{this nest}

Hey Girl, Be Ok With Being a Girl

2012-02-09T14:12:00.001-06:00

I feel like there's a whole lot more I should write here. There's a lot of disjointed thoughts. Things I haven't thought through. So, have grace. Give me grace. And maybe I'll write more.

She writes me and tells me that she's looking for a chiffon dress.

"Navy blue," she specifies and my hunt begins.

Finding the right dress for the right occasion is part of being a girl. Dresses. Beauty. Cultivating. It's all part of it.

Femininity is a gift, I tell other girls these days. And I believe it. In the face of a culture that tells me I ought to look a certain way and be held to a certain standard of beauty, while at the same time work like man, talk like a man, think like a man... it feels like being feminine is lost.

Because there's a difference between hot and beautiful.
Between being responsible and being in charge.
Between nurturing and bossy.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a girl.

Because, I like being a girl.

And I get really tired of the world telling me that I am equal to a man.

I get tired of magazines shouting at me telling me how to seduce a man, and then work like a man.

To work my smiles, look like a 15 year old, and then earn my paycheck and work my ambition.

I am tired of it.

Femininity is a gift. To us. To men. To the world.

Sure, you're capable. You're strong.

We can do it all if we want to.

But we don't have to.

And, in some cases, we're not supposed to.

The woman was a separate creation from man.

Another creative thought from God. Not a duplicated one.

The difference between men and women is not just what's under our clothes. Or how we make decisions. Or how many words a girl can say in 10 minutes.

(Which by the way, I can talk. I can fill up 10 minutes in a snap with rambling words. I can go from laughing to crying in 30 seconds or less.)

I have many flaws. I'm aware of them daily. I am fighting an uphill battle in a society that is trying to tell me and all my girl and guy companions what beauty is. Commercialism, media, everywhere I turn. Beauty is being defined with or without our consent, and we can either buy into it and agree, or try and live above it.

I'm aware of my flaws every time I look in the mirror. Everytime I compare myself to a friend. To a stranger.

But this much I know — I'm happy I'm a girl.

So when a girl sits on my couch, and I say "Embrace femininity" and she puzzles a bit, I try to tell her, "I'm not telling you to be more beautiful. Or to wear more makeup. I'm not saying you need to fake a fainting spell and forget how to discuss politics.

I'm saying,
stop searching for how to attract a man.
It's not about seduction.

Create room in your life for a man who will honor the Lord.
Leave room for a man to step in.
Don't try to do it all. Be it all.

Cultivate beauty, grace, gentleness, brokenness in your heart.

Understand the heart of God toward women, not just humanity as a whole.

Understand Eve.

Know how she still haunts us.

Put down the magazine. Shun the image.

Turn into the cross.

For the sake of our daughters,
respect men and wonder at how beautifully different we get to be.

And sometimes, wear a chiffon dress."

The Last Thing You Are Clinging To

2012-02-07T07:40:00.000-06:00

When the brilliant ethicist John Kavanaugh went to work for three months at "the house of the dying" in Calcutta, he was seeking a clear answer as to how best to spend the rest of his life. On the first morning there he met Mother Teresa. She asked, "And what can I do for you?" Kavanaugh asked her to pray for him.

"What do you want me to pray for?" she asked. He voiced the request that he had borne thousands of miles from the United States.

"Pray that I have clarity."

She said firmly, "No, I will not do that." When he asked her why, she said, "Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of." When Kavanaugh commented that she always seemed to have the clarity he longed for, she laughed and said, "I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God."

— Brennan Manning, "Ruthless Trust", pg. 5

5 Things Before the Week Ends.

2012-02-04T07:39:00.000-06:00

It's the weekend. It doesn't always look all that different from the week; this weekend is full. Though there is some sort of big game on Sunday, and I have decided this is a good excuse to have people to come my house, eat my food and sit on my furniture. Weekends are for family, friends, quiet, laughter, and regrouping.

It was a good week.

1. Granola happened:

Simple Gluten-Free Morning Granola

3 c. gluten-free quick oats (Bob's Red Mill)

1/2 c. whole almonds

2 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 - 1 c. honey

1/3 c. oil or butter

1/2 c. raisins

Mix & bake on a cookie sheet at 325 for 45 minutes, or until it's all browned. Turn the granola occasionally. Add raisins once cooled.

2. We thrifted this week, and a few treasures turned up. Such as:

3. I watched this video several times, and I will now begin annoying all my friends with pretending to be this girl. Oddly enough, my friends are all going out of town.... coincidence? Hm.

4. I blogged about the books on my shelves.

5. CalNaturale contacted me to ask if a tweet of mine about their products could be used in an ad campaign. I said "Heck yes" or something like that. So, I'll get to post that for you soon and you can laugh at how much I feel like this girl.

Happy weekending all!

33 Books On My Shelves.

2012-02-02T13:47:00.001-06:00

I'm a reader. And a writer, I suppose. Though to claim that title for myself seems silly. Like when a little girl says she's a princess. That kind of silly. (Also, you should read this.)

Anyway, I digress.

I try to have a rule in my home that I don't put books on display that I haven't read, or have at least partially read. I just don't want to be that person who has a ton of books and when asked, "Have you read this?" I guffaw and say, "What? No. No I haven't read any of those."

I don't want to be that person.

Sometimes I break that rule. Sometimes I put a book out that I want to read. And it nags me every day until I finally break down and pick it up, adding it to the long list of must reads.

So today I'm giving you a snapshot of the books on my shelves, and why I think you should take the time to read one or two of them. Also, I try to not clean much when I take pictures like these so you're getting the most realistic view of my home. Dust, dirt, cords, clutter, all of it. Yes, I'm really about to do this.

1. Shepherding a Child's Heart — this book has been really influential to me as a parent. I haven't finished it, but it's dog-eared. And when I can, I pick it up and start where I left off.
2. Little House in the Big Woods — we are slowly making our way through this, chapter by chapter, sometimes page by page. Every time I pick it up, I feel like we are bringing the country into this small, urban apartment. If you haven't read these books, go back and join Laura in the frontier. It's worth it.
3. Other People's Love Letters —A friend of mine bought this book for me a few years ago. I feel a little guilty when I read some of these. But then again, these letters were published. In a book. To read. People love in different ways. And there are two or three in there that make my heart melt and believe in romance again.
4. Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass — There are a few pieces in this collection that are simple, beautiful, short, and perfect. ("That shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a livelihood, chattering, chaffering, How often I find myself standing and looking at where it flits...")
5. Love Poems of Elizabeth and Robert Browning —Want some swoon worthy words? Look no further. This collection between Elizabeth and Robert make me believe in true love again. Lovely lovely honest love. I also read it and think, "Every man needs to read how Robert loved Elizabeth." It's true, I do.
6. Daughters of Destiny — my sister gave this book to me years ago. It's one of those collections filled with anecdotes, stories, quotes. This is the kind I pick up every now and then to say, "Yes. There are those who've gone before me. And they were beautiful."
7. Thoreau's Walden and Civil Disobedience — Walden. I'm not a transcendentalist, but Walden stirred my thinking when I first read it. Even still, I can relate to Thoreau and I often wonder how he'd fit in today's society. And when I want to run away and live in a cabin in the woods, I pick this one up.
8. An Unquiet Mind — A psychiatrist wrote this book about her manic-depressive disorder. It was interesting to read her research, and even more so intriguing to hear her medical assessment of her own condition.
9. Emily Dickinson's Selected Works — Really. Now. Must I tell you why you should read her?
10. Uncle Tom's Cabin — I have never read it. It's true. This copy is a really early edition, (one of the faux first editions, after the real first edition.) It sits there. Unread. Old. 1898 or so.

11. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies — A birthday gift. Yes I'm reading it. Yes it's strange. Yes I'm enjoying it.
12. Pride and Prejudice — The real deal. Always the best.
13. A Perfectly Kept House is the Sign of a Misspent Life — Best house/decorating/hospitality book I've ever read.
14. The Children of Hurin — On loan from a boy who is adding books to my list of things to read. This one is next.
15. WB Yeats' Collected Works —Irish poet. Poetry surrounds me.
16. Into the Wild —You know it.
17. Irish America — I learned a lot about myself and my family while reading this book. So much, that I e-mailed the author. Thanked her. She wrote me back. Said thanks for reading. It was a lovely exchange.
18. Give Them Grace — This book is helping to mold the way I parent through the truth of the Gospel.

19. Northanger Abbey —The first Austen book I ever read.
20. Stargirl — Sometimes I feel like Stargirl. If you want to know what I mean, read the book.
21. Farmer Boy —Book two of the Laura Ingalls Wilder series. We will make our way through this slowly after Little House in the Big Woods.
22. Ruthless Trust —Brennan Manning has been one of the most influential writers in my life over the past seven years. No one else laid out the Gospel and Grace so clearly for me like he did in Ragamuffin Gospel and in this book.
23. The Sorrows of Young Werther — Recommended by my best friend's husband, this book was depressing, sad, and beautiful. And now I recommend it to people. (Sidenote: I'm pretty sure this was the first book written in diary form.) Don't say I didn't warn you.
24. Hinds Feet on High Places —I am much afraid. Again, don't know what I mean? Read it.

25. Mere Christianity — I remember the day I read the chapter "Time and Beyond Time" in my bedroom when I lived in Madrid, NY. Some words stick with you. That's the month this book was added to my permanent shelf.
26. All My Friends are Dead — Darkest, funniest little book. And I liked it before Urban Outfitters sold it. So take that hipsters.
27. e.e. cummings's selections —oh ee. i never tire of him.
28. Gift from the Sea —I read this while at the ocean last year. It was fitting, and brought grace to places I was striving. I love how the Gospel can shout through words that don't even intend to deliver the Gospel. But when the Truth is at the center, it seeps into everything.
29. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall —I tore through this book when I was 14 or 15. It may have been the gateway book to classic literature, if I remember correctly.
30. Passion and Purity —Elisabeth Elliot is a woman I have always greatly admired, and her words never fall short of challenging me and calling me to live at a more beautiful standard as a woman of God. This book was handed to me by mom when I turned 13. Never has left my shelf.
31. Walking on Water —I remember my other best friend's husband saying that every artist should read this book. I concur.
32. Ben Hur, a Tale of Christ —Confession: Never read it. But it's there, just the same.
33. One Thousand Gifts —We all know Ann. I am so grateful she had the time/energy/heart/vision/grace to write this. It has altered the way I live.

So there you go... 33 books from my shelves. Reading anything good lately? Drop me a note here and let me know!

Well, If I'm Going to be Honest

2012-02-01T07:21:00.000-06:00

I have to be honest with you.There's a few reasons I've pared back my writing.And I'm going to be honest with you about them,because one thing I've always tried to do here is to be honest.

One, it's hard to write transparently when you are guarding things in your heart.

Two, I struggle with comparison. When I start to compare my writing, my thoughts, my heart here to other people and other places, death starts to seep into all creative sprouts. Comparison is deadly. And I'm fighting for the grace to get beyond it.

Three, I don't like posting before I've lived it. So there's a whole lot of living. Beautiful stories spilling out on my couch and in cars, from my heart to others, and their questions outloud to me. A whole lot of living that I don't know is ready for dissecting or poetic lyric.

Four, I'm trying to figure out the whys and ifs and shoulds of writing and blogging. Don't get me wrong, I love it. It's a part of me, has been a part of me for the past eight years or so. So I've sat down to make a schedule. A plan. A goal for this space. Things like... more posts from my kitchen, thrifted living, stories of parenting, of community, of grace.

Five, I am the first to discount and discredit everything I write. I feel unqualified and inadequate. I think most writers and thinkers and creative sorts feel this way. In fact, I'd go so far to say that most people feel this way in different avenues of their lives.

Six, blogging takes energy and time and investment. And these days? Well, sometimes I'm just tired.

(even my Mom has to hear it from me)

Thanks for letting these fingers and heart write honestly. Vaguely, maybe. But honest, I promise.

And can you give me grace as I ebb and flow with this space?

Love.

Weekend Wrap-up

2012-01-30T11:50:00.001-06:00

It was was the sort of weekend that went by slowly and quickly, all at once. When it felt long but not long enough. One of those weekends. Songs on the guitar. Music spilling from our heads and hearts. Boys and their video games. Lessons to a little girl of how to not interrupt boys during their video games.

(Ladies, take note. Give the guys a little breathing room, ya? Take up knitting. Read a book. Chill out.)

And we listened to music. Some really good music. Some not so good music. Music that makes one friend say, "You know how people say John Mayer should stop talking and just play his music? Well it's the opposite for this guy." (Not the one pictured.)

And then it snowed. Big, huge flakes. Heavy to the earth.
Weekends are for night walks in the snow, spontaneous snowmen, desserts.

Finding ways to stop, change things up, rest, say no, say yes.
This is part of living.

I don't keep record of things to boast in them. I don't keep record to be sentimental.
I keep record to count. Because God is good in giving us eyes to see beauty. In giving us a crave for rest. In giving us smiles to strengthen, songs to sing, ears to hear.

In a world that is cursed, He still gives us the ability to enjoy. That, my friends, is grace.

A Little Bit of Sunday.

2012-01-22T15:19:00.000-06:00

I wish to write.

But writing means digging. Digging means quiet. Quiet means time.
All of those things are just beyond my fingertips.

So I give you a slow Sunday afternoon. A mulled cider candle is flickering, another end-of-the-world disaster movie is playing (my latest timekiller), my current read is bookmarked and waiting... this is just that sort of Sunday afternoon. I'm still chewing on an amazing message at church this morning. The kind that has me looking at 1 John 4:10 again and again and again. Isn't this the greatest love story every told?

M just stirred from her nap and has now snuggled her toes underneath my legs. I have to remind myself to not feel guilty for such moments of leisure. Somewhere along the road, I listened to the "if you're resting, you're lazy" mantra. Never more does my belief in that lie surface more than when I'm actually resting.

Anyway, that was a random rabbit trail.

So today, we're resting. Watching movies. Reading books. Tucking our toes under blankets. Not feeling guilty. Here's some Sunday tidbits.

1. On my wishlist. Not Another Bill. 2. With a birthday coming up this week, it means I'm almost at the end of a decade. 3. Super depressing song. Really catchy tune. Band of Horses' Detlef Shrempf. But seriously, don't listen if you don't want to be sad. 4. Books I want to get for Madeleine. 5. Another wishlist. Kinfolk subscription. 6. Morning, noon and night. And with whole beans to grind and friends to share it with, who could turn it down?

Happy Sunday-ing friends. The weekend is wrapping up. Squeeze it all for what it's worth.

Guest Post: Living in the Moment

2012-01-20T08:14:00.000-06:00

Today, I get to host the beautiful Gina from Oaxacaborn. I'm always pleasantly surprised when I find kindred spirits through social networks. She is one of them. On a dark day last fall, she sent me words from a song that have since been sparks in my soul. And now, I consider her a friend. (Someday we will meet and I will hug her and everything will feel right.) So when we talked about her guest posting on my blog, I gave a resounding... YES PLEASE. She's a mama, with a beautiful soul, doing good work for the country of Uganda, and she pours part of her heart out here for us. Enjoy:

I'm staring. It's that time of the afternoon where all I want is another cup of coffee, but Aveline's bedroom is right off the kitchen. She's the world's lightest sleeper; if I even think about that cup of coffee too loudly, I know she'll hear me & wake up.

There is a pot of white beans simmering on the stove. I'll add some sage and garlic in a bit. I'm not sure why I bought white beans. I nearly always cook black beans -- black beans with onion, garlic, lime, jalapeño, and cilantro. Once upon a time, when I lived in my beautiful California, I added epazote, too. It grew wild around my front step.

But here, here in the land of my sojourn, here in soggy Florida, there is no epazote outside the front door. There are ruddy chipped bark pieces, all neat and packed in around the landscaped shrubs. I'm thankful for the maintenance crew, but I kind of ache for the ruggedness of California's own dried up star thistle and manzanita.

Aveline knows of no such ache. To her wide eyes, the world is a marvelous place, and everywhere she turns, she is filled with wonder.

We went for a walk today. She won't be one for another nine days -- not that I'm counting -- so our walk was slow, and definitely not in a straight line. She dashes wobbily here and there, drawn inexplicably to sand-filled nicks in the pavement, to clumps of mud, to fallen leaves, to minuscule pebbles.

As I watched her, I realized something. She didn't wish the crunchy leaves fell from California trees. She didn't know the sidewalk was inside an apartment complex in Florida. She just embraced it all, loved it all, and stood laughing with her chubby hands full of tiny treasures.

And inside that golden moment, I whispered aloud, "Oh, Father. Make my heart more like a child's."

---------------------------------------------------
Follow her on twitter, say hi on facebook, leave a comment for her to see you were here :)

a snippet from my kitchen for you.

2012-01-18T15:04:00.001-06:00

So two recipes for you.Bon appetit.Or eat up, y'all.

Anytime Smoothie
1-2 cups of Almond Milk, vanilla, unsweetened
1-2 Tbs Peanut Butter
1 banana
A little more than a pinch of pumpkin spice

Blend. Drink. Enjoy.

Italian Stew
1 can of crushed tomatoes
Half a jar of parmesan cheese
Red potatoes
carrots
garlic
1 can of cream of potato
1 can of cream of mushroom
1+ hot italian sausage
1-2 cans of chicken broth
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp parsley
3-5 leaves of basil
salt, pepper to taste

Brown the sausage with crushed garlic and olive oil. Place in crockpot. Add chopped carrots, potatoes, soups, broth, spices. Let it sit for 4-6 hours on high, or 8-10 hours on low. Enjoy with homemade garlic bread and shredded mozzarella cheese.

Oceans and Streams

2012-01-17T13:46:00.000-06:00

It's M's first day of school. We scrambled around the house before 9, trying to gather all the pieces for life. I tried to turn a blind eye to the stack of dishes that overflowed from the white basin. I am on the go and can only see the unswept corners, the laundry that still needs to be put away, the unmade beds. As the day's clock starts ticking, I feel my time is already too short. The work, the chores, the mothering, the cleaning, the basic life stuff that I'd like to pretend I can handle.

(But maybe we can't. Maybe we're not supposed to handle it all.)

