When It Comes to Dogs, Wandering and Keeping a Home

It's 2:30 on a normal afternoon and I'm about to get started on my second pot of french pressed brew. Bon Iver's Holocene is serenading me, and I smell the chicken, carrots and apples slow-roasting in the pan. Tonight I expect a dinner guest, so I'm mindful of what still needs to be done. 

Roast the potatoes. 

Pick up the floors. 

Run to the store. 

Go to the Post Office. 

I'm pulling curtains back to allow for more of this late autumn breeze. The candle is crackling quietly — Balsam Fir filling this home and reminding me of the mountains. Recently, my sister and I talked about making a home. Creating a place where growth and learning, comfort and solace can happen. 

(hotel beds are for weary travelers)

aside :: I am from a generation of wanderers. We, the children born sometime in the 80s, have a certain knack for selling all we have, packing our lives into cars and other four-wheeled automobiles, and keeping an arms-length from anything that smells like "settling down."  I mean, what kind of person would that make us? Settle down? Get a steady job? Buy a house? Pssh. That's what our parents did, not what we do. 

We travel to exotic countries, shun any attachment to belongings, avoid commitment-related relationships and then talk about how independent and content we are...all while we search for what's next.

Or maybe we want to be forgotten, lost in the fray. We want to live invisible lives, solitary, seeing as how life is meaningless and our existence is wasted unless we're adventuring. Life so far has proven to be a disappointment, so we're looking for the next thing to lasso our purpose around and ride into the sunset. 

We want to discuss theologians and philosophers who have shaped our thinking and ideas. We want faith to be something outside of a church building. We want long conversations until 2 a.m., and be able to leave without having decided anything. It's ok to be vague and elusive. 

I am from this generation. I am of this generation. It's not all bad. Truth is a vein pulsing through alot of it. 

And as much as we'd like to think it, we are not that different from those before us, or those after us, for that matter. :: 

I am here, in a small urban apartment, working a job, to pay bills, and raising a child. I buy things like movies and furniture.  I peruse travel sites, and my passport has now gone 18 months without a new stamp, but it's ok. I'm not spending my afternoon thinking about what next big adventure I'll be on, or how this life is empty. 

No, I'm thinking about whether or not I should make dessert, pick up a bottle of wine, or vacuum. I'm checking my e-mail, responding to clients, folding blankets and washing dishes. I'm kissing two little rosy cheeks, and explaining why the oven gets hot. I'm looking under the couch for Lite Brite pegs and mopping up spilled root beer. 

It all is so splendidly ordinary. 

I wonder when my generation got the idea that having a home, 

making a life, 

being responsible, 

taking care, 

committing, 

when did these things become "less than worthy" ways to spend a life?  

aside :: I sit with a friend on my couch and she talks about how getting a dog was the hardest thing she's done in awhile. 

"It's a commitment....to someone else besides me," she says. We are up late, sipping coffee, discussing all this and laughing at our own hipster anti-hipster rant about hipster living. I say things like, "I don't want to be like that." When really, *that* is just another *that*. She and I, we wonder when did it become so awful to have a dog? Why are we so hesitant to call a place "home"?

I've cultivated a sense of home throughout the past few years for us,

for my friends who need a place to rest,

for my daughter who needs a place to grow and learn, fall and get up again,

for strangers who were hungry,

for broken hearts who needed tissues,

for beaten up hearts who need balm,

for tough conversations to have a soft landing,

for Christ to be glorified in the most

splendidly

ordinary

places.

I could sell all I have, 

but why?

So that I can say I've sold all I have? 

Dear same-generation friends, having a job, cultivating a home, building a family, putting down roots — these are rich things and you are not an adventuring failure for having these things in your life.

Shunning these things for the sake of being "young, wild and free" does not make us better people. That does not make me a better person.

It makes me a resounding gong,

a clanging cymbal.

Another clatter of self-denying noise 

in my world where someone just needs

me to keep my couch,

a hot pot of coffee

and a 

home.

Summer is made for Fridays

1. New prints in Etsy. Woop-de-doop! (Here's the link for that one.)
2. Surviving on lists these days. If I need something done, or if someone needs something from me, or if I owe you, or if we're scheduling something, it all ends up here. I absolutely CANNOT only do digital notetaking. It fails me. I need real paper.
3. Thinking about reverting to the bangs again (see photos from last summer). The inbetween stage is killing me. (The woes of curly hair, I suppose.)
4. Beach vacation in two weeks. Yes.
5. What we're surviving on lately. (The kid is obsessed.) Recipe forthcoming.

