Signs

When Aaron and I were in college we avoided the sweltering heat one evening and ran to the movie theater where we could relish a few hours of air conditioning, and watch a movie that was touted to be the 'Jaws of cornfields'--a little M. Night Shyamalan flick that was slotted as a thriller movie.  But afterwords as I left the cool interiors of the movie theater into the oppressive heat of the summer night, what I realized was that it wasn't an alien thriller movie at all.  It was a metaphor about faith.  Omit alien and insert anything you like.  Cancer or car crash, lost job, or cheating spouse, whatever it is, it comes to us unwelcome, invading, confusing, and painful.  And in the midst of that struggle there are hints at something bigger, something sacred in the suffering, something drawing us into the powerful connective tissue of humanity, with small, darting glimmers of hope that keep our feet moving forward despite the mud and blood and tears.

Her husband suffered a brain injury, and her story speaks to all of us.

When I was a middle school Language Arts teacher I attended a workshop in a high school and that teacher had a poster on his wall with a quote that melted me.

"Be kind, for everyone is fighting a great battle."

~Ian MacLaren

It moved me because I wanted to be that person who had an awareness of the pains around me.   I wanted to see the troubled behavior as reaching out, as communication, as an SOS from someone as their ship is sinking.  Not that I thought could swoop in and save them, not that I had the perfect thing to say to remedy their pains or struggles, but that I could just simply be kind.  Be kind without judgement or condemnation.  Be kind and nothing else.  

Years ago I watched an interview with Oprah, and was moved at her insight about what every human being she has ever interviewed:

“I’ve talked to nearly 30,000 people on this show, and all 30,000 had one thing in common: They all wanted vali­dation. If I could reach through this tele­vision and sit on your sofa or sit on a stool in your kitchen right now, I would tell you that every single person you will ever meet shares that common desire. They want to know: ‘Do you see me? Do you hear me? Does what I say mean anything to you?’

Everyone wants validation, compassion, encouragement.  Everyone needs kindness because aren't we all in a fight, exhausted, wounded, troubled, crippled in some way?

Our family has been graced with powerful reminders to be aware of the people around us, of the flares they send out for help.   We are penitent for the judgements we have cast on others when our lives were clicking along beautifully and we were frustrated with them because we wanted them to just hurry up and be happy, get over it, move on because their struggles were killing our buzz.  At the time it didn't feel like that, but now, on the other side of experience, we see it for what it was.  

I feel especially sorry for responding to my brother this way years ago, my little brother Wade, who had consequences and circumstances that I had never had to deal with personally, and I wanted him to just get it together.  We were doing well at the time.  We were in a house, happily married, a new baby boy, in secure jobs, plugged in at church.  Why couldn't he just follow our model and do the same thing? The funny thing about circumstances is they are always theoretically applied.  We can say we know what we'd do in their shoes, but it's not true.  We can tell them what they should do, or how to handle their situation, or give them a stirring motivational oration that would move angels to weep, but that's not what anyone needs.  What he needed, what we need, what every single person needs, is kindness and validation.

I'm so grateful to the people in our live who have been graceful with us during this season of tribulation, and gentle, and kind, and validating.  There are no words to convey how your love has taught us how we want to be in the world.  

This article is what I needed today.  The story broke my heart, and spoke to my heart, and reminded me to simply have heart.

En Route

Fade In:  Night on the freeway.  Raining, wipers streak against the windshield.  KLOVE plays softly on the radio.  Red break lights illuminate faces in the car, boys getting restless in the back seat, mom anxious to get through the congested Portland traffic to pick husband from work.

Raph:  IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII love you, Mom.

Mom:  (sigh)  I love you too, Raphie.

Raph:  I love you AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH lot, Mom.

Mom:  I love you a lot too, sweetheart.

Raph:  Okay, stop talking now, Mom.  It quiet time.  Quite time NOW.

Back On the Horse & the Holiness of Garbage Trucks

I've been a naughty blogger.  Sporatic at best.

