An Ode to Christmas Trees

I salute  Christmas trees

With an ode to all trees be they stubby or tall,

Real or fake,

Green or sparkly silver for

All trees are creative signs of hope.

Lit with tiny lights,

Each light a flaming symbol to new life.

It does not matter if we are secret cynics the rest of the year;

Christmas trees are metaphors for family warmth and celebrations,

Evoking Christmas past,

Radiant as Christmas present and

Promising Christmases yet to come.

Remembering Christmas Magic with Nine Kids

As I clean and get ready for our adult children to come home from university and work in the city, it is nice to remember the magic of Christmases when they were little. In fact the scent of magic is still in the air, especially as our 3 and soon to be five grandbabies join our family! When you live with nine children, even the most crusty curmudgeon cannot resist the magic of Christmas.

It was still dark outside, way too early for my husband and I; we had worked to set up on Christmas Eve till 2:00 am. Although we couldn’t even pry our eyes open, we were smiling with contentment as we lay in bed, listening to the excited whispers and giggles of our three youngest children. They made their way down the front stairs whispering in awe because one of the older kids had intertwined multi-coloured lights around the banister, transforming the dark staircase into a magical pathway to the tree.

First, the trio ducked into the formal living room to see the presents for the first time and special candy canes on the tree. In our old farm-house, our bedroom was right above the kitchen and we had left the kitchen back stairs door open. Suddenly another excited gasp of surprise escaped their lips as they gazed in wonder around the transformed kitchen.

A gingerbread house, created at night when the littlest kids were sleeping, sat in the centre of the table with a fruit bowl, dishes of candies, nuts and, best of all, sugar cereal! The whole room was edged with coloured lights and Christmas towels, tablecloth,napkins, pot holders with bright red ribbons on all the door handles.

One year a friend at Madonna House, Martha, asked Alison what her favorite thing about Christmas was and she said,

“The pineapple!”.

Her answer shocked Martha but I was simply pleased. I understood that children notice and appreciate the small things. No detail escapes them. Without much extra cash during the year, they still to this day treasure every detail, ornament and treat that was and still is part of Christmas.

When a few of the oldest kids were in their mid to late teens, friends would ask to come over and set up with us. They would cart presents downstairs, arrange them, help fill 11 stockings and hang lights. They were intrigued by our large family with all the hustle and bustle and activity. It was never boring at our house The teens craved the joy and excitement of creating magic for younger children who did not receive many frills during the rest of the year. I think they also craved the sense of stability, of a family grounded in the old-fashioned values of mutual love and respect.

Pigs, Pigs, Those Intelligent Pigs: editor's choice award on ReadWave

 Pigs, Pigs, Those Intelligent Pigs is one of ten  chosen stories up for consideration for theeditor’s choice award .You can vote for this story by putting it up on your Facebook page

Dear Staff Reviewers, Thank you very much for your recommendations last week. I was very happy to see so many of you shared stories on Facebook and Twitter. It really helped us to see what kind of stories are suitable for sharing online. There was one story in particular, which you all overwhelmingly chose to share.  Pigs, Pigs, Those Intelligent Pigs 

                                          Pigs, Pigs, Those Intelligent Pigs

Our family treasures hilarious memories of our animals

 but some of the most amusing and heartwarming stories are about our pigs.

Pigs are popular these days, especially teacup pigs who are worth up to $2,500.00 each. However, our family loves real farm hogs because they are friendly, smart and crafty. For twenty years we have raised meat birds, laying hens, 4 pigs, a calf and loved an old Arabian and a beautiful warm-blooded show horse.