I tell myself this as I'm locking my front door, closing it all behind me.

I guess I don't understand why some days it feels like a stream and some days it feels like an ocean. Why some days I am surprised by finished lists, happy clients, good conversations, steady peace and other days, it's just coming up for air. I'm just trying to come up for a sea-saturated breath before it's back under into the murky deep.

Do you know the feeling? Has the ocean ever caught you off guard?

I dropped her off at school, kissed her tiny lips goodbye and scurried over to the coffee shop. Two hours of an attempt at being productive.

Yesterday was fine, I think to myself. Wasn't it? Didn't it all flow smooth and quiet? I try to pinpoint when the pace went out to sea. I know the moments that started the current. I'm closing my eyes in the corner of the coffeeshop, asking for clarity again. Feeling a bit like a disciple on the boat, wondering why Jesus is sleeping.

Recently I told a friend how sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy. Maybe all this creative stuff spinning in my mind is slowly taking me down the road to "the crazy lady who lives in the house at the end of the block." My friend quickly reminded me of Chesterton's quote from Orthodoxy. —

Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination. ... Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion... To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits.

On days like today, I'm convinced of this. I'm trying to logic and reason my way in and out of so many things; I'm actually trying to put heaven in my head.

I have too many seas that I'm trying to conquer and cross, instead of floating.

I don't want to reason my way out of peace. It's easy to take assumptions and logic and make them the rudder of our ship. To steer without faith. To navigate with self-reliance. It works until we're capsized, coming up for salty air.

Back to the stream, I tell myself in the corner of the coffeeshop. Back to the stream.

(Have you stayed to the end of this small ramble? Well, then, I commend you. I'm not sure I would have stayed.)

---

Linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria sisterhood.

A Little Bit of Mr. Lewis

2012-01-16T09:31:00.000-06:00

I heard part of this quote at church yesterday.

And I haven't stopped thinking about it.

So I'm sharing here. So I can always find it and remind myself of it.

This place where I collect, remember, write and remind.

So this, today:

“There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable...... We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as a way in which they should break, so be it. What I know about love and believe about love and giving ones heart began in this.” — C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

there was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.

2012-01-12T11:13:00.000-06:00

Right before my eyes, in my shoes, she is growing.

Asking big questions, her blue-green eyes searching mine for answers,
and I cup her chin to say,
"I don't know child. I don't know."

Days feel like a race, toward bedtime, toward dark, to a future that is racing back at us.

And the love? Like. Whoa.

To be honest, I never feel it as strongly as when it's 11:48 p.m., she is sleeping soundly and I realize that this is the baby I once carried. The love that crashes inside of me in those moments is astounding and I will rest my head by hers, pray, stare and pray some more.

a little bit of need is good for the soul.

2012-01-11T11:59:00.000-06:00

I like busy kitchens.

Scratch that.

I love busy kitchens. The clatter of dishes, the splash of water, the smell of simmering garlic and onion while we swing around each other and make the puzzle work.

We're gathering again on a Tuesday night. All the coffee accoutrements are in hand as I enter the house tucked on a quiet side street. It is time to cook, with only a few hours before everyone is due to arrive for dinner. Meat seasoned. Sauce simmering. Pasta boiling. We are twisting around one another at the sink, at the table, at the stove as we stir, sing, hum, sway and prepare.

Being with these people is a gift. I know this. I've known it, but in moments like these, when there are knocks at the door and the volume level of greetings rises above Frank Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight" on the stereo... I know it's a gift. To me, to all of us.

See, I've been thinking about life. (That should come as no surprise to you. When one spends time alone as much as I do, there's a whole lot of thinking.)

And really, I keep coming back to this:

We need each other.

We just do. We need each other to laugh, to listen, to talk, to just be.

Being a single mom is hard. No one is going to deny that.

And I've said it once, and I'll say it again — it's hard not because I'm a "single" mom. It's hard because I'm a mom. Being a parent is hard work. It's tears, giving, dying to self and a whole lot of gritting my teeth while I sleep. At the end of the day, I'm not falling into bed weary because I'm single. I'm weary because the days with a toddler are hard work. Good, worthy work. But still hard.

But then again, feeling alone can be hard.
Working a lot is exhausting.
Wrestling with fears is hard.
Wrestling with faith is hard.
Being a spouse is gritty work.
Worrying about the future wears down your soul.

You catch my drift?

We're all fighting tough battles. We're all moving in and out of the flow of joy and suffering, and sometimes the two are made complete in each other. Sometimes we're resting and worshipping, and other times we're quietly (or loudly) pounding our fists against the fallow earth.

So, it's in these moments.... when he's straining the pasta, I'm stirring the sauce and the room is a hum of names, stories of the day and jokes, that I am thankful that we need each other.

I am so glad that God knew it wouldn't be good for us to be alone. Community reminds me that no matter how this chapter ends, or how the next one begins, we are all fighting, pounding the earth and then breathing. We are rehearsing lines we think we ought to say, and then slowly letting walls down as we grow into ease.

Being together is more than just socialization; it's a way for our souls and hearts to acknowledge that being known is good.

Sharing food is meeting our hunger.

But seeing a face? Leaning in against a shoulder? Smiling at the door? Singing along to the same lyrics, laughing at the same joke, sipping on coffee and turning to the one at your side to whisper — that's feeding a hunger in our souls.

There are a lot of beautiful, amazing, funny, talented, sincere people in this world — and I keep meeting all of them.

A Brief Lesson on Hospitality

2011-12-30T23:30:00.000-06:00

It had been years since the last time I had seen my Aunt Helen. She's 94 now, and greeted us with the same bright eyes and smile I remembered.

In the kitchen, she scooped some Folgers from the freezer into her coffee pot and she directed me to get the creamer. Pointing a finger at the top shelf toward some antique sugar and cream sets, she said, "Get one down dear. I can't reach."

"It's ok Aunt Helen," I said. "No need to make a fuss. I'll just pour it straight into my coffee."

She looked at me (rather up at me, as she has now shrunken in her height to slightly below 5' tall) a bit quizzically. The corner of her mouth raised in a smile.

"Really, I don't need special things," I insisted. "We're family."

Pointing again to the top shelf, she gestured at the small flowered pitcher just beyond her reach, "All the more reason then."

Wrapping It Up.

2011-12-27T08:55:00.001-06:00

Oh 2012. You seem big. Open. Unwritten.

I was going to write one of those epic end-of-the-year, photo-logged, everything-amazing-in-one-shot posts, but I'll be honest.

I have the attention span of a gnat these days. I opened up a photo of summer to edit and an hour later I was watching a video on another website and accepting a video chat from a girlfriend down south.

So, faithful, kind, quiet blog readers, this is what you get. I'm doing this partially for you, but I'll admit, a bit of it is for me. This is a page with the corner bent down, so when we look back to see how this year shaped us, we'll see it was slow, testing, beautiful, good.

:: {THE STARS AT NIGHT}... are not just big in bright in Texas. They are everywhere between Texas and New York. And I traveled that stretch of road three times this year, the last one being the farewell to the state I called home for the past 6+ years. I thought I was coming back, but things change as things do....

Even still, when people ask me, "Why Rochester?" I shrug my shoulders slightly, try to come up with a reason that sounds not-so-crazy as "I felt like it was the right thing to do." (Because when I actually say, "I felt like it was the right thing to do," most people give me a cock-eyed smile and I see a bit of pity cross their face.)

As if they think I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

Chuckle.

....

I know what I'm doing with my life (said with a not-so-believable earnestness).

(Commence more quiet laughter.)

:: {MADELEINE} If you know her, you'll know what I mean when I say this... This girl is a spark. From the moment her feet hit the floor until I kiss her goodnight, she is nonstop. I'm amazed at her. Parenting her is the hardest, most amazing, most humbling, and most beautiful thing I get to do with my life. This year, the year from 2-3, has been no exception. Also, I get to meet strangers everywhere because she strikes up conversations with everyone. And, people, I mean EVERYONE. IT NEVER STOPS. EVER.

:: {THE ORGANIC BIRD} The success of this year has really surprised me. I still feel like I'm cheating the system somehow... now and then, in the mornings, when I'm knotted up with my coffee, hair tossed in a sloppy bun, my toddler running about, and I'm checking e-mail, I wonder... "Is this really my job?" 2011 shaped a lot of the face of The Organic Bird, including a new logo. I like new things, and this one (obviously) is one of my favorites. I have had some amazing clients this year. People with dreams, ambition, ideas, and I get to be a part of it. That. is. awesome.

It's not always easy, or fun, but I'm still in the boat that if you can work for yourself, you should. Figure it out. Take some risks. Have some fun. And if it fails? Well, at least you know you tried.

:: {THE LESSONS OF LIFE} Who was it that said "You really don't know anything until you realize you know nothing."?

Yep. That. After a year of reading, listening, learning, and changing I have come to the conclusion that I am, at best, the distracted student sitting in the back of the classroom. Thank God for Grace. That the Lord is gracious, slow to anger, compassionate and rich in love. I've read quite a few books this year, and several still stand out ... two to mention are The Cross Centered Life and One Thousand Gifts. I have revisited them both several times throughout the year. Romans has been a guiding light for me this year, the one that I've returned to again and again and again. I'm reminded by C.J.'s book again: "Never be content with your grasp of the gospel. The gospel is life-permeating, world-altering, universe-changing truth. It has more facets than any diamond. Its depths man will never exhaust.” I have reached the end of this year with a slight limp in my heart — the good kind, I guess.

(this is my current desktop image. i need to see this daily.)

So, 2012. I see you standing there, flexing your muscles with your Leap Year status and apocalyptic threats. I'm not ~~that~~ scared of you.

Here's to a New Year.

Cheers.

Christmastime is Here

2011-12-23T13:58:00.002-06:00

Dear blog readers,
friends face to face,
friends in words,
family near,
family far....

Wishing you and yours a cozy, fun, warm, safe,
memorable in all the best ways Christmas.

May the presents pale in comparison to the joy that you experience.
May each moment be rich, sweet
and the sort that makes you want to bottle it up for the rest of your days.

If your heart is happy, revel.
If your heart is breaking, respite.

If your home is full, stop and listen.
If your home is empty, know Love still surrounds you.

Between trees and lights,
chocolate and coffee,
songs and prayers,
paper and hush,
candles and arrivals,
may this Christmas be filled with gratitude, grace and peace as we near the end of another year.

And somehow, someway, I hope you're caught off guard even
by the wonder of the arrival of the Savior.

That he showed up in the middle of our mess,
a Redeemer stepped into the story to rescue back what is His.
The impossible, unlikely and unimaginable happened,
turning this world on a dime,
when Jesus arrived on dark, starry night.

Merry Christmas.

"the way you keep the world at bay for me."

2011-12-16T13:34:00.000-06:00

Sometimes all the words in the world can't say what needs to be said. Sometimes the easy silence is the best wonder of all. It's not always about the poetic wrapping of life. Life can be messy, unknown, scary, and still be beautiful in all its open wound, hearts hanging out, raw sort of way.

My great aunt, my grandfather's sister, stood a few inches shorter than me in the kitchen. She struggled to name faces as we looked at the black and white photos on her fridge. She leaned against me slightly as she started to cry, "Most of them are gone now."

These are faces from my legacy. Couples who fell in love, built homes, forged families, stayed at each other's side until death covered them in sleep. There are parts of my story that feel so largely unknown right now, and yet, I'm looking at photos of a life that came, wondered, dreamed, loved and is now collecting dust on an aging aunt's refrigerator.

"Christmas used to be so special," she says through her tears. "Now, we don't see anyone. Most of them are all gone." I am speechless. Completely, totally without words and it seems right. I have no wisdom to tell her. No smart responses. No prose. I am so inexperienced and without knowledge that I won't even pretend that I can understand the weight of her words. So I slip my arm around her fragile shoulders, lean my head against hers and point at another photo.

"Tell me about them," I say. And she starts.

The holidays bring faces I haven't seen in awhile. Stories emerge. Folgers coffee is served in mugs from 1935, pictures tumble yellowed and curled out of photo albums, and wool socks are pulled up to my knees in comfort.

i can't get past how handsome my grandfather is in this photo. "a jolly good man," my great aunt described him.

Winter is wooly bears and wood stoves. Twinkle lights, dark evenings, family movies. Late night shopping with a sister, coffee that seems to work by osmosis and fur-lined trapper hats. It's memories of all the years gone by, all the hopes we've held onto as each new year crests and washes. Winter is when we mourn what has passed behind us, and look to a future that is always new.

It's in all this easy silence, listening, stories, honesty, that I find the rich treasure. I don't know that I'll live to be 97 like my grandmother. Or if someday someone won't be able to remember my name. But all those things that I don't know? That I fear? They are no reason to not live anyway.

Into each other we lean, our tears fresh, our hearts raw, our lives real.

A Christmas Ramble

2011-12-01T13:42:00.001-06:00

Last night, in between eating the chocolate and trying to watch Heroes, I was slipping pieces of paper and candies into each door of this little calendar.

Bible verses to speak truth, of coming life.
Families to pray for.
Surprises for cozy evenings.
And chocolate, of course.

This morning we opened up the first door. Out spilled the silver wrapped treasures into her hands and we sat to read about the Root of Jesse. How He will not judge by what He sees with His eyes, or by what He hears with His ears. (And I think, Oh how I need to understand that.) She is listening at my side, sneaking chocolate before breakfast, and I know that it's a lot to expect her to get it. I mean, the whole weight of Advent is something that only unpacks itself more and more as we get older. Right now, she hears words and I'm praying that something in her can differentiate between the bearded man who has flying reindeer, and the man who came to save the world.

Because one is fun to pretend.
And the other is our lifesource.

I don't know how to do it all, but we bow our heads and pray. For the name on the slip of paper. For hope. For the difference between dreams and reality, for patience, for the waiting.

It's all in the waiting until the next thing opens and spills into our hands.

Day one of the Advent season, and while it seems everyone is "adventing" these days, I still feel like I did when I was five. We hopped into the truck to go get the tree and the Christmas music is already playing. Bing croons and she belts out along from the backseat, and I feel that same magic that hits me every year.

It's the chilly night searching for the perfect tree,
the clear early winter sky that seems to dangle the stars low into our view,
a knit cap pulled over my ears,
the faint appearance of our breath as the temperate drops,
Christmas music serenading as the tree stands tall in the corner,
the collection of ornaments all at the bottom where she hangs them,
the pile of glass swept up from all the ones she dropped,
and then this.
This moment where you realize all of the stories and pretending, all of the imagining,
the bells ringing while angels getting their wings...
it might as well be real right now.
She's looking for wonder and I am praying I can hand it to her over the next 25 days, 25 years even.

The Stories We Tell

2011-11-28T11:19:00.001-06:00

It's the Monday after Thanksgiving. The first Monday of the Advent season. I am sneaking a peek at the end of the Advent Readings that our church gave us yesterday. We won't start the advent calendar here until Thursday, but I like seeing where this road will lead.

And I don't know why it never crossed my mind, but their choice for December 24th makes my heart swell.

Next to the scripture to read, it says this, "Jesus makes all things new."

If that isn't the point of Advent, I'm not sure what is. Once upon a time, a child was born and everything changed. Now all of this waiting and hoping, praying and believing in Grace is because one day this story will all make sense. Everything is being made and will be made right.

Yesterday we sat in a circle and lazily soaked up the last Sunday of the season that allows for picnics and grass picking. I feel like I spend more time listening and thinking these days, more than telling and acting. It's better to sit back and let some things be, let stories come as our elbows get damp and sink slightly into the earth.

He and I wandered with my little M over to the cemetery after the picnic. Some say it's the Irish in me, others say I'm just prone to morbidity, but this cemetery was one of the most beautiful cradles of death I've ever seen. I can't really put into words what it feels like to see name after name, date after date etched in stone. So final. So finished. And yet the trees grow tall, branches dipping low and back to the sky, their life not suffering for all this fertile earth.

There is one family lot where we stop. Four headstones of children gone under the age of 5. All within 5 years of each other. Brothers and sisters, children of Hannah and Alexander, sent to the earth too soon some would say. Nearby their parents lay, some 150+ years ago. These are old stories but something in me rubs raw. I wonder how long Hannah lingered here at their gravesides, how frequently tears fell on these stones.

And I tell him, "These generations, all the ones who have gone on before us, they went through so much more than we'll ever have opportunity for."

The sacrifice. The loss.
The struggle for a better life.
Hard work and dreams for not just themselves, but for generations to come.

Now we reserve the hard work and sacrifice for the nameless or the great. Not that many generations back, I can point to my great grandparents who left Ireland and Poland and settled here. We are children of people who sacrificed for something greater. For a better life for their children, for me, and ultimately, for this little curly-haired girl.

I don't know that I'll ever fully grasp the weight of those who traveled by sea with dreams. Those with adventurous spirits who claimed land, who started over again with no roots, those who wept at gravesides and worked hard until the end of their days.

Life is short, and even in death, beautiful. Madeleine asks where all the people are and he tries to tell her, "They're buried, in the ground."

"I won't get to meet them?!" she sighs with exasperation. No, love, you won't. But we continue the story they started. Adventuring. Dreaming. Believing for better. Holding out hope.

With the onset of Advent, I want to remember the stories. All of them. The hope that this world is not our home. That a young mother once cradled a baby in her arms, believing against common opinion, believing after hundreds of years, that the story was just beginning.

And it was.

In All Your Ways...

2011-11-17T22:00:00.001-06:00

"Write," she says, without hesitation.

"Yes, I know, it does help."

"You need to write," she says again, this time a little more firmly.

Sisters can do that. They can say things firmly, with love as the sweetening, and while you know you're being told what to do, it doesn't matter.

It's not yet light here where I am. I can see the outline of the morning clouds, and I know the city is waking up, but the night has not yet bid adieu.

It's almost Thanksgiving, and this morning, I feel my cup overflowing.

Sometimes, I know I can be a little much. I express gratitude at the simplest of things, and I feel like my heart is going to burst for joy. I've been teased about it, but I know they get it too. It's the hundreds of sunsets, the moon peeking out from clouds, holiday music and twinkle lights, meals shared, colored houses, Saturday mornings.