I actually created an epic photo video from the summertime to compensate for the vast drought of posts here for four months, and after hours and hours editing that masterpiece, YouTube nixed it because it detected the contents I used regarding copyrighted music.  Not like I would be trying to make money off it, just a digital scrapbook with sound, that's all.  I had given all the props right there on the video to each artist, and I even tried to make my blog private and YouTube was still all "no way, you filthy, rotten music stealer."  I totally get it, I really do love musicians, and value their art and craft, and really do have respect for their rights and all that.  But COME ON!!! That video was going to be the coolest thing since sporks, man!  So, currently it's vaulted in my computer, and hopefully I can alter it and share it here one day.  With uber cool reggae music nonetheless.

In the meantime, I thought I had better get back on the saddle with this blog and continue to chronicle the events of my family so one day my boys can read it and (hopefully) appreciate their childhood through my eyes, and draw new insights into adulthood and parenthood through my words and experiences.  We're still seeking miracles here, and it's still very messy.  So the show must go on.

Today was an average day where we took Papa to work and then rushed home to eat breakfast then dive into school.  And as we were trying to back into our driveway to get it all started, the garbage truck was blocking our route.  As my right turn blinker ticked away, we watched that giant truck extend an arm with perfect agility and clasp with two robot fingers onto our garbage can.  Somehow, for some reason, it was hypnotic, and we three each absorbed the slow, mechanical movements as it heaved the garbage off the roadside and hold it over the massive hole on it's top, releasing a week's worth of diapers, cat litter, laundry lint, and other unspeakably nasty things dismissed in a family's trash.  And it occurred to me that the man driving the truck was good at his job, and I waved at him, as did the boys, as he drove down the block with a kind smile on his burly face.  

I couldn't help but smile as well, and I suddenly wanted to hug that man.

What if we didn't have garbage trucks?  I know what that looks like first hand.  When we were in Senegal 5 years ago, we were mesmerized by the raw and rustic beautiful of sub-Saharan Africa.  But the population isn't capable of affording food or medicine or clean water to drink and wash babies in, let alone the luxury of a sanitation department to collect and dispose of waste.  And the land was decimated by not only poverty but filth as well.  And even way out in the bush, far from the cities with their weak but running sanitation efforts, the beautiful, iconic African landscape was ruined by trash.  Plastic sacks wrapped around and hung from ancient baobab trees, and soda bottles or cans lay where they were dropped or where the wind had swept them.  Little bits of cellophane fluttered like butterflies from branches of acacia trees, and donkeys lumbered around with plastic wrapped around their legs or suctioned to their mouths as they tried to graze around it.

Somewhere between Baba Garage and Theis, Senegal in 2009:  I took this shot from the van as we left the villages, the long road into the city, the airport, and home.  Sadly the trash litters the bush as far as the eye can see.

And I'm not saying this with any elitist Christian pity, or ugly American arrogance.  It's only an observation, a contrast of cultures and circumstances.  I mention Senegal because today I wanted to hug my garbage truck driver, I wanted to yank him out of that odoriferous beast with its didactylous arm, and squeeze the prunes out of him because he did his job well, and he did it with a smile, and a friendly wave at a mom who was anxious to get the long day going, and two little boys who were enchanted by the truck he operated with such ease, for making it look easy, for lifting three dark fingers in a small salute to us, and smiling inside that scruffy beard as he drove our trash away.

El Grito Festival '13

I love a full house.  Aaron and I are both from large families (I'm the oldest of four, he's the second of six) and so we rather enjoy being smooshed in close quarters with lots of people around, it's a norm for us, a cozy thing packed with nostagia.  I love the sounds of children rushing about and playing, and people lounging in the living room chatting, at the dining table recounting stories, or (as it happens in my house) hanging it the kitchen grazing around light conversation and laughter.  People and food just go together in my mind.   And since I've become a Villanueva, music has become part of that perfect equation, too.  These Villanuevas are really, truly, deeply, musical.  The improv jams they have sitting around a living room is remarkable, not to mention the extradinary variety of instruments they procure to do so.  I'm so blessed to have my boys exposed to such wonderful cultural and musical influences.