When the local hog farmer drove over to deliver our four little piglets in the spring, he stayed for almost an hour enjoying their introduction to free range living. In fact, most of the family stood around their pasture, watching and laughing. The piglets literally leaped and twisted in the air in utter bliss as they emerge from the truck. Like most modern farmers, our neighbourhood supplier built an efficient, modern, clean setup. That meant that his hogs never breathed fresh air, saw the sun or touched dirt or vegetation.

read the rest of the story >http://www.readwave.com/pigs-pigs-those-intelligent-pigs_s13492

Jie-Wei Zhou -after school

Tender Tidings: Free Magazine

The winter issue of Tender Tidings, the free magazine for intentional Catholic parents, is now available for viewing! Just click on the flipbook to explore.

This issue is devoted to raising creative children.  Dr. Greg Popcak wrote an article on why family creativity time is good for the whole family;  Marcia Mattern shares ideas about creating a prayer corner in our homes;  Michaelyn Hein has some great ideas for making story time more creative.

look for my article 

Ingenuity and Creativity are Birthed in Boredom

When your kids announce that they are bored, how do you respond?

Do you rush to fix this horrible state of affairs? Well boredom is not a disease that needs cured.

All children need free time to discover who they are, what they are good at and what they enjoy. Provide them with art materials, books, old-fashioned wooden blocks, cardboard boxes and a costume box ; let them discover the joy of creating something beautiful out of nothing.Unplug your kids from all electronics everyday and give them the gift of time, time even to lay on the grass and simply look at the clouds.  read more on page 25

Canadian Backwoods Cuisine Served With Comic Results

My husband, Michael, who loves nature and his rather eccentric, counter-culture pal, P.J., had driven about an hour away, up the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, to fish in one of the thousands of lakes which surround us. Driving home in the twilight, they caught sight of a porcupine in their head lights. Now Michael and P.J. had lived together in the wilderness for a month after university, surviving on fish,  chewy, tough turtle meat, rice and coffee. Never one to waste good, organic meat, P.J. immediately yelled,

” Mike, pull over. Porcupine is good eating.”

The chance to sample porcupine meat is rare because you really are not allowed to hunt these lazy animals; laws protect them because they are so easy to kill. If a man is lost in the woods, he simply bops a waddling porcupine on the nose (if he can avoid the quills) and can soon eat a delicious, tender meal.In defence of these two hunters, I will add that this is the only time either of them has ever shot a porcupine.

The two acting survivalists decided to nail their kill to a tree right by the side of the road, simply skinning the carcass to avoid the quills and gutting it. Michael and P.J. arrived home chuckling over their good fortune, still debating the best way to cook the tender meat. Finally, they decided to stuff the it with a bread, onion, garlic and herbs and wrap it in bacon.

Suddenly a wicked idea popped into my head,

John was coming over for dinner tomorrow. He was actually extemely conservative in his tastes but loved to act artistic, cultured and sophisticated around us. In his eyes we were a boring couple with no life, stuck on a farm, saddled with a parcel of little kids.

“What if I served roasted porcupine for dinner tomorrow when John is here?”

P.J. burst out laughing,

” And don’t say a thing until he has eaten at least half of his meal. I would love to see the look on his face!”

The following evening John arrived wearing a tweed jacket with his shirt collar and cuffs pulled up over it, a scarf casually draped around his neck and a jaunty beret. Michael and I secretly smiled at each other as he raved over the delicious meal. Smiling mischievously I casually remarked,

“John, did you know that you are actually eating porcupine?”

He froze, fork held in mid-air with a brief look of horror on his face,

“Mel, you are joking, right?”

“Not at all”, I replied, “Since you are so very cosmopolitan, I just knew you would enjoy something exotic.”

John smiled weakly, nodded and then slowly lowered his fork. He did not eat another bite of his meat.

Vermeer’s Vulnearable Women

It is fascinating to me that a man would be sensitive to the plight of women in his male dominated society during the 1600′s. Johannes Vermeer  was a famous  Dutch painter, one of the great masters , who lived from 1632–1675  in Delft. I love many of Vermeer’s painting and have used them in articles, in my sidebar and even as a heading for one of the sites I administer. There is a story embedded in each painting, often alluding to a woman’s vulnerability in society even without the  actual presence of a man in the painting. The effect of  a man’s presence is felt as they read a letter or simply look out a window or over their shoulder.