I am looking back at a year that could've been harder than it was. There seemed to be plenty of doors that could have led to disaster and tears, heartache and frustration, and instead I have found good.

I started this year telling this one that I know God is good, and I know He does good, but I doubt that I will see good for me, for us, in this lifetime. I have become slightly reconciled to the possibility that while He works all things together for good, it doesn't mean I'll get to see or enjoy them all.

And then I look back at this year, the very year, in a way, I rested in simply being grateful instead of wanting more.

And then, something happened.

He gave me good without my even expecting it. In the middle of a move across the United States, I found that His grace was poured out without measure. In the small apartment where we settled in the late winter months, I found solitude to be a worthy companion. My sister and I shared a few months of being in the same town. My parents as neighbors were blessings and friends. It was rich.

And then He brought me here.

All of this so I can see that He is still good even when I can't say, "See? I knew he would do this things for me." No, He has been good because He wants me to say, "See? Even without my open hands, He gave." (Surprise: It has nothing to do with me. God is in the God-proving, God-exalting, God-pointing business.)

There are still things, questions, doubts I have that I wrestle with, look at, wonder about, and openly discuss. I am not sure about so many things on the road that lies ahead of me — but this I know... the road behind me was hard, narrow, ohsobeautiful and good.

My count has been a slow gathering.

But grace fills up. Still. Always. Ever on.

(228-244)
:: white Christmas lights.
:: a city that feels more and more like home.
:: work to keep my hands busy.
:: white hydrangeas.
:: coffee and books on park benches.
:: toddler tap shoes.
:: old buildings.
:: new faces, new names, God-given people.
:: nutella. (need i say more?)
:: Bing Crosby.
:: Chinese food.
:: the onset of a beautiful holiday season.
:: soy lattes in small cafes.
:: finished road construction (for now).
:: inspiration and ideas for work.
:: the best clients in the world.
:: grace, grace, always grace.

On This Sleepy Street

2011-11-16T09:22:00.001-06:00

I am sitting in the coziest coffee shop. It helps that the sky is low and gray. The last remaining leaves dance loosely on the branches, some concede defeat and fall to the quiet sidewalk. This is a sleepy city, at least on my side of town it is. Boho-professionals and art professors linger long in these corner cafes. I'm just one among many here, sipping my soy latte. Mornings like these are few and far between, as I'm usually explaining to Madeleine at this point why she can't watch another Blues Clues. With meetings on the schedule, I planned a morning away, strolled off silently down the quiet streets to this little haven.

Right now I feel a bit like Kathleen Kelly. Yes, in fact, this place fits the description. Except I have no rose, no Pride and Prejudice and I am not waiting for Mr. NY152 to walk through the door. Not this morning at least. I have other sorts of meetings that include words like "design" and stuff.

Last year I came back north around this time, nursing a restless, slightly broken heart. Thanksgiving was my relief in sight and I counted down the days to seeing mountains, feeling cold, playing football with the family.

I drove through Rochester then and I remember thinking, (no lie) "Why would I ever move here? Of all the places to go from Texas, this would probably be the last place I would go."

Flash forward 12 months.

Here I sit, looking over the sleepy city, paying my electric bill for the third month in a row.

The dearest Ashleigh Baker wrote recently and I agreed with her when she said, "I think “this is life” posts are just kinda the best. To read and to write."

So this is a "this is the life". Not 12 months ago. Not even 12 weeks ago. But just today.

:: Tonight I am hosting a small Thanksgiving gathering for our small group of friends. I'm guessing it won't look that much different from our normal routine. Dinner consumed, a few ill-timed conversations that leave us all laughing, the quiet of an evening indoors, dishes washed, puns tossed about, coffee brewed, irish cream poured, a guitar strummed, and the very subtle ease of being with some of my favorite people.

:: I feel like I stepped into a goldmine when I arrived here. No exaggeration, I have met some of the best people ever in this town. And they're not the best because of what they do, or say. I genuinely feel hemmed in and around by them, with them. I begged God when I left Texas, somewhere along the highway between Texarkana and Little Rock, to please not leave me alone. I can handle solitude. I can deal with loneliness. But just being alone...well that is what I feared would happen in this town. That I'd arrive and spend hours, days, weeks on end with no phone calls, faces, touch. I can survive it. However, I admit — I need faces. I crave hugs. I look for eye contact. I listen for the familiar. This quick little community took me in and a very small handful of people have become those I consider the nearest and dearest. That, my friends, is a gift that cannot be measured.

:: The Gospel is at work here in the City. I'm encouraged by it, challenged by it, and excited to see how Grace changes lives (including my own, daily.) It is daily, and God is consistently, diligently and relentlessly in pursuit of everything. He won't let up, and I'm ok with that.

:: My days are full. Beginning to end, full. Between parenting, working, keeping a home, connecting with church and seeing friends, I have little to no spare moments. The luxury of time I had last fall is a dream today. In 2010, when I fully put on the Vegan-cape and ran on streets and treadmills daily for those four months, I had no idea what I had. In that one way, I'm jealous of last year me. But I wouldn't go back. Strange thing, right?

:: Madeleine asks a lot of questions. She's entering the "why" phase and I pray that Grace is abundant. I used to think that when parents let out an exasperated, "Just because", that they were cheating their children. Now, I get it. I GET IT. After the (easily) 200th question of the day, I have run out of creative answers and steam. I cross my fingers and hope that when she asks,

"What do blue lights mean?"

and I answer,

"They mean, be silly."

that she'll be ok with that and not follow it up with,

"Why?"

:: Christmas. I want a fat, tall blue spruce where maybe I even have to saw off the bottom of the trunk just to make it fit. I want to need a ladder to put the star on the top (though, that's not so much a stretch.)

So that's life these days, for now.

Cheers.

from the kitchen: cinnamon chip muffins

2011-11-10T13:12:00.001-06:00

One thing I do a lot of when the temperatures drop?
Bake.

cinnamon chip muffins:

Mix the dry ingredients:

1 1/2 cups flour

1/2 cup brown sugar

1 box vanilla pudding mix
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 tsp pumpkin spice

In a separate bowl, whisk the wet ingredients:
1 egg, beaten
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup vegetable oil

Make a well in the dry, and stir until mixed (but not smooth!). Add one bag of cinnamon chips.

Bake at 400 for about 20-25 minutes. (Keep an eye on them. When the tops are slightly brown, they're done.)

Enjoy!

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." — William Wordsworth

2011-11-09T09:21:00.000-06:00

(property of the organic bird)

"Remember when you used to write?" she asked.

I want to flinch at this, but she's right. I used to write. I don't much anymore. Somewhere between morning coffee, afternoon tea, new friends, mothering, working, and all the other things you do in life, my writing fingers have become arthritic. The muscles seem to atrophy quickly.

And every day that goes by in which I choose not to pen, something inside of me feels like the mountain gets taller, higher, and quite honestly, exhausting. It reminds me of Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art," and the Resistance is working. In fact, the Resistance is getting the job done.

When I write, at least those thoughts have a place to go. I may think that without words, I am well-adjusted. But when I turn out the lights, and lay awake with the sounds of the city, it's all there. I'm never so well-adjusted as I like to believe I am. I used to write to process and document, ask questions and tell stories. The stack of journals is proof.

Grace sometimes feels like a jacket I slip on and off during the day. Wisdom is that well I am at daily, dipping my hungry hands into the deep, reflective surface. My prayers are said when I stare out the windows of moving vehicles, when I'm pressing the coffee down, when I'm picking up wooden blocks and wiping the table of pink lipstick.

Writing is secondary these days. Working it all out and praying His work of endurance in me produces character that brings the hope that doesn't put us to shame. As my writing muscles creak, and my heart stretches, I find that analyzing or seeking out answers is not nearly as important as trusting my Father and believing that He is good and does good. Finding inspiration is not my goal; returning to the revelation of the Gospel is. When things start to feel joint-to-joint, knuckles white and popping, I'm asking my Father to provide Grace as the synovial fluid in between my words, my actions, my pen to paper, and mostly, in my heart. It's not about the writing these days — it's just the living of it all.

I forget so quickly, how He does it. Fills in those gaps where I need nourishment. Last year feels very far away. That is until I read and remember...
.... about the days I felt like I was faking it.
.... when perspective was fresh, new, clear.
.... long Sundays and a quiet, quiet home.

I used to write, I did.
Now I tuck in away,
mull it over,
pray for wisdom,
drench my hands in the invisible wells,
wait for the season to come again.

weekends are for waterfalls and whispering in bookstores, mondays are for writing them down.

2011-11-07T07:27:00.000-06:00

Last night, I nearly stumbled into bed. I remember uttering the words as I crawled under the white blanket, "Oh my goodness." I wanted to blog and have those sweet movie-like moments where the writer sits up in bed, her hair all twisted in a perfect knot on top of her head, her trendy glasses sliding down her nose. But not me. No. My movie-like moments are in my dreams and to those dreams I slipped quickly and easily.

A friend from Texas flew into town this weekend and the north welcomed her in fanfare. The leaves dropped slowly down East Ave, red and gold, yellow and blush. We succumbed to guilty pleasures like ravioli with vodka cream sauce and watched more movies than seems probable.

And she happened to be in town for the sort of weekend I'd like to repeat over and over and over again.
Good food. The best sort of people.
Memorable conversations on couches, in cars, at dawn.
Walks in parks, to coffee, in bookstores, around waterfalls.
Laughter split and doubled and loud in passenger seats, in movie theaters, on sidewalks, on the phone.

Winter is dancing her wild way toward us, and we are letting Autumn woo us and draw us in a few more times with her ravishing colors, warm days, and dark evenings.

The Texan in this home says to me today, "I am so glad you are here..." and something in me breathes a sigh of relief. I love that larger-than-life state, and more so, all of you beautiful people who I genuinely, truly love.

But be it God, or whim, or wanderlust, I am here now and I feel at home in this small one-bedroom apartment. Madeleine and I are settling in as I hoped in between these Mary Poppins-esque rooftops and New York neighbors.

I realize that for however long, here is good. However deep our roots should or shouldn't go, the soil will be exactly what we need. I pulled out the old letters from my great-great-aunt and she told of our Irish family, disputed the suggestion that we have any Scottish in us — how "we're Irish, and have been for centuries." But what struck me most was to hear her write of capturing beauty in stories. I read these words and realized I have a heritage of this:

"...I do not know what kind of stories you mean when you say your father told you stories, but I imagine they were like I used to tell my boys. I took the little every day things of life and wove them into a glamorous interesting tale. That afterall is what makes life worth while, to sort out the good and see beauty in every little event."

November captured my heart this weekend and I captured as much of it as I could.

flower city's own flour city bread co. and perfect weathered days.

sweet daughter, autumn leaves.

saturday morning lattes, sticky toddler fingers and bakery visits

ballerina dreams

sunday morning park visits.

fresh bread, old lace, late night music

meg ryan was perfectly young and beautiful in 1989.

a whole city to discover.

My Portion

2011-10-31T09:23:00.000-05:00

"Oh, hold on," I said to my sister. She paused in her sentence and I could hear her respond to her children on the other end of the phone. "I just need to take a picture of this quick. The sun, the door..."

"Yes!" she said, knowing that our conversations have permission to be interrupted by pink sunrises and fall wreaths. We are hunters of beauty, she and I, and it's early morning conversations like these that remind us to be diligent. We remind eachother of grace, of the Gospel, of faithfulness and the power of trusting in the Lord. I need to say just a few words to her and she knows all the undercurrent and everything I'm not saying. Sisters are good for that.

This morning it was pink skies, coffee beans, pumpkin smoothie, and her sweet voice to keep me company for 45 minutes. Mornings like these should happen more often and "Isn't the morning the most beautiful?" I say to her. She concurs. Sometimes I look around my home and I'm thankful that I am surrounding myself with things I love. Colored glass. Mason jars. Knit-wrapped candles. There's not a whole lot I can control about life. But I can make this home a place where I find things to be beautiful, greeting me at dawn through windows and on shelves.

William Morris (an artist and writer from the 1800s) said, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." This is the gift of a homemaker, I believe. And I'm thankful for it.

Yesterday, I did what I don't do often but should do more. My (amazing) babysitter played and rested in my home while I gave myself a night off. No laptop. No to-do list. Just some hours spent on non-kid things.

Like reading more than two pages in a book.
Vanilla soy lattes. (Be still my heart.)
Sitting in a movie theater to see a movie that doesn't have any cartoon characters
or songs about how to brush your teeth.
Having a conversation that rabbit trails and wanders in a city sandwich shop at 10:30 p.m. Some people have a way of catching me when my thoughts are spilling and not consistent, and I feel like it's a stroke of luck, serendipity or grace that this one, across the table from me, only smiles, listens, responds and lets the rabbit trail wander where it wills.
The company of friends I find to be so authentically good, I am caught off guard by it.
Because it's not about the words, or the points we're trying to make. When we can all ask big questions, and discuss it, and land in a place of, "I have no idea..."
...that's when you know you're in good company.

Nights off are good. But these are the days that are given to me. Soggy cereal sitting in bowls for hours. Puzzle pieces underfoot and in laundry baskets. Long work hours, balancing schedules, spinning plates. This is my portion and He has called it good. I don't really understand it, but it's not about me understanding it anyway.

So I say, give to me fields of golden brown and dying reds. Muddy boots and pigtails. Sweet apples and sailors on playground ships. The smell of winter in the air. It's instinctive now — to gather, count, nestle in, light candles.

Give to me late nights with coffee and Abbott and Costello. Friends and laughing, and a home that feels like home. People who sit across tables and listen, and talk, and laugh and give me the space to ramble. Friends who love my daughter without measure.

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." These broken stories, big questions, honest hearts, blocks of silence ... fill my home with them.

this today.

2011-10-27T09:04:00.001-05:00

(lyrics: rich mullins, calling out your name. design: the organic bird)

shooting straight.

2011-10-17T09:30:00.001-05:00

I used to post blogs updating on life all the time. When my family was thousands of miles away, they wanted to know what my kitchen looked like, what my hair looked like, how we spent our hours on on our own.

Now my family is a morning's drive away... but then I have friends back in Texas who now ask the same. I'm grateful for blogs and facebook to keep us connected. But I supposed I should occasionally refrain from cryptic, poetic posts and just shoot straight.

So - are ya listening?

the home office today.

:: I sometimes pinch myself that I somehow get to do what I love from the comforts of my own home. Granted, I have to tell myself to leave the house, get out and see the world. When working from home, it's so easy to just shut the doors and become a recluse. The problem with that is that I LOVE the outdoors. The leaves, this season, the wind, the smells... it all makes my heart skip a beat. (If you're curious about what my "day job" is, besides being a mom, click here to see my professional site.)

:: I dyed my hair. One of my best friends sent me a note after I did it and asked, "Is this a 'I can't control anything else' hair dye? Or is it just for fun?" I assured her, just for fun. It's growing on me. My mother tells me it makes me look more as I ought to look — Irish and all. She's always trying to get me to be more connected with the Motherland. I suppose red hair helps.

:: It is fall. The Texan in me is searching for my wool socks and digging out my sweaters. The rain feels cold and biting, and while others are strolling the streets with umbrellas, I'm wondering if it's cold enough for things to freeze yet. Lord have mercy on my Fort Worth feet.

:: But at least I get to bake these (pumpkin/cream cheese frosting ~~sins~~ cookies):

:: When I'm not working (with the BEST clients, I tell you. The BEST.) I have a little sweet who likes tea parties, staring out the windows at the birds and all other wonders. She turns three this week? Have I mentioned that yet? That I have an almost-three-year-old? Time flies.

:: We took a short trip to the mountains to visit my sister. That place will always be home. These hills hold so much of my history. Drove through the flood-tattered streets. Nursed a sick babe and drove back to Rochester.

the valley

:: Otherwise, there is much to be grateful for. I don't know the big picture, but I know that there are plenty of small little reasons during the day to make me stop, smile, breathe deep, and look for hope. Long days lead to late nights, but I am grateful for the richness of it all.

this pilgrim soul

2011-10-12T20:50:00.002-05:00

{soundtrack for today}

Someday, I will not always be such a wanderer...
of heart.
of thought.
of belief.
of life.

Someday, I believe this obvious symptom of immaturity,
of selfishness
will get worn off from all these rough edges around.

Maybe from someone else's stability,
from someone's commitment,
from someone's proving me wrong.

Or maybe just my own surrender.

Perhaps from a house that I'll dwell in until I know all the creaks in the floorboards,
and heights are measured on a wall,
with fingerprint stains on banisters.

Or a career I will invest in and work until I'm an old pro,
having lost my youth and cutting wit,
but never my skill.

I dream of the day I rest my lack of knowledge at the altar of faith.
I don't quite love my logic,
the ego that reasons,
tries to find explanations for the things my heart believes,
or hopes for,
or dreams.

I like to think that so long as I desire more faith,
that it will come.

And when it doesn't, if it doesn't,
I want to trust, hope that the measure I have,
is the measure I need.
That I'm not lacking anything, ever,
even if the lacking feels gaping.

I don't want to wander to fill. If I wander, I hope it's only for the joy, not for the emptiness.

No need to figure out more than I have measured.

And still I try, and feel like I'm floating on the waves in the sea,
slowly moving, wondering if the sea is carrying me back to shore,
or farther out.

I suppose I won't know til I get there.
If I get there.

Someday, I will not always be such a wanderer.
This pilgrim soul will rest.
I wonder if I'll be given the gift of a family-surrounded deathbed. And will I then say,
to Home, I go.
To rest, to cease. To be for good
where only love grows
and my wandering soul finds it's
not so much about where we've wandered,
so long as our wandering always led us here.

--

under the jackfruit tree

2011-10-10T22:40:00.000-05:00

It was in Uganda the last time I felt God speak to me so clearly,
that I had to stop dead in my tracks under a jack fruit tree,
and cry.
The clouds hung low, heavy with rain,
and I waited on the stones
to be swallowed up by the magnitude of it all.

That was over a year ago.
And yet tonight, as I opened the journal,
with the pages covered with my handwriting,
red-dirt-stained and crucible-marked,
I remembered the jackfruit tree.
I remembered the moment I wanted to
slip off my dirty sneakers,
and stay until someone found me.

