it grew, and whose hands were involved in its planting and harvesting.

But when I make a salad from plants I've grown myself, or bought from neighbors, it has a story. I order the seed, plant it, water it, fuss over it as I wait for it to grow. And finally, I cut it, wash it, top it with sliced multi-colored radishes. Maybe I'll make a little dressing with blue cheese aged in caves an hour away. In this way, food connects me to my community. I am not only a consumer, but a participant in a cycle that begins every year with birth. And by this choice, I hope to have a greater understanding, as Wendell Berry writes, "that eating takes place inescapably in the world, that it is inescapably an agricultural act, and that how we eat determines, to some considerable extent, the way the world is used."

This is why, when I spend money on food, I try to support my neighbors and agricultural systems that honor land, family, and animals. My family buys grass-fed beef and pastured pork and poultry because we want to know that the animals that died to feed us had good lives, and that they were able to live in a way that honored their cow, pig, or chicken natures.

This year, I'm raising some of my own meat birds. My chicks are my babies, my little darlings. I love them and I'll give them the best life that I can, but one day they'll grow up, and I'll pack most of my boys into the car and take them to Callister Farm for processing. I'll be sad and I'll miss them but I'll also be incredibly thankful. When I roast one of my own birds, knowing the part I played in its life and death, I will remember two things that Berry wrote:

First, "Only by growing some food for yourself can you become acquainted with the beautiful energy cycle that revolves from soil to seed to flower to fruit to offal to decay, and around again. You will be fully responsible for any food that you grow for yourself, and you will know all about it. You will appreciate it fully, having known it all its life."

And second, "Eating with the fullest pleasure - pleasure, that is, that does not depend on ignorance, is perhaps the profoundest enactment of our connection with the world. In this pleasure we experience and celebrate our dependence and our gratitude, for we are living from mystery, from creatures we did not make and powers we cannot comprehend."

In The Woods

Neal in the woods, taken by my sister Annie

"What I am telling you, before you begin my story, is this – two things: I crave truth. And I lie."

For tonight's book club meeting, I read In the Woods by Tana French. I don't usually read mysteries, but I loved this book from the beginning, and since I waited until Tuesday to pick it up from the library after work, it was a good thing that I couldn't put it down. The prologue pulled me right in, and I had to find out what had happened, I had to. I read and read, and the block of pages between me and the end became thinner and thinner, and finally I began to realize, with a touch of desperation, that I was never going to know.

And then it broke my heart.

I finished the book around 12 last night, closed it, told Aaron I hated it, threw it across the bed, and started to cry.

It's true that I have a bit of a dramatic personality, one that enjoys romance, but I also believe that I have some form of separation anxiety which makes it very hard for me to cope with the idea that two people, real or fictional, who have been very close, may never be near each other or even see each other again. I don't know if this is simply a factor of my own personality or if it comes from the frustrations I experienced during my own long-distance relationship. In any case, I felt devastated.

I woke up this morning still feeling sad, but no longer hating In the Woods. I couldn't let go of it - I turned it over in my head, playing with and testing it like a small pebble held in my mouth. I read a few reviews online this afternoon, and many felt bitterly disappointed about the ending. I did too, when I finished it.

But I almost love it again because goodness, that's life. Sometimes important things are forgotten, sometimes the bad guy gets away. And sometimes we utterly screw up, and by the time we stop ourselves, by the time we've realized what we've done, it's too late. Sometimes a handful of small choices accumulate into only one chance, and sometimes we blow it.

And for me, that was the saddest thing of all.

Thrift

This morning was warm enough for bare feet on the deck. Our snow is almost gone and the temperatures are in the 60s, so unusual this time of year. But the temperature is supposed to drop again this weekend, and I'm sure we'll see more snow. At least I'll know, when the flakes are falling, that it won't last long.

I'm in love with my new strawberry pajamas. My mom found them for me on Monday, when we spent the day together in our favorite thrift stores.

I would like to be a thrifty person, but in many ways I'm not. I love pretty things and usually collect more than I need. But I'm trying to improve myself - though I must admit that much of that improvement has come from necessity as Aaron and I work to pay off my student loans and save for a home and a family.

I'm much more conservative with money now, and mindful of what I spend it on. But when I walk into a thrift store, I feel no restrictions - only a great sense of choice. I can easily afford the quality items I'm drawn to, which would far exceed my budget if new. And I find pretty things that show signs of use and love, and that seem to tell a story of their own.

