Simple Blessings

I’m sitting in a beautiful puddle of sunshine on my bed. I am alone in a quiet and relatively clean house. Baby boy is doing alien stretches inside my belly and sweetly responding to my words and pats. In a world where there is much pain and difficulty and confusion and in a year that has included many of these for me and those that I love, these simple pleasures mean the absolute world to me.

There is so much in my life to be grateful for. I live in a beautiful village as an expat in a foreign country. Sometimes this poses aggravating and even angst-inducing episodes, but mainly it provides adventure. It provides opportunity to think outside my ‘normal’ and begin to adapt to life in a truer, realer way. A way that honors my family more. Honors myself more. Honors life’s natural rhythms more. Besides, foreign though I may be, I have some of the greatest friends ever here.

Life doesn’t always afford opportunity to reach outside of our comfort zone. When it does, it can be quite lonely. Every once in a while—there are angels seen and unseen who swoop in to smooth the transition and welcome our hearts. ‘The Gang’ as they’ve come to be affectionately known in our house threw me a baby shower last night! Never mind that they don’t really do them here. Never mind that none of them had ever been to a baby shower until a South African woman at their school had one a few months ago. My friend Kelly decided that if I would have had one at home I ought to have one here! Louise and the rest of the girls pitched in and it was beautiful. We had traditional English tea foods—sandwiches and cakes and scones all served on red and white polka dot doilies with matching napkins. We drank wine (me just a little J) and of course tea. We played celebrity name matching and guess whose baby picture is whose (my mom was even contacted and brought along a baby photo of me on the sly). There were touches from my consulting sister. A card from a friend back home. And what Scott aptly dubbed ‘a haul’ of presents.

I would have never imagined any of this those first miserable months in South Croydon. But here I am, a year later feeling full and blessed and loved and included and really happy and content in my puddle of sunshine in Warlingham, Surrey, UK.

I remember a number of conversations with Scott in the early days here. They went something like, “How could God do this to us?!?! He really screwed up this time! What have we done to deserve this misery?!?! Why can’t we go home?!?!” and other uplifting and cheerful variations on that theme. I remember Scott saying, much to my complete annoyance and frustration—maybe this IS exactly where God has us. Maybe this IS a blessing and we just can’t see. To which my inner response—and even my outer one a few times—was, “I kinda want to punch you in the face right now, asshole!”

But you know what? He might have been on to something. Sometimes I wonder if we have to be brought completely outside of our comfortable, contented selves in order to be able to fully embrace the coming blessings. Sometimes the loneliness has to drain all the preconceived notions and former habits and assumptions away so the new, clean water of blessings and friendships can come in.

I’ve never loved snow so much as I did this winter. I had never been away from it long enough to know. I never enjoyed an hour or two stolen away to hang out with my mama until she wasn’t always available to get away with. I never loved shopping so much as when I discovered new little hole-in-the-wall boutiques in Portobello Road and got to take my shopping queen sister when she visited. I never enjoyed girlfriend time so much as when making girlfriends wasn’t automatic. Never gloried in the sunshine and baby-shoots of spring bulbs like I have after a winter of rain and grey skies. Never appreciated a hamburger so much as when my hubby stood in the rain and made me one because there wasn’t a hamburger joint on every corner nearby.

I’m learning that sometimes the things that are missing have to be missed long enough. Long enough to say goodbye. Even tearful, fit-throwing goodbyes. Sometimes they have to be missed long enough to allow us the creativity and openness to say ‘hello’ to new things. And somewhere in there, we find a contentment and gratefulness that doesn’t so much fill, as supersede the longings we felt before.

The sunshine is fading a bit, my boys just returned muddy and pink cheeked from their first session of ‘spring training’ at the park. I hear they’re looking like World Series contenders, but that’s another blog. I’m smiling. A content, happy smile. Not in any way ignoring the pain and difficulty of the world around and even in me, but also thoroughly enjoying the simple blessings of the right now of my life.

Our own little miracles continued...

One of my favorite miracles this Christmas is all the time with my husband. Scott and I haven’t had 3 whole weeks together without work since he was on disability recovering from a brain tumor in 2002/2003. Since that wasn’t exactly a relaxing time filled with life and love I feel I can safely say this has been a big first. Three whole weeks.