I don't know if God speaks to you,
or if He does, if you hear it.

But I do hope that the words of life come your way,
that just when you feel forgotten,
the earth would swell up under your feet
to nestle you under a fruit tree.
That the air would feel so holy,
so clear,
ringing with truth,
that you would feel the urge to slip off your dirty shoes,
fall on your knees
and say "thank you".

I hope this for you.
Because that has been a source of manna for me,
a lightpost on the trail as I look back,
a lantern swinging in the night.

A reminder that even when I've felt invisible,
standing before an uncertain future,
God shouted to me in Africa,
just before the rain fell
by the jackfruit tree.

----
linking up today:

slow saturdays.

2011-10-08T13:49:00.000-05:00

a favorite song.
some lyrics in art.
these slow saturdays.

Listen here to Dawes' "A Little Bit of Everything."

Ordinary Friday.

2011-10-07T11:36:00.000-05:00

Nothing like have a sick kid to make life seem abundantly ordinary.

Waking, resting, working, eating.
It's all so simple.

I ran cool cloths across the back of neck, while we chatted and snuggled under a blanket.
She is 104 degrees and I feel singed at her touch.

Outside, birds fly, the sun is bright.
City life goes on, construction tarries on the sidewalk,
and we sat with limbs lazily stretched, watching movies about Christmas and Santa.

Sometimes, my motherhood life feels extra beautiful.
Sweetened with vision, or energy.
Work is flowing and we move about here in song and dance.

But today, it's coffee that is slightly burned.
Breakfast that is less than average and getting soggy in the bowl.
I suppose it's ordinary times like these that make me feel rich.

If this is where we fall back on when times slow and fall under fevers,
then we are two blessed girls, she and i.
This is a good place to fall back to.

I have just tucked her in for a nap.
Ray Charles wails on my Spotify.
I am blowing some dust off of my to-do list, cracking my knuckles, shrugging off the slow.

The cup of coffee next to me has cooled, and yet I still sip.
I'm drinking of the ordinary,
and knowing that it's not just me
and it's not forever,
well,it makes it special, I guess.

Funny how even the ordinary is still beauty.

Why It's Worth It

2011-10-03T12:48:00.003-05:00

"I think it's interesting when people ask me if it's hard being a single mom. I understand why people ask, but I don't think they're thinking when they ask.

Because really, single or married, parenting is hard.
It's hard with two hands, four hands, 10 hands.
It's hard no matter what — house, an apartment, two incomes, one income, siblings, no siblings.

It's hard because we love. It's hard because we, as parents, believe that our role as parents is
vital
ordained
sacred.

So I sing songs about nonsense,
spend time working on behavior issues,
listen and teach,
because I love her.
Because I believe that all these little things are part of God's unspeakable, beautiful work inside her that I can't see.

It's hard, but not because I'm a mom without a dad in this house.

It's hard because I'm committed to her. I'm committed to being her mom and taking my role seriously."

I'm guest blogging over at Giggle, Glitz & Glam today. Join me, won't you?

It's Clair De Lune.

2011-10-03T07:57:00.003-05:00

It's Clair De Lune.
I don't know how else to explain it to you,
or really how to put it into words.

It's when rain falls sideways outside my open windows.
It washes the railings and the yellow house, cars and autumn trees.
I have a moment to stop
nose pressed to glass
to listen.

It's just as I stir in the morning,
right before it all collects back in.
Right before I remember why I ever worry at all.
Just as one eye opens to the glow on the horizon.

It's the first sip of coffee.

It's the way it spins in this faint blue mug.

Bare feet on chilled hardwood.

Sometimes it feels like this world is just routine.
Just something we have to do,
put up with
endure
suffer through.

I get the e-mails.
The phone calls.
Not a day goes by without a wonder
why He still keeps us here.

And then moments.
Tiny slips in the veil of time
when I wonder
if I've just felt what earth was
supposed to be.

Did I just glimpse
Eden?

Did that apple fall from my fingers,
untouched,
untasted,
back on to the treefor a moment?

The air ripples,
and I feel it.
My heart races with recognition.

"And they heard the sound of the Lord God
walking in the garden in the cool of the day,
and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God
among the trees of the garden."

It's almost as though, right then, the garden is in my kitchen.
It's the cool of the day
and I could swear
I just heard footsteps.

And instead of hiding,
all I want is to abide.
To be.

For a moment,
I'm relieved.

With one sip of coffee,
Debussy and the rain.
Footsteps.
Falling close.
Just on the other side of the veil.
Eden.

Chasing the Wind

2011-09-29T09:02:00.000-05:00

If you can, listen along to what plays while I write:

I work.
She plays.
I hope that my hours at the computer,
fiddling with fonts, shapes, colors,
won't somehow scar her for life.

I hope that the breaks we take to dance,
to snack on popcorn
and watch Rapunzel swing on her hair,

I hope that these moments
aren't lost on her.

She stands in the center of the living room,
her curls bouncing straight toward the sky,
tossing back her head,
she sings.

"Ask what I'm singing about, mom."
"What are you singing about?"
"Dinosaurs."

She asks to spin
"like a beautiful dancer"
and I hold one finger,
while she twirls on the hardwood.

She asks to color,
the glitter pens are pulled from the
beat-up green bin,
and she draws people.

Friends.
Family.
Us.
And if anyone is crying,
it's only because they didn't get to sing,
or dance,
or eat their cookie.

"You're so happy, Mom."
she says,
while drawing a jagged line around my head.
"Your hair."

Raising a child is hard,
and magical.
When was the last time,
you sang a song about cracking open eggs,
sweeping the kitchen,
or getting the mail?

She peers out the window,
"Mom,
do you smell it?"

"Smell what, Maddie?"

"The wind. It's right here Mom. Come."

For When I Am Nodding by the Fire

2011-09-27T20:33:00.000-05:00

The air is fresh cut this morning. Cool and new, rising off of the river bed below onto the porch and our quiet reverie here. For some reason, it's easy to disconnect here from all the worlds that are not right here. My phone sits alone in the bedroom most of the day. I quickly scan Facebook and Twitter, and discover that I'm taking much joy in being right here. Right now. With these people. And next week I will be with others and I want to have that same connection. I don't know why it's so easy, except for maybe that everyone else is connecting here too.

I found this post from earlier this summer.

There are times I look back and think :: I wish I enjoyed that season more:: ... But this post reminds me that it is possible, to live in the moment, have nothing to regret or miss. Life is brief. Sweet. Enjoyed.

Now back to today and the simple counting of joys.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

—(One of my favorites by Yeats, When You Are Old)

the good life.

2011-09-22T14:43:00.001-05:00

(Today's blog song. Listen along if you'd like)

I am so thankful.
For what Texas gave me.
And even to be back here in New York.

It's that song above that made me cry,
on the long road from Texas to New York,
and also made me smile,
and say
"thank you"
to the friend who made the cd
and to the open road.

This song makes me teary-eyed again this morning,
as I realize God's love,
is complete,
and surrounding,
and the kind that isn't always what I expect,
but always what I need.
Not ever what I deserve,
sometimes not in the way that I hope,
but always faithful. Always to the brim.

Recently, while spending a few days in tents and by campfires,
we pulled the car over,
and made our own trail

through briar
to the edge of a cornfield
to catch the sunset.

Life is beautiful,
when you're willing to hunt for it.
It's memorable
when you carve out a place to remember it.

That same night, we stood chilled under the giant sky,
full moon boasting white and blue,
stars slowly sliding toward the tree line.
We searched for the ones we knew best,
and marveled at the vastness.

It's stuff like this that makes me say,
"Of course
You brought me to a city
and placed me with friends
who pull the car over
and trek through woods.
People who stand
with eyes heavenward
under night skies
to look."

The thing is,
there is no corner on the market for good friendships.
For a good life.
For good memories.
It's all what you push through.
What you let go of.
What you hold on to.
It's all just perspective.

It's a lot like
pulling the car over
to walk through some briar
and tree branches
to see a sunset.

Like standing together in a field,
looking at heaven
until someone says,
"Let's go home."

In fact, it's not all that much different at all.

"She kissed them on the nose, each one, then lifted her skirts and winked as she disappeared over the hill."

2011-09-20T11:51:00.000-05:00

{What I'm listening to as I write. Listen along if you want the soundtrack.)

"You'll like it here — give it some time," she said over Korean bulgogi and tea. I know it, I say. Because I already am.

Liking this place has little to do with this place, I'm realizing. It has a whole lot more to do with me. My heart. My thoughts. My willingness to be here and not just live here. Trusting that God has good for us here. Maybe it's the onset of fall, or the impending arrival of winter, but I feel this maternal instinct to make a home, settle in, be present here.

(That's not saying I'm not already daydreaming of the next road trip across North America. Can you say Banff? But that's for the summer. After the spring. After the winter. After the fall.)

For the past week, it has felt like Fall.

All these northern winds remind me of the big, blue house on the hill. The trees that I meandered to after school, the hillsides where I read all my books in sweatshirts and mittens, the trees that became my secret keepers. I was the melodramatic 11 year old who sprawled in the high-grass fields with books and a loaf of bread with cheese. There I stayed, writing ~~awful~~ ~~funny~~ entertaining poetry (most of which I still have) until it was too cold for my fingers and toes. Mom or Ben would call from the house for dinner and I'd make my way back down the hillside to home. I was always in love with the change. I loved the way the world seemed to dance in one final song — leaves, grass, geese. Summer twirls her skirts as she skips away over the horizon. She is lovely and leaves us sun-kissed and dreamy.

It's always autumn that brings me 'round this trail again. I'm still fascinated by the change.This strange push and pull within my spirit. This beautiful, perfect season that makes me sigh with bliss while simultaneously reminding me that everything is going to die.

Everything beautiful will flourish under the sun, give one final bow toward the heavens and fall listlessly toward the darkening earth.

Yesterday, I sat on a Lake Ontario beach with the three who have become a steady part of my life here.

It's true that (so far) the best community and friendships I have ever experienced happened under Texas skies, on roads that wind from Fort Worth to Denton, to Dallas and back across the triangle, and in living rooms decorated with worn leather and stone crosses. (You'll only really understand that if you've been in any Texas home. Look for the wall of crosses. Almost every house has one.)

But it's also happening here, under a sunset-dusted September sky, hoodies pulled tight, sand under our feet. With people who were still strangers months ago. We sit and watch the sun disappear, the kiteboarders dip and ride, and there is an ease here I never even anticipated.

I feel silent (nothing new these days), grateful for a place to sit, be, and be among. I feel the leaves within my branches falling, and it's bittersweet. (Though more sweet than bitter in those moments.)

Fall is the swan song; the past stepping to the side, allowing death to come in order that something else can break into green in six months. Winter is both a burial and a cocoon. In anticipation, I feel like every day with warmth needs to be squeezed for all its worth.

This year, it feels different. The sting of all the firsts has worn off. They are all behind me now. (If you are wondering if the ache and cavernous space ever goes away, it does. It will. But that's another blog.) This year, I'm not piecing together shards. To be honest, days that used to be important are faint memories. It's weird, to be on the other side of pain. But it always happens, especially when you keep walking. When staring into the face of death, it's hard to believe that anything good can come. But it does.

I'm thankful for autumn. For His reminders that when something dies and falls away from me, it is not failure nor does it need a funeral. It's just walking forward. When I feel the lurch of time and I gather the things into my arms that seem lost or dead, there is a beauty in this: These things are gone so that new things can grow. Suffering, heartbreak is a part of life, and if you can leave your bleeding heart open, it brings about the most natural space for beauty. Fall reminds me that nothing is permanent except for Him.

I'm thankful for the signs of things breaking off, for the moving forward, for the seasons.
So I'm counting, the things that flourish and those that may be hanging by a thread; the things that give life, the things that are gone and the room for the new.

Counting.. (210-227)
:: earlier sunsets that make home more inviting in the autumn.
:: for forgotten pain.
:: the smell of a campground at dawn.
:: campfires.
:: down blankets.
:: pumpkin spice candles.
:: apple picking.
:: my sister's voice on the other end of the phone.
:: fresh, warm cider donuts.
:: the sound of kids playing in low-hanging pine trees.
:: the lake in september.
:: rooftops out our windows that make me think of Mary Poppins.
:: korean food and a friend to share it with.
:: crazy Asian food market with every spice I could ever desire.
:: good people in my life.
:: the sound of a guitar in my living room late at night
:: the songs that come from someone else's hands, heart, mouth.
:: a beautiful daughter who is changing my world daily.

Linking up:

the space between the notes

2011-09-13T00:41:00.000-05:00

The most precious things in speech are the pauses. — Sir Ralph Richardson

Sometimes all the words are gone.

Just before the day started to wrap up and I tucked a tiny curly-haired girl into bed, and friends knocked at my door, I was ready to say goodbye to this Monday. Early moments of the day dealt one too many blows against my wit, heart and muse, and I restlessly looked for relief.

So I drank more coffee and held my daughter longer than usual.
I turned up that old song by Switchfoot "Twenty Four" because it always fits.
I worked and plugged away on some projects.
I read The Screwtape Letters.
And I prayed,
and said nothing.
I prayed
and I heard nothing.
Sometimes that happens.
{It's not such a bad thing.}
And I watched an orange early harvest moon rise above rooftops at sunset.
I kissed her goodnight.
I stood quietly in the kitchen,
listening to the clock
tick
tock
tick.

I felt silence slowly wrap around me, revisiting my day and discussing these things with the no one listening.

I opened my door to two friends,
filled up the french press
and felt that familiar comfort
of friends, community,
ease.

source: pinterest.

Did you know, on the night of a full moon, the sky turns an almost perfect deep Indian blue at the edges of earth? Right where sky curves into stone, it shimmers oceanic for just a brief moment. I can see it from here, from where I sit with lullabies singing my daughter into dreams. This song is the perfect end to this day.

Space. Silence. Perfect notes waiting, tension and letting go. My favorite part of this song? The spaced out harmonics on an electric guitar at the end. I literally feel like it's carrying me into another world of dreams, wonders, clear lakes, paper moons and stories untold. As Sara Groves said, "into the land of ever-after endings."

Right into that earth-meets-sky strip of stolen blue.

All I'm trying to say is this:

I want to write. But I don't want to make noise. Every time I sit to put words to my thoughts, they fall empty and flat.

But maybe the absence of words, of articulation...

maybe that space is adding to it all.

Debussy said "Music is the space between the notes."

Is that what all this is right now? The space in between? The emptiness and lack that makes everything else so beautiful?

Ever-after endings and paper moons need something to carry them. Perhaps all this boarded up silence in my heart is just part of that. I'm letting all my words drop into the Indian blue, and letting the moon glow. If the sky were filled with a thousand moons, we would not be so enamored. It's because He placed one so perfectly in our sky, hanging at our fingertips and rolling through our sleep... that makes it all the more stunning. It's all the space between that makes each drop of blue and ringing note so much more worthy of notice.

"He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs–to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. We can drag our patients along by continual tempting, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot ‘tempt’ to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles. Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." —The Screwtape Letters, VIII

before noon.

2011-09-06T11:38:00.002-05:00

The quiet hours + baking banana cinnamon chip bread for the neighbors.

The working hours + Pippi Longstocking visits our home.

New hairstyle (from a friend's link on Pinterest) is tested out
while a homemade Pumpkin Spice latte is sipped.

The play time, art time, drawing time plus the snacks that we eat like crazy 'round here. 'Tis the season.

Sister's birthday is on Friday, so sketching is in due order.

Banana bread is done.

Tested hairstyle turns out to be super easy, and just what I wanted.

Let the afternoon commence.

What did you do before noon today?

I've Said Too Much, Haven't I?

2011-09-05T19:07:00.001-05:00

:: Words are absent lately, mostly this past week. Partly because every time I sit to write, I'm thinking about this. And how I want to be there. How many memories are washed away, gutted, destroyed, and just gone. A few years ago, I wrote a song about the road I grew up on and a lyric in it said, "Murphy's river winding through the valley... Don't change every thing 'til I can come home again."

After the flooding, I texted a good friend back in Dallas and told him that apparently Murphy's river (Schoharie and Fox Creek) didn't care for my song very much, seeing as how she devastated most of the community.

He replied, "Or maybe she did...and she waited until you could go home again."

And I cried.

Because what we all knew as home: the places we gathered to eat, where friends met up, where my friends grew up, where we went swimming in the hot, humid summers, got ice cream and shakes, tomato and mayo sandwiches on wheat; all of it, if it's not destroyed completely, will never be the same.

:: Words are also scattered because now that all the transition and moving, packing and sorting, lifting and driving is over — I can't help but feel that familiar sense of "now we need to make this home." I have about three different blogs written up about wanderlust, moving, responsibility, making a home and the like. But in some ways, I think it's all empty and, perhaps, untested. I need to live and walk some things out before I go spouting off about them in my blog. It's so easy to write about things. So easy to analyze and come up with my position on things — theologically, culturally, relationally. But I don't want to just be a blogger who waxes poetic on life. I'd rather work things out in my story over some time before telling you how I see it. I think that's fair, don't you?

:: Words might also be elusive because I am parenting a toddler. Who talks a lot. And asks a lot of questions. Parenting is, hands down, the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most incredible adventure I've ever been on. Yet, when I go days without seeing another person over the age of three, all of my words and thoughts go inward. Silence feels more comfortable than cracking open my heart.

So that being said, it's September and I am ready for autumn. I haven't experienced a New York fall in seven years.

That's too long, people. Too long.

// linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood

slow ramble in my heart, but not my feet

2011-09-01T09:17:00.000-05:00

I want to move slow today. This always seems to happen when I can't. Under white down comforters and a yellow throw blanket, I stretch my legs in defiance against the early morning sun. It doesn't help that the sun is somewhere behind the gray, drizzling clouds. "It's too early," I know I mumbled, just as Madeleine's feet hit the floor and her requests started. Nothing gets me out of bed as fast as a toddler scrambling to the bathroom, her shouts of fear of not wanting to have an "accident".

I remember these days when I was in school and I'd have to take the long walk to the bus stop, my french horn banging against my shins the entire way. These were the mornings I would reach the turn on Murphy Road, where the sight of my small hometown came to view, and I would see the bus pulling into the stop. I would begin to run wildly, the french horn now swinging in the air along with my arms. My short gait never got me there, but I would always try.

