Author: Lisa Marie

Life Giving Home

This inspiring book by Sally Clarkson renewed the vigor with which I manage my home. I will never be a fantastic housekeeper, but I will try.

Growing up I read that the mother is the thermostat of the home. Her mood and attitude sets the tone for the rest of the household. This book more or less drives that point home. The best thing I can do as a homemaker is be gentle with the people in my home, and try to be cheery. Good homemaking is not just about having floors that are clean enough to eat off (although that’s a good thing to have), but rather it is about creating an environment that people want to dwell in.

This book also gave me a few random ideas for creating a unique, memorable environment for my family. Play music throughout the day. I asked Craig to buy me a speaker for downstairs. He got me a cool little one that changes colors. He also got me an mp3 player and sd card to go with the speaker so I could connect music.

I tried to choose a soundtrack that I thought was interesting and set a tone. I have Gregorian chants, nun choirs, and other Christian music. I also have some favorite instrumental film scores, including some dark ones. I want a house of thinking. of memory, of the surreal. I have a little Evanescence and some Apocalyptica. They make orchestral versions of rock songs.  I have some of the Lord of the Rings soundtrack on there, some a capella, and Adrian von Ziegler.

Maybe that is a little odd, but I think it sets a memorable tone for the house. 

Undrunk Museum

Green glass glitters

in the museum of the undrunk.

I stumble through the doors at noon,

unfamiliar with the concept,

gibbering in an outer language

shaped as a sieve.

My inner contents spill from my throat,

the dam where the winter ice has broken.

Like an explosion,

I unfurl

exhibit to exhibit.

The glasses are remnants

of another woman’s more

acceptable thirst,

chalices and bowls her penchant

for racking up posterity.

In my pocket I have

a wet match,

a blank schedule,

a barrenness described

by my late parrot

as an “unbearable brightness

of breeding.”

Too fertile to breed,

exiled from my ambitious hips,

my spaces sing like a heavy anthem.

Museums like this, their vessels

gauche and green

are not for women like me,

a person of filling,

then emaciating,

then filling the goblet again.

With a sigh,

the glass on the edge

slides forward,

shatters.