Dung-Coloured Glasses

Ah, we love to make fun of those in love, the young and the naive who view the world through rose-coloured glasses but what about the rest of us, those of us who wear dung-coloured glasses? We should chuckle just as loudly when we realize this tendency to see darkly. When I am miserable, nothing, not riches, nor prestige or a change in circumstances, nothing can change my interior unhappiness.

There is a scene at the end of C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narniathat has stayed with me for decades. The fictitious characterization of the grumpy, miserable dwarves taught me about my own dung-coloured glasses because their perception of reality was so obviously skewed, their behaviour hilariously outrageous. This scene is an example of what cognitive therapy tries to teach us about the power of our presumptions to imprison us in misery. Our paradigms prevent us from experiencing a new life when it is offered to us.

The enemies of Aslan have imprisoned the children, a few animals, Prince Caspian, as well as disgruntled dwarves in a shed that is dank and dark, filled with putrid straw, stale water and rotten cabbages to eat. A war against the evil forces rages outside. Outwardly, it seems that all is lost, yet the children, Prince and animals hold on to the belief that Aslan, who is a Christ figure, will come and save Narnia. Of course the dwarves mock their ridiculous faith.

Suddenly Aslan appears, vanquishes the enemy and the back of the prison crumbles revealing a glorious sight. It is Narnia, but more resplendent, filled with a radiant light. Everything is more colourful, beautiful, fragrant. It is a resurrected Narnia. Heaven has come to earth. A table, covered with a white cloth and laden with delicacies, beckons them.

Everyone celebrates by feasting on the delicious food laid out before them as they delight in the beauty all around. The dwarves, hang back suspicious and mistrustful. When they finally venture a nibble of a delicacy they spit it out in disgust. All they taste is stale water and rotten cabbages . All they see is the dark, dank prison.The grumpy dwarves refuse this new life that the other characters are enjoying right beside them.

Knife in My Heart

 I stood at the sink,

pain lancing my chest,

sobbing silently,

tears blinding me as I tackled a mound of dirty dishes.

Exhaustion weighed heavy,

my arms like stone.

11:00pm.

I was alone, disconnected

Isolated.

I could almost see the knife

piercing my heart.

There was a name on the handle;

I strained my inner eye,

expecting to see my husband’s name carved in the wood

But No!

I tried to manipulate the letters but I could not force them to spell his name.

The etched letters

clearly spelled Melanie.

My eyes widened,

I literally gasped in shock.

Truth pierced,

dissolving the knife and the sharp pain with it into insubstantial mist.

I was the architect of my misery,

a dramatic self-made victim,

acting like a pitiful scapegoat.

Reality made me smile.

An inner switch flipped.

Misery slipped off like useless rags

The mountain of work thrown into the sea by a mustard seed of common sense because there was no mountain except in my self-pitying delusions of martyred grandeur.

Self-depreciating laughter,

Cutting through Stress.

A Strange Calm.

Strength.

What’s Your Writing Process?

How do you approach your writing process? Are you an inveterate outliner, or do you let your ideas flow and follow them where they take you? Would you consider using more process than you currently do or less? What do you make of the idea of starting by writing your endings and then working to them from the beginning?

About 18 months ago, 

when I closeted myself in a room to sit down and write,

I froze.

I considered writing to be a solitary craft

but looking at a blank screen

or talking into thin air

was a sterile exercise in futility for me.

I could not translate

the same creative energy

that I experienced telling a story verbally,

to the keyboard.

My imagination lay dormant.

My logical intellect wrote boring drivel.

Then,

I heard the word blog.

Somehow in the whirl of creating and designing a site,

I learned to close the wings of my self critizing brain,

to open the wings of my imagination and intuition,

liberating a fountain of words that lay buried

deep in my subconcious.