Yesterday was inspiring, and hard, and a bit sad. Sometimes my work means creating beautiful pieces for happy brides, new mothers, passionate small businesses. I catch their fire it and makes the work all the more fun and exciting.

But yesterday, two things came across my desk that made my heart ache. I needed some quiet moments of tears, and laid awake in bed last night counting my blessings.

1. As I mentioned in a previous blog, my hometown in Schoharie County, NY was recently devastated by flooding during Hurricane Irene. It's been heartbreaking to see photos come through of places I love completely destroyed. Homes that I spent my youth in soaked in muck and mud, covered in 8 feet of water. You hear of these things, but when it hits home, it rattles everything. I wanted to show my support for Schoharie County and all my friends and family who are taking on the task of clean up, rebuilding and salvaging what remains of the county. So, I created this graphic. The crazy thing is, it kinda went viral. I love seeing people rally together behind a common voice. It's moving. And yes, I cried. (And it just so happens, people liked it enough to wear it....so i opened a Cafepress shop. If you want to show your support and help provide relief $ toward the county, you can shop there.)

2. I have two dear friends living in Galveston TX. I can't really tell their story without choking up, and ever since I received the first quiet e-mail from Jo Anna that they were expecting, my heart has been wrapped up with them. Here is a quote straight from their blog (www.thefathersdelight.com):

"We are two ordinary parents who are having our first child in October. He name is Abigail Grace, and she is a gift from God. On May 20, 2011, Abigail was given the diagnosis of Alobar Holoprosencephaly. You can read more about this day in our post Friday, May 20, 2011. Our hearts were broken to learn that she may not live very long on this earth. That day we left the doctor choosing to live each day with purpose, cherishing every moment we have with her. Each day we lift her up to our God knowing that He has a plan, and in it, He loves our Abigail unconditionally. This blog is about our life’s journey through this heartache and joy. Although a blog about our Abigail, it is more about the love of our God and His presence in our lives."

When Lyle (Abigail's dad) e-mailed me and asked me if I'd be willing to create a logo for The Abby Grace Project, I couldn't say no. My heart was already tied with them in tears and prayer, so it would only make sense that I could give this way. Read more of their story here.

So maybe this is why I'm so slow to get started today. I know today will be no different. I feel a bit like the rest of the world is chugging away from their bus stops, and instead of chasing wildly after them, I have set my things down in protest.

I'm not going to run wildly with you today. I'm going to spare my shins and not swing my panic in the air.

I'm going to count my blessings, and remember those who are hurting and brokenhearted today.

I know the city is alive out there. People are going to work, or at work. They're sitting at red lights, speeding through yellow lights, and somewhere coffee is sloshing and office phones have started ringing. Life goes on and stories are lived, elsewhere hopes come true and dreams alight.

But my little apartment affords me the view of victorian house rooftops, an old church steeple, and one apartment building. Quiet side streets close me in, and from here it seems no one has stirred. I watch a bird dip down onto a roof, gather something in his beak and take off again. Today it is Madeleine and me, my thoughts of the Valley and my prayers for the Workmans.

monday mornings

2011-08-29T09:50:00.000-05:00

This is my Monday morning, post e-mails, schedules made, to-do list written out. It's not even 8:30 and I'm on my second cup. I bolted out of bed this morning, and I'm not sure why.

Maybe it was the weekend.
Friday — moving me.
Saturday — moving a friend.
My legs feel a bit like jello after going up and down several flights of stairs...many times. Now I want to just go hiking, because when you're done beating your lower body into submission you at least get the reward of a view and a peak. We had the reward of Saranac Root Beer. Almost as good. Nearly. Almost.

Or maybe it was yesterday. Yesterday, I sat by my computer and listened to Emergency Personnel radio scanners as they evacuated people in my hometown area in upstate NY. Streets I knew. Families I love. The school I went to. The waters continued to rise, the dam an ominous silent threat, Hurricane Irene stalling and sitting and pouring.

"Get them out of the valley as fast as you can," I heard. And I waited to hear more — see more — pray more. This morning, I see their photos. I hear their stories. Devastation. Complete devastation. Please pray for the ones I love and all of the residents of Schoharie Valley.

Maybe it's this morning. This week feels like a ticking time-bomb. I told a friend last night that my work week looked relatively light and slow. A few projects I can wrap up, but mostly quiet. I said, "Maybe I have forgotten something." It's not like I *forgot*. I just didn't realize that the first of September was this week. Note to self: Always check the calendar before proclaiming "It should be an easy week!"

So this is my Monday morning.

Heavy heart,
long to-do list,
two cups of coffee down,
and the cool winds of fall are breezing through my open windows.

And yet, we continue counting (198-209) —
:: clean hardwood floors.
:: hot, homemade bread just out of the oven
:: the early morning light coming through the kitchen curtains.
:: a flowering fuchsia.
:: thrift store bag sales.
:: madeleine's early morning hugs.
:: good friends in a new town.
:: provision.
:: mason jars filled with niece's jam.
:: a chance of luck to have breakfast with a friend who travels at the whim of the wind.
:: the smell of autumn on the wind.
:: late night peace with candles and music.

Working Girl Wednesday (4 Things)

2011-08-24T07:40:00.000-05:00

It's 12:54 a.m. I am mostly awake, one eye is half shut as I try to find images, fonts, words, layouts. Putting shapes and colors together at 1 in the morning seems so much more difficult than it is at 10 a.m. But sometimes this is life.

Life is a toddler spilling coffee and drawing on her dresses with a green Sharpie marker.
Life is a forgotten tea kettle steaming and dishes to wash.
Life is a chatty Time Warner Cable man and an hour wasted of productive work time. (Aside, I don't know why so many strangers talk to me about so many random things. But that's a whole other blog.)

Not long ago I hung up a several hour long video chat call with two of my bests. I love them, I do. I wish they were sitting on my couch right now. But, at the moment, all I can hear is someone's music outside, and a revving engine, and I realize I am most definitely not living in the country anymore. So, I'm taking a break from Photoshop and Illustrator, and moving over to where it's just words.

1. I just want some fresh flowers in this apartment. And maybe a cool autumn breeze. Or just some just-out-of-the-oven baked apple pie. I want the kitchen to stop smelling like an old building. I also can't wait until I can turn off fans for good, and throw on an over-sized sweatshirt with some old jeans and knee socks. Yeah. I'm looking forward to that.

2. It's likely in a couple weeks, I'll be camping with friends. Let's just take a moment and reflect on how freaking awesome that previous sentence is.

3. My daughter turns three in two months. THREE. Y'all. That's not a baby. That's almost not toddler. That's a bonafide kid. I know three years isn't much, but to think of how much has changed since she was swept up into my arms. Wow. Unmerited favor, that's what she is.

4. The following links are inspiring me this week. Enjoy.

Music — Dylan LeBlanc's Pauper's Field. I know this came out last year, but I've been listening to the whole album lately instead of selections of it, and the whole thing is good. My favorites are "If the Creek Don't Rise," "5th Avenue Bar" and "Emma Hartley".

Design — I love this string of retro-inspired (or simply retro) ads from Smashing Magazine. The article was out in 2008, but I still think some of the concepts, and the colors, work so well today.

Photography — I love finding and meeting new photographer friends. Check out Margaret Jacobsen's work in Portland. I wish I could fly us up there just for a little session. She recently did a photoshoot for Elise from Hey, Sweet Pea as well. Super cute!

Pinterest — I've been staring at my inspiration board on Pinterest. Guess what? It's working. I feel inspired. Back to work I go.

I Am 11 Again

2011-08-22T15:12:00.000-05:00

I was never picked last for teams in gym class. I was never picked first either. I was somewhere in the middle. After all the fast, athletic kids were picked, I was called because I wasn't bad at sports. I wasn't amazing, I wasn't awful. I was just average. You'd think stuff like that wouldn't affect me so much as a now 28 year old girl with a life of her own.

But it does.

Because really, I am most aware of all that doesn't measure up in me. Aren't we all? We are our own worst critics? Or rather, we imagine that everyone else is our worst critic, sizing us up in every way that we do or do not qualify.

Physically. (too tall, short, skinny, fat, brunette, blond, curly hair, straight hair, you name it.)
Personality. (Not funny, not talented enough, awkward, loud, annoying, apathetic, insecure.)
Situational (unemployed, in debt, divorced, single parent, too old, too young.)

I sometimes feel like I'm still standing against that matted blue gym wall wondering when all the sticks will be drawn and my name will come up next. In friendships. In career. In life.

A few months ago a friend and I were chatting about love and relationships and he confessed this about the guys he knew..."Truth is, a lot of guys think there is always someone smarter, prettier, younger, so it scares them to commit or fall in love at all." That stuck with me, mostly because it's every girl's worst nightmare. To hear those words aloud. But he went on to say that falling in love has less to do with those things, and more to do with the adventure that comes after you commit to someone. "That's where the story is," he said.

And I'm back listening to all the names called ahead of me realizing it's true. There is always going to be someone smarter, more talented, better looking, younger, funnier, fill-in-the-blank more than me.

Who knew grade school was such a reflection of "real life"?

As a single parent, I fear the disqualifications. Wring my hands over them. Expect them, even. And I'm not solely talking about relationships here. I'm talking about the things I won't get invited too, because I'll have my daughter. The opportunities I have to turn down, because I am a mother first. The boxes I have to climb out from, the labels I'm ripping off, because people/friends/well-intended strangers think they know what life looks like for me from this side of things.

And can I just say... I'm tired of feeling like I don't measure up.

And honestly, it's completely anti-gospel.

{Hello root of my problem.}

What it comes down to is I honestly don't believe that because of Christ,
I am complete,
qualified,
enough,
accepted.

In me there is still this thing that craves hearing it from someone else's mouth. That yearns for the early draw, to be on someone's team, to not be left standing knocking my heels together with the leftovers.

I just don't believe it, as much as I want to think I do. Doubt seeps deep into my bones, so familiar that I don't even recognize it as something wrong anymore. I'm familiar with it. I know how to speak its language, and make it sound less than what it is...

Disbelief. My sin nature once again running my heart ragged on some treadmill that I really need to discard.

I don't know how to drain myself of this pernicious rot. Other than pray for Grace. For eyes to see and a heart to understand the good news of the Gospel.

Maybe then one day I'll mentally walk out of that grade school gym all together, leaving those teams and straw-drawing days behind me.

"And Grace calls out: you are not just a disillusioned old man who may die soon, a middle-aged woman stuck in a job and desperately wanting to get out, a young person feeling the fire in the belly begin to grow cold. You may be insecure, inadequate, mistaken, or potbellied. Death, panic, depression, and disillusionment may be near you. But you are not just that. You are accepted. Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted." — Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” - epicurus

2011-08-20T07:51:00.001-05:00

{This blog was written over a couple of days. But for blog-sake, it's all one now.)

It rained not long ago. Probably sometime when I was cutting up zucchini bread or running the bath for Madeleine.

I know this because the fire escape is still dripping, and the air is noticeably less thick, tired, heavy. Rain came and went and now the trees turn just slightly under the post-thunderhead breeze.

I find myself fighting for contentment. It seems wrong to want to fight to be content. I keep thinking that contentment isn't something you should have to fight for. It should just be there, showing up at your window, like a rain storm that watered the earth when you weren't paying attention. But then I started counting again, and I remembered that being content has really little to do with what's going on around me, and a lot more with what's going on in me.

That book keeps popping up, and last night it came up in conversation again. The one where we read of people traveling and wonder why we're not doing it ourselves. The one that narrated part of our trip south and back again. He says he picked it up again, only to close it while reading in the middle of a laundromat. There's nothing more frustrating than reading of other's adventures while you're living in the normal and mundane.

I get it though. I've already set it down a few times myself. Tonight, I'm lying down on my still-unfurnished living room floor. Madeleine is asleep, and some Nina Simone quietly belts out from the stereo, and me? I'm reading. Arms stretched above me, the book shadowing my face, I read about these men who took to the road. Their stories. Questions, faith, God, dreams, love, fears, careers, youth. Roads that wind into mountains, beds made of meadow grass and ceilings of stars. I sneak a peek for a star and am met with the reflection of light on glass and a cityscape. My things are newly unpacked and I still just don't quite want to stop, settle and be.

I will. I do. For now. Even though I can't stop thinking about my airline miles that are stored up, a couple vouchers, and one airline credit worth a flight. The stories, the people, the places, they're everywhere.

Having been both a nomad and a settler, I find there is thrill on both sides.

Traveling is rich. Traveling is energy, passion, experience.

But to settle, to dig in the tough dirt when it seems useless, to put a stake in the ground and swallow some bittersweet tears…that's a kind of adventure I've known partially, not fully.

I'm not talking about a life that fades into the grey and becomes indistinguishable and unremarkable. Or one that empties itself of all passion and dreams, becoming so mundane that purpose circles the drain with a dying hope. Rather... To invest. To be fully known. Raise a child, show her a home. Open the same door every day to faces, to life, to community. Working hard. Knowing where the local bests are. Finding a world worth discovering within a morning a drive. Climbing hills you've known all along, but never set foot on before. Eating the fruit of local laborers, thanking them face to face. Living the gospel together when we wrestle, seek, grow weary, surrender. I know these things are real. I know they are rich too.

I've learned along the way that contentment is worth having right now. Even if it's not all perfect, or clear. If it's mundane, routine, travel-less. When hearts break, Grace abounds. When dreams die, Love lives. When everything settles into stable dust, Hope anchors deep and keeps the fire kindled.

I'm not hanging up my traveling hat, not in any way. Some day, hopefully sooner than later, I will journey again (even with the little M) to see, smell, touch, taste the world we've been given. But until then, I'm closing this book I've just finished and leaning back to look at the ceiling. One of home.

"I don't think we can really understand how time passes. We can't study it like a river or tame it with a clock. Our devices only mark its coming and going. I dropped an anchor three months back but time didn't slow. Some things have to end, you know. You feel like life is always leading up to something, but it isn't. I mean life is just life. It's all happening right now, and we aren't going to be any more complete a month from now than we are now." —Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts

around here.

2011-08-17T22:03:00.000-05:00

(thrifted cross-stitch... 25 cents, i think)

I'm around. Here and there.

No internet in the home yet means more time to unpack, unravel a bit.

Bury my nose in some books, a cup of coffee and baking in the kitchen.

Quiet hours watching rain fall on fire escapes, and busy afternoons of toddler bikes and trips down the elevator.

Life is an ebb and flow. Sometimes it's small, sometimes it's easy. Sometimes it all pushes at once and I'm back against my front door breathing deep as the world spins beneath me. So sorry it's all been rather quiet lately. I am letting summer squeeze out every last drop of my sweat as I work, and live, and let it be.

In the meantime, here's our new home:

(thrifted mugs, french press, grandmother's canisters)

(fuchsia hanging plant, grandmother's table, thrifted old bottle, basket of cookbooks & fresh veggies)

(thrifted and hand-me-down aprons)

(a house of girls needs reminders like these)

(original painting, thrifted ladder & lamp, books, huffy cruiser bike)

(cake stand with fresh baked goodies, sign from Cracker Barrel, clock from mama)

the debrief.

2011-08-12T08:57:00.002-05:00

The truck feels heavy. The trailer we carry has quite the drag. We three road wanderers packed ourselves in and made the best use of space on the way down to Texas. But it's the journey home, with my belongings, that has us knees to our chins and stuck in-between our backpacks and water bottles.

I have a lot of stuff. I know this just from the passenger seat. Each small uphill slope feels daunting, and he pats the dash and says, "You can do it," checking the mirrors for the traffic speeding up behind us. "I haven't named her yet," he says, referring to the blue Toyota that has now been a secondary home to us for the past five days.

"You haven't?" I pause, nodding in agreement. "You should. I like naming my cars." And the conversation sprouts another random rabbit trail, a normal thing at this point in our travels.

The road is long and the night is black. Trees turn into looming giants, fog sweeps under our tires with a ghostlike swirl and truck lights become faces and taunt us from behind. The hum of the road is a quiet reminder that we are in fact moving along the highway, headed somewhere. All this journeying is taking us from there to here, and wherever here is, we're not staying for long. Long enough for the driver to read a sign, one of us to laugh, and the pavement bumps to fall back into the pitch.

I'm reading a book out loud and it seems like the most perfect book to read. We hear about those who traveled roads, some roads we have even traveled already. There is some kind of sweet camaraderie in hearing their tales. As the second night rolls us along, one sleeps, one drives, and I'm here with my legs underneath me, my voice cracking and drying as the words fill the silent space. We have traded seats, traded chapters, traded thoughts and now we share the quiet and someone else's stories.

It seems the in-between is always packed with more than I can extract at the time. The in-between, the here to there, is always more poignant after the fact than in the middle.

I feel held in this space. In where God becomes both the comforter and instigator. Where I feel Him calling me out and placing me in. Cutting strings and binding old ones. I feel the drag of all my things in the trailer behind us, and a part of my independence longs to let it all go. Something in me wants to detach, become some sort of altruistic vagrant, see all of the world and live in it. The other part of me knows that rich, Christ-like character is built and lessons are worked out when I don't cut, don't shut down, and stand shoulder to shoulder with friends in 100 degree garages, sweating and complaining, allowing people to get in the grit with me. Or rather, getting in the grit with them.

I tell him, "I kind of just want to sell everything I have and live life on the road, in an airstream or something." He lifts his eyes off the road to look at the trailer swinging behind us, my said belongings piled under a blue tarp, and then looks back at me and smirks. I know what he's thinking. The same thing I'm thinking. Then why all of this? I look at the yellow lampshade bouncing and say, "But then, I think, it's just not that season of life for me."

It's the moving forward kind of time.
It's a wheels to the ground, buckle-up, let the road pass beneath your feet time.
It's not when I skip town, blow it all off and do my own thing.
There are people to see, a city to discover, a place to call home.

I try to explain the way I view life, and sometimes I feel like I am going to make others roll their eyes with my ever-changing goals, hopes, and ideas. In fact, I know I've made others roll their eyes. I've seen it. I've felt it in words and silence. It's a good thing I'm enjoying this whole thing of discovering God's giant mystery, or else I might let the people-pleasing thing in me persuade me to do otherwise. Not go. Not chase. Not dream. Not be me.