When faced with three whole weeks stretching into the distance one makes all kinds of goals. “We’ll get the closets all cleaned out!” “Well take tons of long walks!” “Go running every day!” “Get lots of sleep and get ourselves in the habit of waking up early…”

Then you realize how much you’ve missed one another. You make love. You stay up late watching movies. You act like cheesy teenagers making mixes of love songs on your iPod. You say lots of things like, “How in the world did it get to be 1:30 am!?!?” And you know why. Because somehow three whole weeks reminds you what you knew way back when: That a lifetime would never hold enough days to spend together. And you relish in the miracle that you’re still together. That you’re still in love. That the other is still the one—the only one—you’d want to stay up until 1:30 am with over and over again.

The key to a man's heart...

It just goes to show that no matter the culture—a man needs the right gear.

Of all of the presents I gave Scott this year I can definitely say the incense burner was the most unexpected. He loved it. A friend of his in Bahrain had given him a beautiful salmon colored jar of incense a couple of months ago. It smelled gorgeous, but there was no way to burn it. Great time of year for such a dilema!

He left it out on the table tonight while he ran to the Off License. When he got home the boys were rarin’ to go—it was something to do with fire after all!

Light the charcoal, sprinkle the incense, let things smell delicious. Seemed simple enough to me. But next thing I knew the boys were dressed in beanies and wellies, standing on the back porch over Scott’s camp stove, absolutely ecstatic about the prospect of lighting the charcoal over the stove in the great outdoors. Scott was giddy—a new toy AND an excuse to use the camp stove? Oustide? In the cold!?!? No matter that it’s not at altitude or used in conjunction with some sub-zero sleeping bags. It was fire. Over a tiny, expensive, titanium stove. And it was clearly deliciously delightful.

They brought the charcoal in and added it to the brass incense burner. Smoke drifted out the little star and moon shaped holes and it did indeed smell gorgeous. The boys (all 3 of them) had a great time carrying it to various rooms to spread the yummy smells. It was cuteness!

Boys need gear. Be it camping stoves or brass incense burners the right gear is the way to any man’s heart.

our own little miracles

“…but this year it’s different for you and for me. Our own little miracle on our own little street. “

What a year. What a Christmas. What priceless, precious miracles. Sometimes I miss the forest for the trees so-to-speak. The miracles right in front of me. Somehow, this year has been different. So in the interest of noticing. Of being grateful. Of being present, I thought I’d share some of our miracles. Here’s one:

A couple of months ago Bridger said, “If the choice was London or Denver for Christmas, you’d definitely want to choose Denver! London is RUBISH for Christmas!” Some questioning revealed that the main factor was weather. As far as Bridger was concerned who in their right mind would want to spend Christmas in the rain instead of the snow?!

A week and a half ago a drive through the country to a friend’s house included a going through what is usually dubbed, “The Green Tunnel.” A gorgeous canopy of trees and shrubs trimmed to make a perfectly shaped tunnel. Bridger said, “Imagine if it were snowing. Then this would be the white tunnel, and that would be paradise!” Bridger told our friend that day, “It’s going to snow. I can FEEL it.” We all tried to be kind, but were gearing up for his heartache. But the next day, on our way home from an epic trek through the local woods we watched the first of the snowflakes fall. A miracle. Snow in London. Good ol’ ‘rubbish weather’ London. Not just a few wet flakes either, but what our English friends appropriately called ‘proper snow!’ Complete and utter joy filled the Anderberg house. A white Christmas in England!

When I asked B about it later he replied, “Yeah. I asked. I wrote it in my note to Santa. I bet Santa went to the Lord and said, ‘Hey Lord? Do you think we could do that for Bridge?’ and the Lord said, “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

I’m guessing that’s exactly how it went down, and I sure am grateful.

There's no place like the woods...

I sigh and force myself into buttoned up multi-layers. Prodding and nagging the boys out the door and hoping it will help me leave too. Glad that ‘daily walk’ is written in bold on the day’s schedule and cannot be argued with. I’m cold and stuffy inside, and I don’t feel like going out.

We traipse through the village, past the back way to Blanchman’s, and almost miss the turn off of Bug Hill to our trail. Then all of the sudden I feel better. The steep path garners hilarious giggles and shouts as the boys try to stay upright but insist on running down full-tilt. We laugh at the funny Dr Seuss shaped mushrooms. We squeal and hold on to trees when the path gets almost slick enough to sled down. Who knew the woods held so much hilarity?