Now,

an idea springs up from my inner self,

reflections and connections

seem to take on a life of their own.

I can hardly type fast enough to keep up to the flow of words

It is like writing with my fingertips,

not my brain.

Like a butterfly that struggled for years to emerge

from a cocoon of exhaustion

My words emerged,

reformed, renewed, reborn.

I realize now that I really am a story-teller. My oral skills have always been excellent, even as a small child. I delight in the energy and flow of words, dramatic gestures and the relationship with even one listener when I tell one of our legendary stories about the exploits of nine kids on a farm. Yes, my Irish side is alive and well and pushing me to write.

I write to engage with other people, to contribute my voice to issues in our society or to share an insight that might help a fellow human being. I write because no one has the same experiences or the same opinions as I do. I write because I have discovered a voice that is unique, a voice that simply must communicate.

For me the joy mothering has been my call, my vocation and my silent witness to the world for 32 years. Now writing has become the method of expressing that vocation to a world that has largely forgotten the wisdom of mothers and more importantly, the wisdom of children.

I have discovered that just like I like I can form a story as I tell it, now I can create as I type. When an episode or opinion pops into my brain, I did not consciously choose to write about that topic or person. It was an eureka moment, that surprised me. I wonder,

“Where did that thought or memory come from? I haven’t thought about him for years!”

Suddenly an entire story rises up from that one thought because I have assimilated emotions, reflections, connected quotes, philosophy and integrated it all with my faith. Initially my right brain takes over, creativity flows like a river of words. The entire process is largely subconscious. I unwittingly combine a spirit of creativity with a gift to craft words together. Writers in past centuries called it the muse. Left logical brain editing follows afterwards. However, if I attempt to write the first draft with my logical left brain, the article is stilted, boring and painful to read.

I suppose I am not ready to write a masterpiece but I have tasted what it is like to connect to the powerful creative force that flows through all of us. Creativity is addictive. Nothing surpasses the thrill of sitting in front of a blank page or screen with an equally blank mind when an spark deep with me flares up and a story emerges in the middle of the flames. I simply start writing naturally, almost without effort. The words flow as fast as I can type. I do not think; I just type. As Ray Bradbury says,

Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It’s self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can’t try to do things. You simply must do things.

“I do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks; I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.”~John Fowles

“Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say. ~Sharon O’Brien”

My point is that when anyone begins writing, resist the temptation to imitate other writer’s style. Find your own voice. Write from your heart and soul. Write what you are passionate about and your enthusiasm and joy will open the door to words which connect with your readers. In other words, you will begin the journey to become a great writer

“My God! How Did She Get Herself Into That Mess?”

I am conundrum. A rather outmoded sort of woman, ridiculed by modern career women, vilified by the earth’s prophets of doom and sanctified by the religious right. I was the least likely candidate to have a lot of children.I mean, I had never even held a baby before my first born.You would think having nine children would have turned me into a frazzled wreck with a figure like the Pillsbury Dough Boy and a brain gone to mush, but I remain quite articulate, with a quirky sense of humour, standing at 5’1” and weighing in at 106 lbs. Not quite a rosy-cheeked, robust, matronly looking mother of a large brood.

Wen the words The Joy of Mothering popped into my head as a sub-title for my short stories, it was like an epiphany for me because those few words verbalize my experience living with little people. The very existence of a joyful mother of nine children seems to confound people. Embracing an outdated lifestyle on a traditional, small, family farm has been a struggle through confusion, guilt and even public condemnation to finally reach the point where I can now shout loudly,

“This is my call,

this is my vocation,

this is my witness to the world.”

After the birth of our fourth child, Michael and I struggled to understand exactly how we were meant to live our lives. We were discussing an article by an author whose main premise was that letting go of control and trusting in God was not some abstract principle but a day-to-day practical call that included the surrender of our fertility. Of course we practised natural family planning but I was one of those rare people who could conceive long before ovulation.