So when our brother in law in Spokane, Nic, told us he landed a gig for his Latin band, Milonga, at El Grito in Pioneer Square in our neck of the woods, and invited Aaron to play rhythm guitar with the band, it sent a flurry of excitement around the family.  They were buzzing.  They were bubbling over.  Tom and Rachel had just moved to Olympia from Cincinnati, and were eager to go to the concert, but needed a sitter for their beautiful two year daugther, and wanted to share one with us.  (The gig was from 9:30 to 11:00.)

So we invited them over for dinner and offered them the boys room to sleep in, as well.  I've always dreamed of a stocked guest room, something where guests can just plop down, kick off their shoes or whip off that bra and feel at home.   But these days, we relocate the boys to a makeshift bed on the floor of our closet in our room, and offer their room to our guests.  This summer we housed a dear writer friend of ours as she came from Eugene to the Willamette Writer's Conference, and she loved having a room of her own for three nights while here.  So it works for everyone:  we get to love on our guests, our guests get to feel at home, and the boys still have a place to sleep.  After Tom and Rachel responded with an elated "yes!" it just made sense for me to invite everyone here for dinner.  Now, bear in mind, that's nearly 20 people, including kids.  Everyone replied "great! what can I bring!" My answer, knowing this family as well as I do, is always wine.  Bring wine, folks.

Our dear friend Suzi, a woman of immense faith, stayed with us during the WW Conference in August.  I met her in my screenwriting classes last year, and it was so easy to love her.   She said she wanted to take what her daughter calls a "selfie" on her cell phone, and I'm so glad she did.  She's not only a very encouraging friend of my writing, but she's a amazingly gifted writer as well.  I hope to see her movies on the big screen one day. 

Then Mel, Aaron's other sister who lives with her hubby and baby boy in Spokane announced they would even be making the 6 hour trip down and wondered if they could crash here after the concert.  Without hesitating, we said of course!  Then we dandied up the office studio, and apologized for not having enough pillows and blankets, but the space was theres to have for the night.

The boys at their table in the playroom.  Their cousin's daddy is the band leader, Nic.  

My rule of thumb when hosting a dinner party for 15 people or more is keep it simple as can be, especially when there's kids.  And since we're scraping by right now, I needed to be real about the bottom line too.  So I cheated and just bought two gi-normous Marie Callender lasagnes, six bags of salad, more wine (because it's 20 people) and beer, and loads of tortilla chips with salsa, and not the wimpy kind, y'all, after all these are Villanuevas we're talking about.  Rachel was bringing bread, bless her.  And I did make a huge peach cobbler to smother with vanilla ice cream, so it wasn't all cutting corners out of bags and boxes.  Plus I love the smell of something sweet and cinnomony baking when guests arrive.

And it was a nice dinner, everyone loved the lasagne and the musicians got out their goodies and rehearsed a bit, and as soon as our sitter arrived and we loaded up and caravaned to Portland for the show.

What I love about Mexicans is that they know how to have a good time.   

This mariachi band was on stage when we got there and the crowd was practically slobbering with delight.  They were awesome.  I could see Aaron off stage warming up and by the look on his face these guys would be a tough act to follow.

Warming up, handsome guy!

Pride.  The music was BLARING and everyone was dancing!  It was a real fiesta!

I wish I had a camera that could have captured the raw energy here.  It was thumping and everyone at every age was there to party.

I've been blessed to grow up with my sister in laws over the last 20 years.    

It's midnight here, and are they tired?  No.  Is there music going?  Yes.

Mel is special to me, since she's the one who told her big brother to call me all those years ago.  Now she's a mommy of an adorable little tike, and he was a real trooper up so late.