Certainly, I have to sort through a lot of cheap plastic knick-knacks and stained clothing, but I treat every visit like a treasure hunt, and spend hours happily searching for the gems.

Like strawberry pajamas. Lambswool sweaters. Vintage dresses made out of silk. And for Aaron's soon-to-be one-year-old cousins, a UK edition of Winnie-the-Pooh.

On wanting to be a mother

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mommy. I played with baby dolls, wrapping them in little blankets, rocking them, carrying them on my hip. I liked to hold babies and cuddle them to sleep.

Something changed when I hit puberty. Perhaps, at a time when my body felt so awkward and foreign, I could not imagine it nurturing another person. Or perhaps I felt disenchanted with motherhood, having reached an age where my mother, whom I love, no longer felt like the center of my universe. Perhaps for the first time I became truly aware of the responsibility children require, and that realization during my adolescence terrified me. Perhaps, as a budding teenager, I simply grew self-centered. For whatever reason, I decided that I was not going to have children, not ever.

I don't remember exactly when my pendulum began to swing back again, but I know that shortly after meeting Aaron, I decided that I did want children. Not only that, but I wanted to carry his children.

Some days it is all I can think about - the chance to take our love and sex through to its fullest act - conception. To feel our baby growing inside of me, to nourish a part of him with my body, to give birth and see our baby for the first time. To be someone's mother.

During college, I often wondered where I would be so many years after graduation, and one of my best friends said that she saw me barefoot and pregnant. This struck a nerve with some of the other girls who immediately chastised her, but she didn't mean it in a bad way - she simply understood me. I have never been very career-focused - I couldn't tell you, even now, what I want to do in terms of a career. But I can tell you what I want to be. I want to be a mother.

You can imagine how the words she chose were frowned upon in the largely liberal, feminist circle I was a part of. To be barefoot and pregnant was to have little education and no opportunity. Babies were something you did after your education, after you had traveled, after you felt satisfied in your career. Motherhood was not, generally, something you aspired toward - it was seen more as something that put your other aspirations on hold.

If women are supposed to live a complete life before having children, believing that once they become mothers they are throwing in the towel, what does that do to us, as well as our children? How many women who have waited are now finding it increasingly difficult to start a family?

Second-wave feminism did many wonderful things, but I believe that as a side effect of their celebration of the new career woman, women like my mother, who chose to be stay-at-home moms, were shut out. It was, and is still, implied that they don't work simply because they don't have a career outside of the home. Nothing could be further from the truth. I can't imagine a job more challenging than raising a child.

I have greater faith in the direction feminism is taking today - to support a woman's choice, whether or not she chooses a career outside of her home, and to also support men who wish to be stay-at-home dads. A direction that I hope will allow it to see me, a young, educated woman who wants to be a stay-at-home mom someday, as a feminist still, and to see my choice not as regressive, but as something to celebrate because it is mine.

Bike to School

In December, Angie of 4onaQuarter posted the following video, which follows a group of students from an Orlando high school where her husband teaches as they ride their bikes to school. This "bike bus" is one of the most inspiring things I have watched recently.

For many teenagers, the car is the epitome of a new independence and autonomy. It is also a symbol of sex and power. Our car culture is deep and widespread - it's in films, magazines, advertisements, the local drive-thru.

Yes, a car will get a teenager where he or she wants to go, but in a small town like mine, couldn't a bike do just as well for students living within city limits? I think of the jobs students take on to fill up their gas tank - that money could be spent on other things, or more wisely, saved. I think of the congested streets leading to the schools in the morning, and the newly expanded parking lot. And I think of all the youth that have died on our roads.

Certainly, cars have their place, and they are a necessity for families living in rural areas. But what about kids living a mile or two from school?

I obtained my driver's license a few years later than most of my classmates, and I remember getting many rides to school from my parents. I wish now that I'd ridden my bike to school - maybe I could have even inspired a few friends to join me.

It's a little dream of mine that instead of a large parking lot at the school, there was a line of bike racks. Not hidden by a side door, but at the front entrance. Bike racks full of cruisers and 10-speeds, bmx, hybrid, and mountain bikes, in all colors, with racks and baskets ready to carry home backpacks and other odd and ends. And maybe, instead of tearing out of the parking lot every afternoon, students would chat with each other while they unlocked their bikes. Hang out for a few minutes. Ride home with a friend.

If these high school students in Orlando can begin to take back their streets, I think it's possible almost everywhere.