As my doctor said once, “Ah, I remember reading about a woman in New Zealand, two years ago, who conceived five days before ovulation.”

I raised my hand and chirped, “Well, you can add me to that list!”

Although we could not imagine how large our family would become, the words of that article resonated within both my husband and I. Guilt lifted off us and a surge of excitement, a sense of purpose welled up from within. Although it took time to really believe that none of our children were simply a failure of the natural family planning method. Many small experiences kept reinforcing the truth for us that God called each of our children into being with our co-operation. We’d stumbled blindly at times and then a burst of clarity would shine light on our purpose.

For example, twenty-five years ago, I once again slipped into panic mode, worrying if I was pregnant with my fifth child. Suddenly a wave of peace enveloped me and my whole body relaxed.

I heard these words within me,

“This is your call.

This is your vocation.

This is your witness to the world.”

All sorts of objections rushed into my head,

” What on earth do you mean a witness, a witness to what?- stupidity? People don’t understand. They just think we are irresponsible or idiots……”

Then unexpected joy bubbled within me and I sensed these words in my spirit,

“I am with you.”

Once again a blanket of peace wrapped like a blanket around me. It was an actual physical sensation. My mind was calm and my spirit felt strong.

That was it for me; I understood and I said,

“Yes”.

Though I still cringed under disapproval from society, I always understood that my children were saving me by compelling me to dive deeper into my spirit, discovering the power of eternal Love at my core. A love that can stand strong against all opposition

Daisy,Our High Maintenance Goat

Kids need to relate to animals to grow up into well-balance, caring adults who can relate and feel connected to the natural world, not just technological society.

Daisy entertained us with her antics even more than our traditional pets.

For over two decades, we lived on a hobby farm surrounded by nine kids, wild animals, farm livestock as well as traditional pets. Kids need to relate to animals to grow up into well-balance, caring adults who can relate and feel connected to the natural world, not just technological society. Just watching our children’s delight in their menagerie of pets and farm animals confirmed how important animals were to their development.Their unconditional love was a powerful sources of energy that transformed our animals into confidant, intelligent creatures with strong, unique personalities.

Consider Daisy. She produced milk like any normal, domesticated goat which I made into a delicious dill and garlic cream cheese spread but she did not like living in the barn or fields with the rest of the livestock. Nope, Daisy was sure she was part of the family, expressing her displeasure by bleating loudly until one of the kids ran out to the barn, released her from her isolated stall and tied her to a post with a direct view of the front door.

Daisy needed to relate to people because she was a socialized goat with a charming personality. She even tried to get into the house a few times by gnawing on the door handle to the kitchen. Even once outside, watching the activities of our bustling household, if Daisy hadn’t seen anyone in an hour or so, she’d bleat frantically until I alerted on of the kids by yelling out,to no one in particular,

“Daisy is lonely again!”

One of the little ones would clamber to the kitchen door, haul the heavy door open and call out,

“Daisy, what’s the matter? We are still here. Everything is just fine, so relax!”

If it was cold, they’d slam the door closed and Daisy would calmly return to grazing on our lawn.

Admittedly, Daisy would have made more friends in our family if she had quit eating my flowers or stealing little people’s’ hats and pulling on their scarves.The littlest children loved to pet Daisy and talk to her before heading down the long lane to the school bus but inevitably a cry would arise,

“Help! Somebody help me!Daisy is pulling my scarf off. Daisy won’t give my hat back or Daisy is eating my mitt!”

It is a testament to her charm that the kids could not resist her demands for affection and attention even though she was a nuisance and a pest. Most of the time we had to tie Daisy to a post so she could not cause too many problems. However, a couple of times a week we let Daisy follow us around in the garden. As long as she mainly ate weeds, we let her hang out with us.Dasiy was a delightfully, albeit high maintenance farm pet.

I've Been Nominated

Vote For Me

It’s time to vote for the 2013 Frankie Award!
Don’t forget to invite you readers (and friends and family, and fan club) to visit this page and vote for you. Feel free to copy the badge above and link back here from your blog.