Handsome music man! 

After the show, after the stage was cleared and the instruments and amps loaded, Mom and Dad went to their hotel room in Vancouver.  Nic, Rita and their little boy went home to stay with Tia Cris.  Everyone else came home with us.  And after a show you can't just go to bed.  Not in this family!  No, you go home and rummage through the left over lasagne, and grub, and reminisce.  So we all came home, slipped into our yoga pants, or sweats, and poured more wine, ate more munchies and gabbed until 3 am.  I loved that time together.  The next morning I was up at 7 making breakfast, because I told everyone it would be served at 9 am sharp, and like dinner, it was wonderful having the house full of family one more time before they all departed for their homes.

It happened by accident.

I was told two years ago when I bought my camera that it had a video feature, but I had never been able to get it to work.  I thought that since I bought it off the floor at Target (discontinued) for a killer sale price on top of a hefty markdown, that the video was just a dud.  But then at the concert, the music was so great, I was motivated to just start pushing buttons and see if perchance a video recorded.  It wasn't until I got home that I realized it had!  I have no idea how I did it, but despite the grainy, badly focused image and humming audio, it captured!  And all I could say was woh.  Aaron was having so much fun up there!  I've never seen him play like this, as it's such a departure from Bach and Villalobos, classical musician that he is, but he sounded good and looked good, too!  I loved this song, so I'm glad it recorded.  I was so excited and proud of Aaron, and grateful he had this awesome experience.  (Change the video quality to 720 when viewing it.  Big improvement in images!)

The Last Real Cowboy

I spoke with him last week.  He couldn't speak well, and he was no longer able to swallow food, and it was so clear that there were only days left.  Aunt Jodie had rummaged through the boxes of old photos in the closet upstairs and made copies for us grand kids, I had received them in the mail, wept at the image of my late grandmother, who could have been a silver screen siren, had she not been a battered, neglected housewife of an alcoholic cowboy.  As I flipped through the old photos, most of which I hadn't seen before, I stopped with a gasp at a shot of him as a young and reckless teen, dark and handsome in a rouge and dangerous way, and it occurred to me what an enchanting net he must have cast on my grandmother back then, on so many young girls at the grange dances, at the school sock hops, and eventually the rodeos, and bars.  Called a "dark" German, Hebrew to be sure, but that was all hush-hush for at least two generations before he was born, the little secret that arrived with our first ancestor from Wurtenburg, Prussia.  But goodness, he was a looker, my old grandpa in his day.  And so I called him, just to let him know I thought he was a heck of a lot prettier when he was younger, to rib him a bit, which, with him always translated to love. 

"I hardly recognized you," I lied, nearly yelling into the receiver because I knew he wasn't wearing his hearing aid.  I could hear him laughing, a faint, breath-like panting to let me know he caught the sarcasm.

"Yat," he agreed weakly.  "I suppose."

I couldn't talk long, and he couldn't endure much, laborious as it was to just communicate.  Just long enough to say I'm thinking him, and that I love him.

After nearly three long years of battling prostate cancer, he finally passed this morning peacefully in his bed in his own home.

My earliest knowledge of him wasn't really a face, but an energy.  A stark contrast to Grandma, who was bubbly, goofy, and affectionate, he was sullen, withdrawn, unreadable, distracted.  We four grand kids were careful around him.  He gave us our first horses.  He expected us to work the farm, and had better learn early how to ride, herd, cut, brand, rope, de-horn, and grow beef cattle like everyone else.  But riding with him was fun work.  He was a real cowboy, just like in the movies, and when we rode with him, we were in the movie too.

How I remember him when I was growing up.  Grandma and Grandpa with my dad and aunts in 1980.

I've always loved old photos, the ethereal, haunting images of a moment in history captured in a flash. I love them and hoard them when I can, so my kids can know their roots, the legacy they inherit, and also so I can remember, too.  It's hard to imagine my dad as a little boy with chubby cheeks and pudgy hands, smooth skin, and warm brown eyes like those of my own young sons.  It's even harder to imagine my grandpa fresh in life, even smiling, at the same season in life that I'm in now.