High School Bike Bus from Keri Caffrey on Vimeo.

Read more about it here.

Little Wonders

At 7:00 this morning, there was a little bit of light.
Right now, at 5:00, there is quite a bit of light.
When I walked out of the door this morning it was already 20 degrees. It felt like heaven.
The sun shone all day.

Another Month

As our wedding day rapidly approaches, I find myself thinking more and more about what our relationship will be like after marriage. Will it change? Couples who have already gotten married are fairly quick to answer yes or no, but I think ours will, if only because I feel a little change in me already. I feel a little calmer and more secure. I read recently from one newlywed that marriage made her feel more independent, which sounds a little strange at first, but it's a feeling I understand.

I feel like so much of my relationship with Aaron has had a measure of anxiety sewn in that came from living far apart from each other. During visits I couldn't help thinking how little time we had together, how we should spend that time, how it was already slipping away, and how long it would be until we saw each other again. I felt pressure to spend every possible moment interacting directly with him - time taken to do other things was time taken away from us.

Now we are both grounded in the same place, and while it has taken longer than I thought it would, I've finally begun to kiss that anxiety goodbye. And I just feel so much better. I feel more secure and more independent - I can do my own things whether or not he's in the house, and so can he. I mowed the lawn, he helped sweep out the barn. He spent the hot afternoon hours studying fonts, I spent them studying Jersey cows. We enjoyed time spent with a friend and we made pizzas together. It was wonderful.

This change has affected other things too. Aaron is so gentle, easy going and patient, where I can be very impatient and therefore a little demanding at times. I used to feel incredibly frustrated because he would take so long to answer a question, and I like quick answers. When I didn't get one, I felt like he wasn't listening or didn't care. But he does listen and he does care, he just likes to mull things over. I'm only beginning to realize the significance of our different communication styles, and I've made special efforts to just take a breath and relax after I pose a question. He always answers. Its just a simple change in my behavior that makes me feel so much better.

I anticipate more changes like this are on the way, and I'm so excited to experience them. This wedding planning business has been fun, but really, I just can't wait to be married.

What's Important

It seems funny to me, but lately I've become more and more easy-going about wedding stuff.

I always knew that I wanted a wedding more personal, simple, and laid-back than many today, but I also found myself getting caught up in the details during the first couple months of our engagement. Now I'm increasingly inspired by the simple, meaningful ceremonies of past generations, as well as brides today who are getting married in their homes, backyards, and public parks.

When I'm not being inspired by practical brides today, I'm being inspired by my own lack of finances. I still haven't found full time employment and Aaron's finishing up school, so money is really tight. I don't consider this to have a negative impact on our wedding planning; instead, I see it as an opportunity to pick out and highlight what is really important to us. And long as I marry my best friend by the end of the night, our wedding will be a complete success.

Meg over at A Practical Wedding made an excellent point today: maybe we need to lower our expectations when it comes to wedding stuff. She wrote, "What is important is that your wedding day is really happy, and is the start of a fantastic lifelong partnership. The trick is figuring out what will make us happy, and what is just extra fluff."

Her post reminded me of a passage from Little Women:

There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.
'Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moiré with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last minute, child.'
'I'm not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer.' And away went Meg to help `that man' in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didn't even say, 'Thank you,' but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

Lykkelig & Glede

A couple of years ago, an incredibly tender independent film titled Sweet Land came out of Minnesota. In the film, a German mail-order bride named Inge travels from Norway to Minnesota just after the first World War to marry Olaf, a quiet Norwegian farmer. Their marriage is forbidden by the local minister on the grounds that America was at war with Germany.

The next day, Olaf takes a photograph of Inge in front of his farmhouse, her hand raised to brush a lock of hair away from her face. Olaf's neighbor, Frandsen, encourages her to smile, asking Olaf what the word for happy is. "Lykkelig," responds Olaf.

"Lykkelig is happy? I thought glede was happy," says Frandsen.

"That's more like delighted," says Olaf.

"What's the difference?"

"There's no difference."

"So why have two words then?"

Forty years later, at Olaf's funeral, Frandsen holds Inge's portrait in his hands. "Why are lykkelig and glede different?" he asks again. "Different kinds of happy," says Inge. "Different kinds of happy."

Encompassed in just two words are fortune and happiness, delight and joy, the ability to please and gladden. In the last month, I've felt a constant shift between elation and quiet joy. It makes my feet itch to move and it puts me to bed at night.


Here's to a lifetime of happiness.