(I wonder when this wrestle will stop. Will I one day be able to make decisions and say things outloud and not have the questions and eye-rolling bruise my heart? Does that ever change?)

Maybe, maybe I'm just always in the in-between. One day, I'll tell you I want a huge family and a house in the mountains. The next day, I'll say I'm content with just Madeleine and soon I'll take her to travel the world with me. One day I want to be a graphic designer. The next day I want to farm. The next I'm wondering if I could settle down and write something worth reading in more than 1,000 words. It all is about as random as each conversation that happens at 3 a.m. on state border lines. I feel about as steady in my life as I do about us on the highway.

It all looks the same, but something is always changing.

Like these road signs, like the stars sparkling outside, the semis speeding past, we are in the in-between and there is no life to live but the one that is in our hands.

Leaving Texas propelled me out of one place, Rochester waits for the next.

No where in this part of the story am I scheduled to do otherwise. Nothing other than the in-between where life is richly happening and stories are told of other in-betweens. Life is good, and a constant adventure. I am traveling along, with, inside of this great story and one day, I will sit on the other side and tell stories about "this one time I took a roadtrip" and the in-between becomes something.

Somewhere Between Eden and Hardwood Floors

2011-08-11T09:29:00.000-05:00

I want to write about the road trip.

In fact, I did and it sits in my "unpublished" folder.

But for some reason, right now, it's not the one. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when I'm spinning my wheels on Friday and need some traction, I'll post it and remember that I don't always hate writing.

But a few days of driving, a few days of packing, leaving a state that is no longer home and coming back to a place that is not quite ready leaves me weary and agitated.

Words slip out of my fingers, ideas fall flat and I'm left to another spare bedroom with my daughter when all I want is

home.

I realize it's only a matter of days and this will all change.

And I feel so incredibly selfish and exposed in my western luxuries when I complain that...
the bed is not *my* bed.
The room is not *my* room.
The kitchen is not *my* kitchen.

Haven't you learned anything in all your travels? I ask myself. That life isn't beds and blankets, kitchens and stoves, home decor and throw rugs?

No, apparently I have not learned a thing.

So forgive me as I fill this space with the honest ramblings of a

road weary girl,
idealess designer,
time-restricted worker,
tired mother,
and all the other things that probably fall in-between the lines.

Grace feels vague, joy unrooted, thoughts restless.

Sometimes all this longing for a home here makes me just really want to go home, home. To the place that is promised to us weary pilgrims.

Is that why I have such a desire for a home? Because something in me knows that we were originally designed to dwell and be? Eden was made for enjoying and resting, beauty and communion with God and companion. Maybe the desire for a home isn't such a bad thing. Maybe it's just a part of me.

When my time comes, I want to go back to Eden.

And in the meantime, I want that 4th floor apartment with hardwood floors.

Friday.

This Weekend

2011-08-03T15:00:00.000-05:00

Oh you know, just traveling, that's all.

Tomorrow morning,
bright and early,
we drive.
And drive some more.
See a little bit of the great U.S.
as I head back to Texas,
to say goodbye
again.
Pack my things,
again.
Before going home.

Speaking of home, can I have a few of them?
I'd like to reserve Texas for at least one of the slots,
thanks.

go on and forget me

2011-08-01T06:36:00.002-05:00

I am picking up old glasses, dusty books, cobweb-covered tool boxes and painter's ladders. She moves with me around card tables, wooden trunks, Spiderman memorabilia and wolf clocks. Our pace moves with our conversation,

slow,
easy,
deliberate.

We are looking at prices and life. Wondering why people have been forgotten, wondering where the years have gone between youth and age.

When did we become now?

Occasional "remembers" slip out, but more "when was that?" float up because time has left gaping holes in our stories. As we consider old metal trunks, we talk of travel, of dreams forgotten, of what we fight against now. Beaten metal. Broken hearts. Restored furniture. Redeemed stories.

I knew her then, I am starting to know her now. The girl in between is a mystery to me, and I'm sure regarding myself, she could say the same.

Moving to a new town means running into old faces occasionally. More cases when I wonder where the line is for bulldozing your way into new friendships. Plenty, even abundant, opportunities for me to be awkward, say things I don't think about out loud, bite my tongue and learn all over again how community works. I'm still new at this, and I feel like that's how we all feel.

you
me
them.

We're all figuring out how to be what we know we need, while fearfully snapping our hearts shut to the possibility of actually being known.

She pulls out a photo from a box of three old women, sitting in rocking chairs, talking of things long forgotten. No names. No dates. Just faces from a yesteryear, and no one to claim them.

Because of this, I feel the urge to be present. To listen. Ask.

If we will be forgotten in 150 years,
I would rather just be in the here now.
I would rather hear your story amidst these old cheese graters and depression glass.

Life is the living, and not the planning. We are living our lives as we talk about what we wish we were. But in 150 years, when someone could pull a photo of us from the box,

they will see the life we lived,
not the one we wished we did.

So I'm grateful, for all the things that are, that we are gaining, experiencing, learning.

Life is short. And there are gaps. There are things we will never know about this world, about eachother.

But the adventure is the part we get to live together.
Grace is active, love is rich, and the Gospel is for you and me. Let's find the redemption of the cross, the gift of grace as we walk, bump shoulders and collapse into honesty around eachother.

Let them forget me, my name, what I did.
Let a photo fall weathered from a box of me in a rocking chair,
knowing and loving the person who reaches a hand in the air across from me.
Let Grace be the song I sing,
my reputation dissolving into the forgotten,
my story be one that sparked a light in those I love.
Forget my name, go on,
so long as I fully live.

{182-197} counting on and on and on...
:: shakespeare in the park
:: izze pop
:: cheese and fresh bread
:: still lakes
:: generations of family
:: museums of child's play, life-size lite brites and kid cameras
:: sleep and rest
:: fairy tale books and strawberry juice glasses
:: provision
:: new friends and inspiring sisters of creativity
:: creamy peanut butter on fresh wheat bread
:: little girl dates with uncles
:: yellow sweaters and thrift store finds
:: white bedspreads
:: fresh chicken eggs
:: gifts to make my new apartment a home
-----
linking up with Ann @ A Holy Experience

window shopping.

2011-07-30T13:27:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's because I'm leaving for Texas in a couple of days.

Or because I really, really, read: REALLY cannot wait to get into my new place and start making a home...

But I'm window shopping like crazy online as I work, and wait, and stay with friends. I'm not sure my northeast friends will love or appreciate all of the Texas love here, but Texas just grows on you. (Take my word for it!) And in my case, it really just has a piece of my heart.

(More the people have a piece of my heart, and those people are in Texas. And they love Texas, so...)

Also, my walls end up becoming a giant canvas for all the things I think are beautiful, cute, or just fun! I want to put all of these things on my walls. (The #2 Sundays are for Lovers prints ...I love.)

To balance it out, I added some maps I'm eyeing as well....for you anti-Texas friends.

Dear Lord, please let this flea market visit tomorrow be fruitful and cure my window-shopping woes.

I also realized yesterday that I need to get a couch. So, commence window shopping for that as well.

Links:
1. U.S. Map Featuring Texas from deLovely Arts
2. Sundays are for Lovers, breadandbuttershop
3. Pinterest
4. Pinterest (HGTV)
5. Pinterest (designsponge.com)
6. be creative print, HoneycombPrintshop
7. Pinterest (draplin.com)
8. my heart belongs in texas, bopeepbaby
9. NY State Map, Ebay
10. World Map, contemporary, Ebay
11. home is where the art is, dearcolleen
12. the sweet life, dazeychic

twice the joy

2011-07-29T13:55:00.001-05:00

Listening now:

Oh, I have found it.

The perfect reverie.

Just here and now
with Jean-Yves Thibaudet's Pride and Prejudice soundtrack
and this breeze, this heavenly cool breeze
coming down the trees,
dancing under leaves,
from a heavy gray sky.

In front of me sits a hot cup
of fresh french press coffee.
Little M is resting after a busy morning here
and I too am finding such perfect peace
here.

But on the phone, to a friend, I say "I wish you were here." And I mean it.
But not in the "I wish we could talk for hours,
and do things
and busy ourselves"
sort of way.

Rather "your quiet presence,
peaceful, calm,
present,
on the other end of the couch,"
sort of way.

Isn't a joy divided twice the joy? Something like that.

I like sharing things. My home, conversations, food, time, prayers, burdens, celebrations, joys.

Not to be misconstrued, I love solitude, and I've had my share of it.

But I also love solitude when a companion and I can sit quietly, together, breezes blowing, computers clicking, pages turning or roads passing underneath the tires.

I've been alone in silence with another before and it's felt as though I've been relegated to solitude.

Solitude forced is not a joy.
Solitude shared is bliss.

Happy Friday all.

May you find a quiet soul to split your joys in half with only to watch them grow.

How to be Self-Employed and Not Hate Life

2011-07-27T09:04:00.001-05:00

officing from my mom's breakfast table this morning.

The office is super mobile these days. And the to-do list is long. I'm trying to figure out how to get work done before I enter into a couple week craze of moving, road-tripping, driving, and nesting. I know it will get done, even if it's by moonlight in a passenger seat.

But all of this is on the list of reasons I took the leap from 9 to 5 to self-employed. The hard things are hard, but the benefits make it all worth it.

A more open schedule. Flexibility. Opportunities to travel. Oodles and oodles of time to be with my daughter ... just to name a few.

So if you're considering taking the leap from office desk to home desk, these might be for you! For this Working Girl Wednesday, whether you're just venturing out on your own or considering it, I'm giving you my top 5 tips for making it through the scary leap and the first few months of getting traction under your feet. Every story is different, so take 'em for what you will from a girl who has been somehow, sometimes not by myself, staying afloat. (I'll also add a few things I wish I had known before I started.)

1. Love what you do. I'm really convinced more and more that anyone can come up with an idea. You and I could probably brainstorm at least 10 new business ideas for a way to make money from home. So why am I not doing any of those things? Well, honestly, because I don't want to. I don't want to offer pet care and catering services to elite dogs. I don't want to crunch numbers and work as an assistant to people who are busy. I don't really want to come into your home and organize your pantry. But if you want to do any of those things, do them because you love doing them. It will take about three months for the initial "I work for myself" high to wear off. So if you don't love what you do, you'll still be hating life even without the bossman looking over your shoulder.

2. Respect the people you encounter. Do your best to build healthy, honest, good relationships every where you go and leave. Life is a giant web of relationships, and I'm never quite sure who I'm going to meet who might know so-and-so who knows so-and-so. Sometimes it just blows my mind how small the circles of creative people actually are. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who probably knows you. Leaving a job you hate? Even if you hate your job today and are scratching at the doors to get out, be sure to leave as well as you can. Let their memory of you be positive and try to maintain good relationships with colleagues wherever you go. Get to know the people who are in your field. Designers. Photographers. Crafters. Writers. Don't be afraid of them. Learn from them. Ask questions. Encourage them. Dream big for them. Trust me, there is enough work to go around for us all to have fun and be successful.

3. Execute your work well and quickly. At first, I was not always the best at this. There were times the stress of responding quickly made me delay, and I probably lost jobs. But, these days, I'm finding there is nothing better than fast responses, good work and great communication. When you are working for yourself, there is no one to blame for your lack of productivity except yourself. Distracted? Then make the necessary adjustments. Tired? Get more sleep. Too much work? Stop over-committing yourself. Afraid of failing? Sounds like a great learning opportunity.

4. Be you. Be the you that you imagine you are when no one is watching. Don't sell yourself short. Dr. Seuss said it - Today you are you. That is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than you. This means from your blog to your coffee appointments, Twitter to Facebook, phone consultations to e-mails. Be you. Stay inspired. Educate yourself on what's new in your field. Then find your voice again. Refresh your "brand" every so often. Stay on top of who you are, what you do and why someone should pay you for it. Know what you can't do. If you don't believe in the product you're marketing, no one else will.

5. Have patience and be diligent about your craft. I'm still in this boat. For me, working in a creative field means I can never just say "I know what I'm doing." The field is constantly changing with trends, focus, styles, etc. This forces me to always be a student of my career. And it means working longer hours, sometimes when it's most inconvenient. It means working extra on a project because I want to figure it out, learn more, and give my client the best product I can. Sometimes it means unpredictable paychecks, believing the best in people when I get frustrated, conceding to clients when I want to argue, allowing opportunities for correction and criticism. And pray. I pray a lot while I'm working.

The road is fun, long, hard, freeing and adventurous. Turn up some jams and make a list... What are you waiting for?

I wish someone had told me....

that somedays I'd be working just as much, if not more, than a "regular" job.

to give myself a day off, and to stop working when I should be resting.

to get a good CPA. (I did end up finding one, but just down to the wire!)

that it's scary.

that there is a whole community of people who are doing the same thing, and they are friends.

To sum up, I read this article yesterday from The High-Calling and it was so encouraging. So I'll leave you with this: "Not Your Ordinary Team"

"To see the summer sky is poetry, though never in a book it lie - true poems flee." -emily dickinson

2011-07-25T22:13:00.003-05:00

We took a slow stroll through this quiet town tonight.

all images by: theorganicbird

Can I just have a lifelong dose of summer walks? In small, mountain towns?

After summer storms, it all feels like a page ripped from a storybook.
Gray, low-hanging clouds make all of the colors rich. You can almost taste the green.
Old, worn wood and siding looks beautiful.
Overgrown brush is now wildly romantic.
Wild raspberries fall loose into our hands, sweet on our lips.
Misty and cool, the mountain behind us shadowed us all the way home.

If these trees could talk... they would tell you to keep walking and not listen to the praises and laments of my 28 years here on earth. It would just take too long. I've sat under these pines for hours, finding a holy sanctuary with my Father amidst the hidden patches of earth on these hills. My sister and I recently talked about Eve, and her home in the Garden. And I wonder if that's why I feel so much peace here.

I know the word says that creation groans, waiting for the redemption. Just as Adam fell from grace, the earth fell with him and waits for the new. But I like to think when creation becomes a meeting place for the Holy, it returns to Eden, if only for a few moments.

So we walk, and I remember, and pray for new to come soon. To my heart. To the stories that we tell. To this earth.

So again, I wish these summertime strolls would linger on in our hearts, in memory.

Soon, very soon, we head west. This summer will be a beaten down path that took me there but to which I cannot return. It's growing over behind me, branches snapping back, so forward we go.

theorganicbird

__

linking up with the soli deo gloria girls today.

when grace perseveres

2011-07-23T10:42:00.002-05:00

source

I once stood on the edge of the Badlands. It was 118 degrees; I chugged my water to the very last drop. It's one of the places in my travel logs that I consider a post-trip experience is fitting.

I've been to some places where I knew then, right then, that kind of wonder that makes you silent. I knew it by how short my breath got. Or how I stopped taking photos, because I knew film wouldn't do it justice. And words seemed inappropriate.

Some wonder is instant.

Like the amphitheater in Ephesus. A starry, starry night.

Running my fingers along the top of a cross at a death monument on a hidden Irish shore.

The moment a groom sees his bride. Standing on the edge of the ocean.

Other kinds of wonder just grow.

Like the wonder of parenting. Growing a garden.

Reaching the peak of the mountain.

Falling in love.

Learning the Gospel.

Or in this case, for me, going to the Badlands.

I visited in 2006 during a very broken, confused season of life. In fact, it wouldn't be a stretch to say my own heart was a sprawl of barrenness. I stood on the edge of sheer cliffs and felt the empty hollow nothing that was echoing in my heart. I knew it was beautiful. I also knew I was missing it.

Here I am five years later, staring at these photos, trying to remember how that empty stale air went into my lungs, and planted a small seed of breathlessness. It's as though now, in a season of rich earth, beauty and gratitude, I can now step back and see it.

I close my eyes and remember her. That girl who asked. Kicked stones. Looked for some writing in the sand.

I think, is this how I grow in grace? How we grow in grace? To allow room and space for wonder to grow?

In our get-it-now culture, I know I'm prone to pass quickly over things that don't fit the bill immediately. It's so easy for me to find a quick fix to trouble, and soon find that fix unsatisfactory, hollowing out my heart a bit more each time.

I don't want to hollow out my heart. I want to make room for wonder to grow, for worship to set in deep before I even realize what's happening. To allow five years to pass and one day find myself in the grip of wonder, a full heart pounding inside my chest.

the organic bird

I started this year looking for wonder. And I'm not sure that I've completely found it in the here and now yet. 2011 hasn't handed me any abundance of instant marvel.

But 2006 gave me wonder. 2006 reminds me today of Grace. Grace I didn't know was covering me then. Grace I needed. Love that was working, and blowing clear and blue across the caverns of my heart.

And that kind of wonder? Well, that is more palpable than any quick fix I could try now.

It was then and is now, completely sufficient.

a working girl wednesday

2011-07-20T09:21:00.002-05:00

This whole working for myself thing from any place I'd like is pretty sweet sometimes.

Sometimes it's also the scariest, hardest thing I've ever done (right after parenting).

These days my work docket is filling up, all with good things I assure you. Like weddings, new businesses, books, blog redesigns and prints. Sometimes I have to pinch myself when I realize, I get to do *this* for my work? Really? There's nothing better than waking up in the morning knowing that I don't completely hate my job, or dread it even. I've been there before and I think that makes me more grateful for this season of life.

In an effort to have my blog be more connected with my work, work with my blog, words with my pen, pictures with my heart, I'll be blogging about design and stuff on Wednesdays...

so... with that said:

Here's a sampling of what is on my desk these days...(p.s. Isn't calligraphy just the best these days? I'm so glad it's made such a comeback!)

Lately, the fall has been popping up in conversations and even designs. I'm looking forward to blogging about all these designs in the weeks and months to come! :)

Also, a dear friend is a science teacher and she inspired me to make some science-themed art prints. I hope to have these up for sale in the shop by the fall!

Some inspiration I've been gleaning from lately..

:: J Crew's 2011 Fall Look Book

source

:: these kind of Adirondack images

:: this really fun website (and an amazing new font resource)!

