Valentine Wishes

Valentines Day at my house is a pretty low-key affair. There are no long-stem red roses. There are no chocolate-dipped strawberries. There's no romantic serenade. Wine does make an appearance, but it's the $3 bottle of white merlot.

Words of undying devotion rarely cross lips. But tonight my husband broke tradition. I was minding my own business munching a conversation heart when he paused and looked deep into my eyes. So I stopped crunching and gazed back.

"You make staying awake exciting," he said.

"That's it? That's what I get? That's my Valentine?" I asked. You can imagine my tone.

"Well, I was just sitting here thinking, and that's what I thought," he eloquently explained.

I hope it didn't hurt his feelings that I didn't respond in kind. Or that I suggested we go to bed.

Burn Me Galley Down! (Revised)

This is a video of the 2013 Jarl Squad and Stevie the Guizer Jarl in Lerwick, Shetlands. They are singing the two songs that I doubt I'll ever be able to forget after hearing them so jovially repeated over the course of our stay.

I was told to dress smart casual to attend the post-procession affair at Town Hall. Not knowing quite how to interpret that from an American packing perspective, I asked my 15 year-old son, Duncan, what he thought it meant. He said, "Dress like a librarian." So I did.

I was the only one:

The waves are rolling on!

Lerwick Humor?

Yarrr! Up-Helly-Aa!

The Guizer Jarl and his Jarl Squad aboard the Viking galley they've spent the better part of the year meticulously building. Tonight they burn it!

Fire always ups the fun of any activity. I've always said that. I guess now I'll find out if it's true.

Good Grits!

I believe that this is a sign that This Georgia girl would fare well in the northerly Shetlands. They take their grits seriously.

Up Helly Aa

In Paris en route to Lerwick, UK to witness men in Viking costumes drink Scotch, march with torches and burn a galley. All while standing in blowing wind and rain.

Woot!

My Soul is Weedy

I may have failed to mention that my soul is as weedy as my garden. Just like I ignore my garden until the weeds are taking over the vegetables, I often ignore the state of my soul until my vices demand that I take action. And I do. I pluck a troublesome interloper here and there and toss it away. But that seems to only make room for another to grow.

What I want is for my heart to be like one of my Christmas cabbages: Lush and full and a provider of good things. As it is, though, I lack the singular focus that cabbages have. They are content to be cabbages and to put all of their effort toward being the best, most robust cabbages they can (under the challenging circumstances of my garden).

I, on the other hand, am not happy to be only a cabbage. I want to be the beans and the tomatoes and the carrots and the onions and the spinach, too. In my anxiety over being pigeonholed into one role, I even sometimes find myself attracted to the perilous life of the weeds. And so I let them grow in my unfocused soul with the justification that even weeds have a place and a purpose.

But I have days when I long to live the cabbage's simple life. Alas, however, it is not for me.