I marvel at the colors. Greens in all shades from dark and regal to lime-ish yellow. Reds so burgundy they’re almost purple and browns so rich they’re almost black. Yellow leaves not quite fallen. Bright winking holly berries. It’s a wood in autumn. Though granted a much longer autumnal process than this Rocky Mountain girl is used to.

The boys pick up sticks. Bridger lags behind. Fighting off pirates and playing the ‘two sworded man.’ Caid holds my hand, small and cool in my own warm one. He wields his stick and can’t decide whether it is a dagger or a long-knife. I am told it is most definitely not the same thing.

I love the squelch-squirch our wellies make in the mud and rotting leaves. The tear in the top of one of mine prevents me from measuring the depth of each puddle with the boys, but I am a judicial observer. Helping to decide which is definitely the biggest. No longer cold or stuffy we all unzip our jackets and unbutton our sweaters. My pockets are full of our beanies and we relish the wind in our faces.

Here’s the old man’s hut tucked away in the woods. There’s the ring of bright red mushrooms that Kelly said must have been put there by fairies. Even the sun peaks out for a few minutes to brighten up our magical woods-time.

Then all of a sudden we’re on the road again. Walking through the village to the next thing on the schedule for the day. But I am changed. The day has brightened. Deepened. I am a little more present and a lot more delighted. There’s no place like the woods...

Village Life

A long walk in the country through beautiful woods and a farmer’s open field. A one-block walking trip to the Green to run my errands including: Salmon from the fishmonger. A deposit to the farmstand man for a turkey. No matter that he can’t understand why in the world I’d want one BEFORE Christmas. Mail some letters at the post office. Check out some books at the library. Then it’s home and a hot cup of tea.

Drop the boys with Alex’s Nana who graciously watches three sets of kiddos. An evening dinner with friends at Bagatti’s where each owner/host kisses me on both cheeks. Delightful gluten free pasta and even more delightful company. Hilarious rides home in the late hours full of screaching, laughing, and the sorts of jokes only old-friends really tell but new friends can still very much enjoy.

Sleepovers with warm cuddly boys while their daddy is away. Agitated almost seven year olds who finally curl up and pour their heart out with lonliness, and homesickness, and longings too heavy to bear. Sobbing and cuddling like he did when he was much smaller.

Spicy pumpkin cakes baked with helps from small hands. Yummy spicy smells and Christmas music blaring and copious cups of tea. Locking myself out of the house and running to the neighbors for a spare.

Fantastic fireworks experienced in bundle-up cold. Oo-ing and Ah-ing and delightful sparkly lights. Huge bonfires in the back ‘garden’ (not yard) with ‘jacket’ potatoes (not baked potatoes) and chili and mulled wine. Followed up by more cuddly sleepovers in Mama’s room.

Hurried breakfast and a uniformed Rememberance Day Parade. A friend's husband makes me emotional in his RAF uniform--recalling brothers also off fighting wars. Bridger marches proudly behind the band in his Cub Scout uniform. We are back at the Green. The local Vicar is leading a Rememberance Service. A woman is reading the names of Warlingham boys lost in the two Great Wars. A young girl in a school uniform places a poppy-wreath at the base of the memorial in the center of the Green.

I am full. Warm. Content. Included. Surrounded by love. And thankful beyond measure--in spite of my own homesick longings--for this village life we are leading.

Sawan

I wrote a Thank You Note to the flight attendants. I felt compelled to after the fat American lady behind me made another snotty comment in her loud midwest accent.

Flight Attendant: What would you like to drink?

Snotty Lady: Water please

FA, nicely: Okay, I’m out it will be just one minute.

about 30 seconds pass while the FA helps the people across the aisle.

SL, a little louder and more than a little bit insistent: Can I HA-AVE some WATER?!?!

FA, still sweetly: Yes. I’m just waiting for it to come from the back. I’m out.

SL, 30 seconds later as she hands the FA back her water: I don’t like ice in my water!

FA says nothing. Takes the glass. Dumps the ice and refills it with tepid water.

SL: Thank yewe!

I heard it all and cringed. So I decided to write them a note.

Bridger loves planes. When we took off he grinned a huge grin and said, “We’re flying! I love flying! I didn’t expect to get to fly today! That’s a treat!”

I did actually expect to fly today. Scott had booked me a bereavement ticket to fly home to my Papa’s funeral. He’s been battling cancer and had slipped into a coma Saturday night. Sunday night he passed away, peacefully. With my mom, his only daughter, by his side.