Back to work for me. Have a great work week!

(p.s. if you're looking to redesign your blog, I have open spots for the early fall! E-mail me today! andrea (at) theorganicbird.com.)

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just like that.

2011-07-18T21:28:00.002-05:00

Tonight, they invited me out to the backyard to sit and rest. Chardonnay filled the glass, and I peeled my productivity away from the computer, forcing myself to stop. If only for a brief 30 minutes.

Earlier, we sat lakeside. She watched seagulls while I watched the water. I think it's starting to sink in. Life is not what I thought it would be ...
6 months ago.
12 months ago.
2 years ago.
7 years ago.

Over the past few days, I've found myself wandering park paths as conversations slip silently in and out of our breaths. Madeleine skips ahead, jumps ahead, sprints ahead and begs to climb trees. This group, we are new. This is new. I feel a slight panic to push away the new, but I don't. I panic inside, but slow my pace outside. It's ok for things to be new. Just out of the packaging. Fragile.

I laid on the plaid blanket staring at the sky while a guitar and mandolin sang, voices hummed, and I was at ease. I try to tell them that I'm not "indecisive" but rather I'm "laid back", which is partially true. Because maybe right then I was indecisive. I'm not so sure I want to lean back up, I wanted to say. Maybe I didn't want to break the steady hum of fingers against strings, everything wrapped up in notes and music.

I stood 100s back from a stage, watching the familiar sight of a crowd rock, bounce and sway with music that probably no one knows. Wasn't it just four months ago I stood in another city I love, listening to songs I barely knew, swaying my way along music that told stories? Isn't it just fitting, that one of my first nights in my new city, I am looking in on the same? That familiar nudge in the crowd. A hot coffee in hand. A movie while stretching my legs and bending toes into cushions, blankets and dark. Familiar things that are everywhere I turn. Church, where we meet and greet, but not just to meet and greet, but to say hi, remember names, grin with stories and children running wild. Lunch where Madeleine unravels and I blush while they laugh. She is the entertainment, one says, and I hope that no one is begging to leave. I plead with her to "find a grip", and she grins.

I'm not one to rush it, but it's there just the same. We are breaking in the new, and I'm feeling less like a stranger among friends. No in fact, it all feels... familiar.

Tonight, we watch a fox. He runs along the treeline and jumps in and out of the woods. Not unlike our conversation,
jumping,
living,
easy.

They have asked me some good questions, and we've skimmed across familiar stories. I rub my tattoo when I'm nervous, like it's some good luck charm, when really I think I'm subconsciously acknowledging everything behind this bird on my arm. The mark from when I let go. The flight in the dark that I was terrified to take. The hope I had then, that somewhere there is dry ground.

Today, I submitted an application for a new home here. A place for us to hang pictures. A place to teach the ABCs and have late-night conversations. A place for Christmas trees and quiet, coffee mornings.

And it's happening. The new... just. like. that.

how to drag out a move.

2011-07-15T21:09:00.002-05:00

1. Decide you're going to move.
2. Wait eight weeks.
3. Confirm with everyone that "Yes" you are moving and "Why would you ask even such a silly question? What gave you any indication that I'm not?".
4. Acknowledge that you're moving.
5. Walk around your home several times remarking how you don't remember having so much stuff when you moved in.
6. Get boxes.
7. Start with the books.
8. Try to pick those boxes up.
9. Empty boxes.
10. Start packing closets.
11. Find bag of toys that was meant to go to salvation army.
12. Give bag of toys back to crying child who claims she "loves" that coloring book.
13. Find a box of papers from 10th grade.
14. Sit on the floor and read them for two hours.
15. Eat zucchini bread.

the one thing about the gardens we grew.

2011-07-14T23:29:00.000-05:00

Planting gardens was on my short list of things to do in this quiet town. I arrived in the winter, eager to till the small plot of land. It's been years since I've had property to grow anything worth tending. Once the earth thawed and the last frost seemed to melt away, we weeded, broke-up, planted, seeded, fertilized, and then settled in for the wait.

It was the perfect thing for us while we rested, recouped. In this short season, we not only bought the whole field for a pearl, but we broke up some earth for our quiet hours.

Brown ground, still raw from a long winter.
Our hands, dirt-stained.

I leaned over, knees digging in soil, and watched the sprouts. Tended them. Protected them. Dug my nails and trowels into deep roots of weeds. Weeds that grew faster than the tender shoots breaking green.

I marked the brown with stones and memory.

Wildflowers.
Morning Glories.
Poppies.
Zinnias.
Broccoli.
Zucchini.
Eggplant.
Carrots.

We cheered when the transplants took to the ground; got frustrated when some seeds never came to surface.

When pulling weeds, my little M asked why.

And I explained that weeds steal life from the real growth that we want. They choke, absorb, shadow, sprawl and without our care, take over. The real, good stuff goes long and forgotten; dead and struggling beneath their bullying weight.

She nodded as though she understood (she may have a bit), and she asked again for more baby carrots and "queenie".

It's mid-July and I can stand on my porch and see the color. We're craving the fruit of our (small) labor.

But there's so much more to gather. To watch unfold. To yet bud and give color, wrap around posts, drop rich with ripe skin.

All of which I will miss. Back to streets and cement. Leaving my garden in my father's care. My dad says, "I'll pick the zucchini. I'll water the morning glories. I'll check on the eggplant."

It won't be mine anymore, but he'll let me be a part of it.

Someone else will enjoy the reward while I move forward, on to cultivate different kinds of soil, seeds, tender shoots. It's something I didn't realize I would miss so much. Maybe even cry about.

It all might sound like an allegory, but I promise you, it's not.

2011-07-14T07:54:00.001-05:00

I have not been on my blog game lately. I find my words just as scattered as my thoughts. Tying to wrangle them takes as much effort as catching fireflies. It's fun for awhile, until I realize I've wandered far and have exhausted myself for nothing.

The country is quiet today, and summer woke me up with sunshine and birds. Last night I wrote three blogs... all of which I wanted to post, none of which I did. Should inspiration strike appropriately again, I'll post later. You think I would know myself well enough at this point to know when my creativity has reached max-capacity. But it seems I always discover this shocking end only after I've run 80 mph into a wall.

In the meantime, here's a sneak peek of a new alphabet series I'm working on:

(this blog has been brought to you by the letter "p")

Broken Clay Jars

2011-07-11T07:00:00.001-05:00

Tonight, I'm not a theologian at all. I've set aside my pens, my books, my analysis.

The clothesline squeaks when I reel it in. Fabrics of cotton white, weathered lace and dyed polyesters pull into my hands. I find those brief moments some of my most peaceful moments of the day. Through the brush and locust trees, drooping willows and old winding vines I see the creek sparkle. It dances underneath a setting sun and the refrain of a creation alive happens while I'm pulling in our rags.

They feel like rags at that moment at least. Fibers that fade compared to these rich smells, colors, lights that emerge and reflect on surfaces I couldn't see an hour ago. The water curves around the bend, following a course known only to itself.

What is it about the ordinary that is so appealing to me?

It seems today my hunger for knowing more and more and more has diminished. There are days I will digest my fair share of Spurgeon, Edwards and the like. I love to read and hear fathers, brothers, sisters of faith expound on scriptures; I have spent many an afternoon listening to sermons that unpack passages and open up the Word into a world of mystery and truth.

I love all of that.

But something happens in my heart when I can still smell the lightning from last night's thunderstorm on my crazy quilt hanging on the line. When my toddler is yanking at my garden dirt-stained jeans, and I'm telling her how her peanut butter and jelly is waiting, while I mentally tally my to-do list for the afternoon...

I find grace.

As complex and worthy of a lifetime of learning the Gospel is, it's also so unbelievably simple, that it meets me while I'm shredding zucchini and wiping the table down at night.

When the clouds twirl in scattered moonlight rays, and the big dipper swings low to capture my silent prayers, I feel the inexplicable, magnificent, perfect love of God come close.

Didn't David spend hours watching herds, doing his work and writing songs all while discovering the mystery of God? Tonight, I feel less like a member of the royal priesthood, and more like a fragile clay jar. I'm in better company with the guy wandering the hillsides, and not the man in the temple.

Tonight, I sat to write about so many different things. So many non-whimsical things. Real things. Life things. Good things.

And yet, when my fingers hit these keys, all that comes to mind is all this. All of the above and all not mentioned. These typing fingers recall my daughter's sand-colored curls as she stretched across my lap and drifted to sleep. These eyes weigh heavy and when they close I see night sky. My heart is eager for new, and as it beats, I hear the prayers that fell against cotton earlier today.

All these things, the clay. The brown. The ordinary. They are holding the holy and I hold them out to be filled to the brim.
--------------
linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood

Zenzero Bakery

2011-07-09T08:06:00.000-05:00

Meet Ginger, proprietor of Zenzero Bakery. (I'm on the left, she's on the right.)

Ginger and I first got to know each other in the countryside outside of Kampala, Uganda about two years ago. Since then, we've kept up on life with eachother ... facebook, phone calls, blogs, etc.

So when Ginger called me a few weeks ago to help her out with her new business branding, I had to refrain from shouting an overexuberant "YES!" into the phone.

Not only is Ginger a beautiful person to be around, but she has an incredible knack in the kitchen.

More specifically, she makes the most delicious desserts you've ever tasted. (No lie. She's legit.)

I'm so excited to reveal her new logo and branding for Zenzero Bakery! If you live local to Dallas/Fort Worth, you can try some of her desserts at Sip and Savor in Plano. Her website will be up and running soon!

Congrats on the new venture Ginger! I'm so excited for you!

the wax and wane.

2011-07-08T15:43:00.002-05:00

Here's the thing.

(And to quote one of my favorites, "I like to start my notes to you as if we're already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we're the oldest and dearest friends- as opposed to what we actually are- people who don't know each other's names...")

Last year, I had a weekly gathering of girls in my home. At least 10 of us sat legs-crossed, feet tucked under us and candles flickering as we talked and learned Truth.

We'd also meet up for morning coffee, dinners, shopping afternoons, park excursions, porches at dusk, overnights at a hotel where we could be girly and stay up late popping bottles of champagne.

Life was a steady stream of
kindred spirits in sisters,
men who stood beside me as brothers and guards on the watchtowers of my heart,
spiritual mentors, friends and parents who helped me heal, laugh and lift my head.

One of the biggest concerns my friends and family had when I moved back to Upstate NY from bustling DFW was this very thing.

Solitude.

Maybe a bit too much of it.

I'm not a social butterfly. But I do find that my heart and soul responds to community like the ocean to the moon. The healthy community and friendships I shared in DFW...

pushed me towards better things.
covered me with grace.
addressed character flaws that I tried to hide.
inspired beauty.

And really, kept me from having these hour-long internal dialogues in my head.

Now it's days, even a week or more, where no other footsteps come up these steps besides my own and the little toddling one that follows me everywhere I go. I see my parents in snippets throughout the day, and in a good week, my sister and I will cross paths, maybe my nieces and nephews will journey up. Friends are busy, scattered, growing families, pursuing careers, or simply quiet.

There's nothing wrong with it all. It's just different.

And y'all...
It's enough solitude to make me
walk in circles
in my kitchen
humming
singing
talking
dreaming
to
no one.

Don't feel bad for me, because I'm ok. I've learned a lot in this season of quiet and solitude. And I'm learning a lot more about myself in this transition.

I'm not having a pity party.
I'm not dying of loneliness.

But I am looking ahead.

God loves me enough to make me uncomfortable when it's time for change, so that I love and fully embrace the next thing he has for me. He's good like that.

It's like He knows me.

This next season, this move to Rochester, is happening soon. If for no other reason that I'm ready to hear voices in the hallway, feet scuffling on the streets, and maybe the remote possibility that community will find it's way back to tide, wax and wane against my shores.

And dance by the light of the moon...

2011-07-07T14:10:00.000-05:00

It's a Thursday that feels like a Wednesday, but also a Friday. So I'm filling my cup and meeting you at this virtual table to chat for a few minutes.

:: It was only last spring, a little last summer, and a lot last fall, that I started working what I called "second shift."

Let's just be honest — being a stay at home single mom and also self-employed is hard work. There's no way to slice it where at the end of the day, my to-do is list finished, my work is done, and I can put my feet up with no second thought. Something always suffers.

So last year, I started "second shift". I'd work as much as I could during the day, but not sacrifice all my time with the little bird. I wouldn't bury my nose into my computer as she romped around me. Rather, I'd do what I could for work, be a mom, housekeeper (and so on) and around 8 p.m., put on a pot of coffee. 9 p.m. office hours commenced again, closing up around 2 a.m.

Last winter, when I started getting panic attacks and hated life, I shut that down to try and salvage some sanity. But it seems I need it back.

See, it's summer. And my daughter is about to parkour off of these walls if I spend another day at the desk, and she's left to play indoors. Pray for me?

:: With that being said, be prepared for more design stuff on this blog. I need to marry the two a bit, and since design is such a huge part of my life and work, I guess it's only fitting I let you in on it a bit more here.

:: I love summer freckles. And all the browns and tans that come from hours spent sweating... whether it's for play and pleasure, or work and toil, the sun is a gift. I'm thankful for it! I'm also thankful for brown jewelry, because it makes me feel more summery.

:: I feel like I'm on the edge of a new season of life with my daughter. Just the other day she asked when she can learn ballet, and she's taken up to whole sessions of acting in the living room...

M: Mama! Come quickly!
Me: (running)
M: Mama.... (heavy sigh) I'm... I'm... I'm dying.... (she says with a smile)
Me: (playing along) Oh dear... well, that's quite sad. I will be so sad if you die. What hurts?
M: (she fake winces and lifts her arm) My elbow.... my elbow is dying, mama (then she proceeds to fake faint.)

I like the possibilities of this... I'm sending her off to fight imaginary dragons, we're eating popcorn on pillow towers as princesses, and made-up songs spill out of her daily. I love it. But something in me is sad. Aches, really. She's growing up so, so quickly. When did this all happen?

And on that note, go fight some dragons.... and keep your elbows safe!

summer love!

2011-07-07T13:54:00.000-05:00

surfs up, y'all! {design by the organic bird}

honey.

2011-07-06T12:53:00.000-05:00

{design by The Organic Bird}

keep on keepin' on.

2011-07-05T08:42:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I stretched my sand-scraped legs down the picnic table bench. Face toward the sun, skin roasting darker, redder, and my daughter jumped along the green grass beside me. With one arm covering my eyes, I sighed and did my best to not feel the pace of life running at me. Fresh picked zucchini rolled on the tabletop and I felt the weight of life coming quick. Routine never feels very summerlike.

School messed us all up, making us believe summer was an endless dance in sprinklers and midnight stars. Now I'm back from a perfect, perfect, perfect vacation, and my to-do list is shouting from my computer bag way upstairs.

Then she crawled on top of me, craned her arms behind her head and stared at the same blue sky.

"The sun makes me happy, mama," she said.

"Me too."

"The queenie (zucchini) makes me happy, mama," she said.

"I like it too, love."

"The beach makes me happy, mama," she smiled.

And then I realized... she was counting.

Numbering.

Gratitudes.

She's been watching, and listening, and I listen as it continued... the grass, cousins, flowers, blue sky. She counted the blessings while I breathed against the weight of it all.

You know what I'm grateful for?

Life. The living of it. The passion of it. The waves pushing against my legs, pushing me to the ground. Family with love so big, it feels like a dream. Toes painted orange, digging in sand. Skirts of color and sun. Sheer and light, gentle and soft. Bruised, scraped, and covered with signs of living and doing, jumping in and falling.

I'm back on this picnic table, and everything is quiet. Just one child, not 19. No siblings. Swings not creaking. And I find that when I paused counting, the list continued growing.

happy 4th.

2011-07-04T21:38:00.000-05:00

summering.

2011-06-28T13:54:00.000-05:00

dearly

2011-06-23T21:30:00.000-05:00

Hello loves!

Are you sunkissed and summer soaked? I sure hope! I hope you've had a couple sweltering evenings on dimly lit porches with citronella swirling around your toes, oscillating fans turning in the corner.

Are you making some memories? Leaving work early to take your kids to the pool, or burning some marshmallows over fire? ... Maybe even accidentally drop one into the blaze and watch it morph into a black sugary mess?

Have you?
Cranked your AC as high as you think it will go?
Jived out to some Beach Boys?
Seen Super 8? (please say yes?!)

Are you intentionally, deliberately, on purpose, enjoying your summer?

Today, you've flitted onto this blog again, and I'm sure you've noticed how I've been quiet.

Last Friday, my mom and I, along with my little M, took the 8 hour trek south to see family here:

source

I wish I could say I spent the week outdoors and enjoying the mountains, but instead I've spent it on this little Macbook, working the days away. To-do lists and bills to pay have to sometimes override hiking trails and forest wandering (notice I say sometimes.)

But it's ok, because we've been shopping, coffee-drinking and back-porch rambling. We've made microwave s'mores and soaked in the late summer evenings on wicker and by candlelight. My little M blends into the family as they entertain her in my waning moments — games, movies, books and yards to run. I'm grateful for family that grows and opens arms when mine feel weak and weary.

And not to be a broken record, but on Sunday, we leave for the Outer Banks where I plan to put away my to-do list and be with the family on the beach for a week. A house on the shore will accomodate all of us (28) and we'll own our little piece of sand for a week.

So... that's a lot of rambling and words to say — unless inspiration strikes, this place will be relatively quiet for the next few weeks.

It's just the time for summering,
staycationing,
vacationing,
swimming,
cooling and such.

The internet will destroy my summer if I let it. This is the season I longed for about 4 months ago, so it's only fitting I go enjoy it.

In the meantime, here are some summertime links I'll recommend for you...
— this album. Bon Iver just made some magic.
— this video. I want to say this to you about whatever it may be that's eating away at you.
—this image. It just says it.
— this book. One of my beach reads.
— this site. Love this nostalgia and stories many chapters later.

to the first man.

2011-06-18T13:40:00.001-05:00

Remember the Saturday you took me out to Great American and showed me "real music"?