This must have been a wedding in 1956, because my great grandparents are wearing flowers, and everyone is dressed up.  My graceful grandma Luster in the center is holding Aunt Jodie, and my dad is in the back with his arm around Grandpa.    

But when I see him here, in fuzzy black and white images, I can find it around his eyes.  He suffered.  He struggled.  He had deep, damaging wounds.  He didn't have wisdom on his side, but goodness, he had experience.  He was born between miscarriages during the early years of the Depression.  His life was one shaped by strife and hunger.

Grandpa with his firstborn, my dad, in 1954.  

Some of my friends agree, but something happens when you are a mother of boys.  Suddenly, as if by a fragile invisible thread, all the boys in the world are your children.  Especially little ones about the same age as your own or younger, I feel responsible for each of them.  Aaron and I had an experience this summer that spurred us to seriously consider serving in foster care, or even adoption.  We have all this love to share, and there are so many, many little boys who desperately need it.  My grandpa was that little boy.

My grandpa here in overalls, offering flowers beside his older brother Dave and younger sister,  Zelda, in 1940.

I may have never had a relationship with him, but then he held his first great-grandson, Andres.  And I watched in a postpartum haze some profound and cosmic event unfold before my eyes as Grandpa held my brand new son in his arms for the first time:  he smiled.  For me at 28 it was the first time I had seen that man smile.  And for a man who scowled at me as a kid as a both a salutation and warning, he started to call me every week to check on "that boy."  We nurtured a fledgling relationship with Andres as a bridge, and once, well into his fight with cancer, we even talked for over an hour on the phone, and I treasure that conversation with him.  And then just after his 80th birthday this summer, he decided to be baptized, shocking all of us.

I'm so grateful he was able to meet my boys.  I'm so glad they helped him heal whatever had broken him so badly, so grateful that he and I became pals through them.  And while today I'm sad and grieving and missing him already, there is in a wide open field a new peace, and a new life without hurt or grief, regret or shame.  Only endless oceans of the ever-present glow and warmth of perfect and abundant love, grace, and renewal.

Jearl Heitzman, age 9 months, 1934.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14

Andres' 1st Animations

At 4:10
The Adventures of Calvin is an adaptation from Andres' favorite comics, Calvin and Hobbes, where our beloved protagonist imagines everyone around him as an enemy, especially his mom (now I wonder what Frued would say about Calvin)...and with his trusty sticky darts ("gun"--ugh!  but he is a boy after all!), defends himself against the overwhelming foe!  Disclaimer:  sound effects are more violent than actual video.

At 8:08
The Andres Show is an avant garde piece with postmodernism aspects as well as echoes of classic beatnik elements, and as Andres himself told us, "it's a sing along."  It's fun, creative, and pushes limits of visual storytelling.  So, we encourage you to sing along if you dare!


Book Animation from PORTLAND COMMUNITY MEDIA on Vimeo.

Muck

The summer has been a difficult one from the get-go.  A good one, but difficult for lots of reasons I'm still working through, still choking on.  And today.  Today is one of countless days that I wish I had a mom.  I would call her up, ask about the farm, chat about dinner menus, and share this horrible day with her perhaps as I cry a little about it, wanting her nonchalant laughter to pour over me like salve, a soothing encouragement, compassion from a mother to her daughter regarding this bond we share, this thing called motherhood.  I would ask her many, many questions.   So I slip back into the recesses of my imagination and pick up the phone.  I dial her number, listen to rings, and pauses between rings, and hear myself breathing on the receiver.  And then it's her voice.  Her warm and so familiar voice that is trekked into my most primitive memories.  No stand-in or surrogate will work today.  Some days I'm a mom.  Today I'm a daughter needing one.  Today, like countless others over nearly five years, I just miss my mommy.