But here I am. Flying not towards Oklahoma City where I planned to honor the life of an old man sick with cancer who we knew was on his way home soon, but instead to Denver, CO, to honor a young man who suddenly, inexplicably, is gone.

It’s funny, Bridger’s comment about flying because in the wake of such tragic circumstances he’s so cheerful. Seeing the sliver lining. “We get to have an adventure today! That’s fun!” Finding the adventure and fun is just what I imagine Sawan would have done. He was always a glass half-full kind of a guy.

This morning as I ran to ask a neighbor to look after the house and mail while we were away Caid approached Scott. The tears flowed as he fretted about never being able to learn to surf. He had always planned to learn from Uncle Sawan.

Sawan loved to surf. He grew up in Hawaii and always had great stories to tell about life on the islands. Picking pineapples when they were ripe (apparently they turn a bit orangey-brown on the outside). Scaring his mom to death when he fell asleep on a bus the first time his mom let him go alone and rode it all the way past the end of the line--to the other side of the mountain--before he’d realized his mistake. Swim team escapades. A bad jeep accident. Hilarious 80s hairdos.

He and Caid had a special connection, and I always assumed there’d be a lot of things he’d learn from Uncle Sawan. They looked similar. Their hair faded to the same brownish/blonde with frosty tips when they’d been in the sun. They had the same brown suntanned tone to their skin. They both loved to cook. They both love all things water. Sawan was an amazing fly fisherman. Pulling as many as 30 fish out of holes from which other guys could only coax a few. I’ve watched him do it. On my 30th birthday a bunch of folks threw a surprise party for me at a cabin in Montana. Sawan helped Caid catch some fish and showed him how to pull them out of the water and even let him hold one. One of my favorite Caid photos is of that weekend. Proudly holding a fish, standing in the creek with his Uncle Sawan.

One of the pride and joys of the last few years for Sawan was the weekend he spent volunteering for Casting for Recovery. His mama died of breast cancer a few years ago. As a son of a single mom he was so close to her and you knew the pain was still so fresh. His eyes would sparkle and light up as he told story after story of his weekends with the women recovering from breast cancer and how he’d help them land a huge fish.

He always had his digital camera with him and like a true fisherman he loved to tell fish stories and show the photos of the fish he’d caught on his latest early morning trek to the mountain streams. But it was those photos of the sweet ladies in pink hats he was always the proudest of. Holding up their fish with him standing beside them in his waiters. I wept this morning as Caid buried his head in my chest and said, “Oooooohhhh! Now I’ll never learn to fish.” May that not be true. May Sawan’s legacy and passion for fly fishing live on.

I loved to cook with Sawan. We’d stand in my mom’s kitchen and berate her lack of good knives and garlic and laugh and tell stories and improvise great dinners or brunches. Adding funny gluten free ingredients to thicken the gravy. Making fancy deviled eggs. Kick ass salads. Damn that man could make a good salad.

It felt from day one that Sawan had always been apart of our family. His passion. His hilarious story telling--a favorite pastime of us Hoggatts. He fit. I loved him very much. I remember the relief and excitement I felt one night as the topic turned to birth--my particular passion--and he began to relate stories of his own Hippie midwife mama. He attended a lot of births with her, and he’d back up what I know sometimes feels to the rest of my family like my mad assertions. It was such a special connection with him. But then again it wasn’t hard to connect with Sawan. He was always so open. So honest. So real about his life and his journey--the good parts and the bad.

So it made sense to me today, as I heard Snotty Lady berate the Flight Attendant to write a little note. Just to say thanks for smoothing the journey. For bringing me extra water when my buckets of tears left me really dehydrated. For being sweet to my boys. For doing what they do. What I imagine Sawan’s mama would have done.

She was a flight attendant. I loved the stories he’d tell about trips they’d take to crazy far off places. I always thought it was cool to hear about the tickets she’d get him for cheap when he got older and the exotic places he went. The coffee he’d drink at a little hut on some distant beach. The seedy hotel that allowed him to stretch his money a little further and stay a little longer.

I imagine they’re up there right now. Visiting exotic reaches of heaven. Laughing, telling stories. And I can’t wait to someday hear about all the fish he’s catching with the ultimate Fisherman of all.

If you'd like to learn more about Sawan, attend his funeral, or make a donation to his memorial fund please visit www.sawannail.com