"This guy can't sing," you said. "But he sure can write." And the words of Maggie's Farm bounced with us along those back roads. "I remember covering this song when I was in The Horizons," you would say as the sweet voice of Roy Orbison filled your jeep. "This guy, you need to know," and you started singing along with Gordon Lightfoot's crooning. "And this guy.... well, you already know..." as John Denver's voice carried us down into the valley. That was just the beginning of a world you unwrapped for me. You were the first man to win my heart with music.

On Fridays, I would wait for the hum of your car down the road. In fact, I can remember perching myself in the old observatory room to watch for your headlights careening down 146 and onto 443. I can remember bounding down those old wooden steps to catch you on your walk through the door. You were the first man to sweep me off my feet and swing me around.

The nights when I would call for you in the dark and you'd come to my side, and sing sweetly of Puff the Magic Dragon and a little flower called Edelweiss. Then you would say, "Let me count those freckles," and I would be drifting to sleep before you reached "10". And if I ever woke up scared, the sound of your evening TV reminded me that someone stronger was still awake and keeping watch. You were the first man to keep me safe.

I'll never forget the summer I wanted to garden, so you tilled the ground.
The times I wanted to watch horses run, so you took me with you and showed me Saratoga.
I said I wanted to fish, so you took me off the coast of Salem, Mass. for a deep-sea adventure.
When I cried about my dreams, and you told me to keep trying.
When I said, "french horn!"... you said, sure!
When I said, "Hong Kong!"... you said, why not?
When I said, "ministry!" ... you said, whatever makes you happy!
When you stood on the porch with me at your feet, while I picked at grass and kicked tiny stones, you said, "Figure out what you love to do. Then figure out how to get paid for it."
You were the first man who noticed me, listened and gave me the confidence to fly.

And when I cried about a boy, and you told me I deserved better.
When I stood embarrassed in front of the crowd, you held my hand.
When I didn't know what to do with the life that was unraveling, you pulled me into your arms and stroked my hair as I sobbed.
When I was scared for my future, you held my baby girl in your arms.
When I signed divorce papers, you said "You're gonna make it through this. Your future is bright."
When I stood at your door as a single mom, you prepared the table and said "welcome home."
You are the father I needed.

All the words I could string together will never feel like enough.

I love you Dad.

all sweet things take time.

2011-06-16T19:52:00.000-05:00

My soundtrack for this today. Join in the songs in my head if you want:

Perhaps it's the x'ing off of days until vacation. Or the sun that's made a reappearance. My flowers in the garden are not bending low to gray and rain this morning. They're reaching. I'm reaching. And we find the warmth is filling our freckles and hearts to the brim.

:: yeast warming, bread baking to rise to fill us.

warm butter sliding across the fresh surface and cold water in our hands.

cherry preserves to sweeten the tongue and patient words dripping.

:: bright colors for our fingers and toes, so as we run, work, dig, play we see beauty

and remember not to break, bend, or cut away at the slight nuances of femininity.

sunglasses of snow, from a season back in our memories.

the season that birthed this one and we play behind these shadows to see clear.

the lens of seasonal change that shows what we need to see in each.

:: we're girls, from our blurry eyes to smudged lips,

we smile and thank God for imperfections that teach us beauty is not external.

beauty fades and runs off of lips and runs down the drain.

this we can laugh at — that we can smile with red or plastic,

and know none of it changes who are or makes us who we are, and we can laugh at vanity.

:: toll-painted paddles that my sister says "we don't think about what it means too much"

otherwise we might grow red-cheeked, and giggle.

but it sits next to the truth that one kind of love lasts beyond kissing, and cooking,

and it's extravagant.

:: a magazine photo hangs on the fridge as a reflection of beauty,

and companionship, and quiet conversations that no one else needs to know.

i hang it to inspire, and for the gentle breeze it blows into our kitchen.

she digs into chocolate, and while it looks messy, and dirty,

and i wonder how we'll clean up the remains

— one finger swipe reminds me it's sweet, and takes time.
all sweet things take time.

how we talk about the absent father

2011-06-14T12:46:00.000-05:00

Ah, yes. Father's Day.

As a single mom of a burgeoning little girl, I forget that our situation in life holds unexpected potholes. I only know *this* life. The one I have. I don't know otherwise. So I don't think about her experience with Father's Day, or her asking about it, or her witnessing it in other families.

I'm still tackling this one, and I think this will be a topic of discussion throughout the next 20+ years of life. Mostly because she asks. She's two for heaven's sake. TWO. I thought I had until at least 4.

A bit of back story for you: Madeleine's father (my former husband) is in another state right now. No, we don't see him. It's best to say at this point, their interactions are sparse. Distance + life + different ideas of how things should work. I'll leave it at that.

(Side note: You will not find a bitter ex-wife tirade here. Or a "men are jerks" rant.

Nor will you find me saying, "I am superwoman." I will say that being a single mom has some incredible, beautiful, hard, challenging moments... just as I know "regular" family situations have.

Mothering is mothering.

There is no guide book for it. And whether you're single or with someone, us moms are still figuring this thing out...day by day, sometimes minute by minute.)

She often mistakes strangers for him, or musicians on stage who have dark hair hanging over their eyes. She'll sometimes ask my guy friends if they're her dad. Or she'll start calling her uncles "dad", or her grandfather "dad". She's even been known to walk up to a male friend and ask them to marry me. (*dying of embarrassment over here*)

I do correct her, and never leave a doubt in her mind. Her father is real, just not here.

At night, when I'm tucking her tiny body into bed, and her arms wrap tight around my arm, she'll ask:
"Where's Daddy? I miss him."

I usually pause, and pull myself down to my knees next to her.

"Daddy doesn't live here," she says and looks at the ceiling of silk scarves and green glowing stars. "Daddy lives in his house in Texas."

"Yup, that's right," I say, stroking her feathery curls behind her ears.

(Side note #2: I don't talk trash about him, especially to her. I just don't.

Not at all,

not ever,

and by God's grace, never will.

I have my own issues, but hurting her by speaking things, and hurting him back by dragging his name through the mud does nothing good.

There is no freedom in that. There is no spirit of redemption in that. And by redemption I mean, I am not going to sling mud at his invisible presence until she's 18. She will grow up and decide for herself how she feels about it. Him. Them. I will not lie, but I will not grow hard to her tender, searching heart. The story that exploded into a million shards between him and I does not need to gut her out before she has a chance to see it for herself.)

"Your father lives far away, but he loves you very much," I say.

"I want a daddy," she says, her eyelids drooping heavy. "I want two daddies."

I tell her about the men who love her who she sees all the time.
My dad.
My brothers.
Her older cousins.

Boys and men who love God, and love her like their own. I tell her that God will take care of us, and what He has given us now is good for us now. And should He decide someday to bring another Daddy, then we will be happy.

But even if he doesn't, we will be happy then too.

She smiles, "I love you." And her eyes drift off to the side wall, marking the stars that glow with her fingers.

I can't fix the hole that is gaping in her. I'm not to fill it with wishful thinking for a future I don't know, or burning ashes of a past I can't change.

I'm not supposed to be her hero. That's not my job. That's not her father's job. That's not the job of some man who could be another father in her life.

That belongs to God. Just like the air in her lungs, and the rhythm of her heart. The song on her lips and the tears on her cheeks. She is not mine to own, fix or mold.

I close the door as she drifts off to sleep, one small speed bump gone under our feet and into the dark.

His grace is good.

-----

{linking up with these girls today}

design lately

2011-06-13T13:44:00.000-05:00

So, I design and have my own little design business. Did you know that? It's neither here nor there, but here's some of my latest work! I like working with lots of different people who have lots of different ideas and dreams. It keeps me on my toes!

wedding invitations!

blog banners and logos (for thecookinglife)

Back to the to-do list...

(Find more on Facebook...)

dearly

2011-06-13T11:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Blog Reader,

I wish we were all camping right now. I like the idea of an evening fire circle.

Today started with 50 ideas of what to write about, create, finish, adjust, dream, complete. But I'm starting to think in classic Monday form, today will be a little of this, and not much of that.

:: My little M is down on the couch with a high fever (day two) and it's all I can do to not nestle beside her. While I will for a few moments, life goes on and e-mails come in, and the mice are known to like dirty dishes.
:: This week (on this blog) I'm addressing the absent father thing in this home. More accurately, scratching at the surface of it in light of Father's Day at the end of the week. It feels good to write about it, and I hope that it encourages.
:: On Thursday we leave for Rochester. And then Virginia. And then North Carolina, where I will dig my toes into sand and share seven days at the Outer Banks with my most amazing, beautiful, huge family (two brothers + wives, one sister + husband, mom, dad and all the chilluns — 28 of us in all).
:: Today has now turned into leftover blueberry pancakes and shipping off the remains of a client's wedding invitations — packing, stamping, photographing. I miss my friends who really know how to photograph things (like Kristen Rae, who is legit and you should go look at her photos).
:: I don't understand why Barney sings about "yum yum white bread". Stop brainwashing my kid Corporate America. (I realize I can get up and turn it off. But have I mentioned it's Monday? And that it's Monday?)

In short,
it's gray
and I want it to be blue
and sunny
and hot.

I don't want to wear a sweatshirt, but she is ill, and I am working, and sometimes the best thing a girl can do is pull out best of the old things and comfort in them.

I'm going to make this day better with a Yasso bar. (Google it.)

Fondly,

yours.

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2011-06-11T19:08:00.001-05:00

Some Saturdays creak along.

Like a ship coming into port.
Like a pot of water coming to boil.
Like the shower water at 5 a.m. on a January morning.

{Insert a continued series of metaphors about things that move slow and take longer than you anticipate.}

Some Saturdays just don't move much faster than a tractor chugging along a country road.

Today was such a day.

But we somehow salvaged it. I didn't *totally* lose my mind as the rain showered, and the toddler donned princess dresses and cowboy hats, and the chores seemed to finish themselves as yes, the rain poured on. So I had no choice but to just let it rain, and force summer to a screeching halt. I may have even hummed a Christmas song. (Lord help me.)

But I loved these things today:
Mugs that remind me of the ocean.
Wildflowers in a mason jar.
My mom who took the time to teach my daughter a child friendly way to use a needle and thread. She then crafted her own hoop masterpiece. (Masterpiece might be a stretch, but I love it.)

And then I sit back and smile at ideas that are finished. Like this flour sack turned pillows. Done.

So here's to an almost finished, slow Saturday. Happy weekending!

there's something in the water.

2011-06-10T10:19:00.001-05:00

(As I write this, I'm listening to this. So if you want to read with the soundtrack in my head, join along.)

When I get that nagging feeling that all is lost, I remember that isn't possible. All is never lost. Not ever.

God completes. Always. I want you to know this.
He is not making final sentences and washing his hands of us.

He has not left your broken circles and burned bridges in the pile of "deal with later." Instead, He takes the broken pieces and eventually,
somehow,
someday
He makes all things new.

Maybe not for you to see. Or experience.
Maybe it will be after we're gone from this earth.
Or
just maybe
here
now
even when you least expect it.

On riverbeds. On white porches. In the simple graze of a hand along a set of 88 piano keys. The slow hum of a cello billows in the room and suddenly I realize stories are made complete. I lay awake in bed wondering what chapters I've just finished, which ones I've started, and why I'm having such a hard time telling the difference.

It might not be what you want, or how you hoped things would be redeemed. But God isn't redeeming to make your life better. He's redeeming for the sake of Himself. He's the hero. Not us. The idea isn't a sigh of relief from our prone-to-strive souls, though sometimes it does just the trick. The idea is to see Him clearly. Involved. Writing. Finishing. Redeeming. Completing.

So even you can step back and say,
it's Him,
and all Him,
and only Him.

The question comes at me like a fire. They hand it to me like a sparkler in my hand.

"What's next?"

The sense that what has happened is passing hits me like a deluge. I'm so used to making amends. So familiar with being in the fix.

Until I look back and see He is redeeming.

My brother says at breakfast,
"Babe Ruth once said 'Yesterdays home runs don't win today's game.'
but I added to it," my brother's eyes glimmer. Is that hope and joy I see?
He continues..."Yesterday's strike outs don't lose today's game either."

"I've got halos made of summer, rhythms made of spring..."

scattered wednesday.

2011-06-08T10:31:00.000-05:00

this week —

:: Buying books and listening to people on porches who tell me I should buy such books. Boys who became men, girls who became women, right before my eyes. Now I'm just a girl who sits and marvels what happens when you step out of a life and step back in.

:: Sitting in old offices where I once sat years ago. Staring out old windows. Same room. Same windows. Same building. New heart.

:: Experiencing the restoration and joy that comes in the form of back porches creaking, rivers wide, breakfast islands, cups of coffee, painting, open beds, candles flickering, and peonies blooming.

:: Peanut butter granola is amazing. Really. Unless you're allergic, which I'm not. So it's amazing.

:: Nothing brings me more joy than being where I am. Not thinking about what to blog, what to tweet, Facebook updates, etc, etc. Being where I am at the precise moment I am there is a beautiful, peaceful, refreshing thing. It's also lovely when others are there as well, phones and computers sitting quietly under bedspreads or in bags. Lovely.

:: On that note, I've responded to e-mails, posted proofs, and made sure there are no loose ends that need to be tied. I am closing the computer and going to be with the people I'm with.

Have a lovely Wednesday. :)

on the hunt.

2011-06-02T10:40:00.001-05:00

As we wandered along the tree-lined streets of Rochester, I know I rambled. I know I probably wore her ear off about porches and hanging plants, victorian spires and the beauty of a wilderness tucked in the middle of the city.

For those few hours, I needed to find it. The wrestle in me to run was strong. The temptation to say "nevermind" to the move and head back to Texas was tangible.

I love Texas.
And I wonder if I will always want to go back.
I miss everything it symbolized for me.
Healing. Community. Growth.
And really, I miss being known.

But we drove and I pictured walking these streets in spring, shoveling through snow in winter, driving these highways to get home.

As Ann Voskamp says in her book 1000 Gifts, I became a "hunter of beauty."

My brother says I edit my life. Last fall we came down off the mountain, and the sun pierced through a grove of trees, across the street from an old church. I asked him to pull over and leaned out the window to snap a photo. I didn't see the dilapidated trailer and trash bins on the other side of the road. Outloud I marveled and he laughed, "You really do edit your life, don't you?"

So yes, I guess it might be true.

Maybe I learned it from editing papers in high school.
Editing articles for the newspapers.
Cropping, tweaking, adjusting, changing files, images, layers, colors, pictures, words.
Really, honestly, it's almost my job.

Finding the beauty and pointing it out. It's not that I don't see the rest. I see it. Every day. Always.

I hear it in e-mails. Grim news from the doctor. Cold shoulders. Broken hearts. Dilapidated trailers and trash bins full of things we've discarded and used, dropped into the dark to not see again. I'm not ignoring my sin-ridden self. I'm very aware, every day, how much I really can't do any of this without the gospel at work in me. I don't discount suffering and discipline. They are very real, raw open things that I too see, feel, experience, witness and grieve.

I see these things. But I'm looking for the spring that fills me to the brim, to cresting and overflowing. The spring that flows for me, in spite of me, with or without me.

On those streets in Rochester, where I search for the place for us to call home, I remind myself that the God is not cradling me in despair. He is good, has good, and does good. I'm on the hunt. Taking the broken pieces of glass, handing them over for this mosaic. Gathering the snapped threads, giving them up for the tapestry.

Cropping makes us focus on the essential. (Sylvio Gagnon)

I ramble to her about the rain that comes in, and I love how it looks bouncing off of the city rooftops. I nervously stutter about the future, a blind soul running my fingers along these new walls. Hunting. Searching.

(adding this to the link up on June 8. love these girls!)

sorbet, sir.

2011-05-31T08:15:00.000-05:00

I am radiating heat. I wanted sun-kissed cheeks and nose, and I sure got them. And a sun-slapped back and shoulders, too. I look like I'm blushing all the time. I don't hide my blushes well. It's no secret when what I'm feeling and thinking shows on my face. So for the next few days, no one will know otherwise. But, I digress.

Even though I'm self-employed, I still try to allow myself the indulgence of a three-day weekend. It'd be easy to work all weekend and continue making to-do lists. But I didn't do that this weekend. I turned off my work e-mail, put away my phone, stepped away from the computer for hours at a time, and experienced the love of a long American weekend.

I spent quite a bit of time in the backyard on a blanket, reading a book while Madeleine played and exhausted herself (much to my delight). We saw family, ate good food, rested, relaxed, swam, tanned, and honestly, literally, counted our blessings outloud in the kitchen.

Summer was in the air, on the porch, in the dripping watermelon and on the slow breeze that creeped across the empty cornfields. Gratitude is a rich dessert to taste in the middle of it all.

Hot dogs, hamburgers and barbecued chicken. I am completely smitten with summer and all its beauty. I'm thanking God for giving us summer. It's like the great palette cleanser after a long winter. Sorbet sweeping across my parched tongue, flavored, sweet, gentle.

New.

Full of all the best.

love.

saturdays like these.

2011-05-28T20:28:00.001-05:00

today was

early rising and garage sales

picking through other people's trash to find treasures
rummage sales and old ladies giving free ~~junk~~ things to my daughter *sigh*

today found
old books and pretty fonts
titles that inspire and titles that i love
a "treasure box" from my mom to my little
vintage badminton rackets and a forgotten net collecting dust

today rested in
afternoon naps on tattered quilts
happiness
and sunshine on my shoulders

today chattered
with mom, sister, niece, jewelry and busy roads
rings and things, heels and such
and my hair knotted on the very top of my head
garden sweat not yet rinsed
and while that may seem unladylike,
i assure you, i don't think anyone noticed.

today the clouds were light
and i tried to lay down my heart
and muffled prayers into grass
and tried to air out these things that
seem unaddressed and undressed within me
all those things that fall in between books
and open threads
and hopes that slip out of lips
carried off into silence on the back of my company of ants
i rested
in those quiet moments
in between all that
today was.

in the air.

2011-05-27T15:55:00.000-05:00

Here comes a weekend of family.
And cookouts.
Grass stains and sweet tea.
Sunburned shoulders and quilts on the grass.
Here comes summer.

And on Monday we'll eat and laugh,
and live life, and remember those who gave life:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

(snippet from "In Flanders Fields", John McRae)