My post is Mary is Living in my Heart? Help! by Melanie Jean Juneau of Joy of Nine9.

vote http://catholicspiritualityblogs.blogspot.ca/2013/11/frankie-award-vote-for-years-best.html

Mary is Living in My Heart? Help!

 Even now, some 30 years later, tear well up and I could weep with relief all over again as I write these words. Somehow I was given the grace to lay down my logic, reasoning and Protestant theology and simply throw myself into the arms of my Spiritual Mother.

What would be the absolute worst thing that could happen to a nice Protestant girl? Why Mary, the Blessed Virgin, would do a little interior house cleaning, then make a home for herself in the poor girl’s heart, that’s what! If that was not bad enough, this perplexed young woman’s belief system would stay staunchly anti-Catholic for oh, about another 10 years, even though she had converted to Catholicism. I mean what choice did she have? Nobody but the Catholic Church even wants someone who craves the Eucharist and has a relationship with the Mother of Christ.

 Obviously this young woman was and is me. God has a peculiar sense of humor and now I can look back and laugh at my dilemma. At the time, though I was shook up. As Pope Francis said at the Easter Vigil, God delights in shaking us up, or as I like to say, ripping the rug from underneath us. Nope, God will not stay in a nice, neat little box of our own making. Just when we think we have Him all figured out, He pulls another fast one on us. Thank goodness; life is never boring when you give God permission to work in your life.

I was reluctant to turn to Mary, I couldn’t help but feel like a heretic somehow turning from Jesus as my only Savior. Yet over and over, God only offered healing and peace when I turned to His Mother. Finally a wonderful priest from Madonna House, the Director General of Priests. Fr. Bob Pelton, smiled at me compassionately and said something like this:

“Melanie, why don’t you relax for a few months and stop tormenting yourself with guilt? Simply relax into the bosom of the Church and Her teachings and allow your relationship to Mary grow naturally, without fighting everything with your intellect? Trust in your own heart as well.”

Even now, some 30 years later, tears are welling up and I could weep with relief all over again as I write these words. Somehow I was given the grace to lay down my logic, reasoning and Protestant theology and simply throw my self into the arms of my Spiritual Mother.

I. MARY’S MOTHERHOOD WITH REGARD TO THE CHURCH

968Her role in relation to the Church and to all humanity goes still further. “In a wholly singular way she cooperated by her obedience, faith, hope, and burning charity in the Savior’s work of restoring supernatural life to souls. For this reason she is a mother to us in the order of grace.”

“This motherhood of Mary in the order of grace continues uninterruptedly from the consent which she loyally gave at the Annunciation and which she sustained without wavering beneath the cross, until the eternal fulfillment of all the elect. Taken up to heaven she did not lay aside this saving office but by her manifold intercession continues to bring us the gifts of eternal salvation . . . . Therefore the Blessed Virgin is invoked in the Church under the titles of Advocate, Helper, Benefactress, and Mediatrix.“

Actually, we really do not have a clue what we are saying “yes” to in the beginning of our Christian walk. At our wedding, 34 years ago, I sensed these words within my heart:

“I will change the way the two of you work and play, the way you walk and talk, the way you laugh and cry, everything about you, so that in everything you are and do, you will reflect the glory of my Father in Heaven.”

Foolishly we thought that this was a nice word from God! Little did we know that 34 years later we would still be being turned inside out. I agree whole heartedly with Pope Francis, God does seem to delight in shaking us out from our narrow little lives. I could not live any other way. His thoughts and ways are far above ours. Just when I think I know it all, that I understand the spiritual life, He upends my life yet again.

Thank-you God for not listening to my opinions, theology or plans for my life.

Thank-you for the grace to give You permission to take over .

Thank-you  for making me Yours and giving me to your Mother.

Extra, Extra, Read All About It! joy of nine9- paper.li

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