Have a great weekend. Go outside. Listen to music.
Stop obsessing about life. (That one is more for me, but it can be for you too.)

Sunshine On My Shoulders

Yes, I am definitely posting a photo of the sunshine on my feet.

Call me a hipster or a that-was-so-last-summer-er, or whatever you call people who take pictures of their feet, but y'all, it's the SUN.

That big, glowing, warm thing in the sky that has spent most of the last six months behind clouds and rain and cold and wind. I mean, it's making the tip-tops of my feet all nice and toasty.

So yes, Mr. Construction man who watched me while I took about five photos of the sunshine on my feet and shoulders and knees, yes.

Also, should I be embarrassed about how much I need to roll up my jeans? It's easy to hide in the winter under boots and such. But come summer, I'm practically screaming — "MY LEGS ARE PROBABLY AND LIKELY ONLY ABOUT 2 AND A HALF FEET LONG. THAT'S NOT VERY MUCH, FOLKS."

And also, it's almost Friday. And Saturday will boast a super-moon. And we are moving apartments soon. And I'm happy.

A Smattering of Thoughts

I feel like there's a lot of grown-up stuff to deal with lately. I suppose that's fitting, in my 29th year, to be dealing with grown-up stuff.

Like lawyers, decisions, boundaries, death, work, parenting and responsibility. I'm not saying I don't learn about stuff like this all the time, but these days it sees to be packed in a whole lot more than I'm used to.

Also, trips back to this valley always do my heart good. Even if they're short, brief, fast.

So we visited the nursing home, and I find it to be the saddest place. It seems everyone is waiting to die. Silence, beeping, nurses sweeping and one elderly woman cries out for someone who is not there. I hold my grandmother's hand and she squeezes it tight. "I love you more, " she says as I kiss her cheek. It all feels so sterile. A whole building of people who just want to leave, one way or another.

And then my day is punctuated with a call that another baby from someone I love is due to arrive in 9 months. Life comes and goes, and I'm reminded that the "dash in between" is so full, so worth savoring.

Recently, after the sun set, we watched a movie and snacked on strawberries and cheeses, and life felt so simply easy. Sometimes I just want life to be easy. Everything can't be fixed, changed, predicted, prevented. But sometimes, at the right moment, in the right place, in a calm living room with berries and cheddar, it can be simple and easy. That seems to cover a multitude of unease. I don't want to be a consumer of drama. I'll take wordless strumming, knowing nods, and pillows of comfort as reminders that below the surface of the waves, the water is still calm.

And then my daughter wakes singing, and she tells me how God is her protector. God is her provider. God is her father. From her own lips, she brings truth into our home. And I'm grateful.

Even when I don't have all the right words, something sinks into her and she repeats how love abounds everywhere we turn. Sometimes it's the hard gratitudes. Sometimes it's the joyful ones. Still, we count, number and keep our hearts and eyes open.

rocking chairs, old houses, and all the collected things.

I have a notebook for my to-do lists. And another for my collected thoughts. I keep these separate.

Because sometimes my collected thoughts become to-do items. And as much as I wish that were the case, it should not always be so.

(Balance checkbook.
Finish (client) design.
E-mail (so-and-so).
Drive to Texas.)

Oops. See? That last one shouldn't be there. Not right now, anyway.

Also, I've taken to writing down little feelings. Even if they're two sentences long. It keeps me from Tweeting everything, Facebooking everything, or looking to someone besides God for comfort or clarity.

So these days, I hand her my phone and she snaps photos. I check off to-do items, and scribble the spilling thoughts, and we make the days work. Some days are seamless, beautiful. Other days, I am stitching us together with tears, a few "I'm sorry I shouted" and some "Let's both take some quiet time." In the evening, I pull in her close to my heart and sing.

"Hold me like I'm a baby, mom."
She closes her eyes and curls her legs against me.
"It's not so easy these days, little love. But I'll try."

And then I remember the smell of my mother's Lutece perfume, and the creak of a rocking chair that sat next to the kerosene heater in the winter. Mom would wrap me in an afghan and sing, her alto voice resonating deep from her heart. I would listen, and sleep.

I'm back in my hometown this week, and I'm always caught off guard by how much this isn't home anymore. Sometimes that's what adulthood feels like. Perpetually longing for a home that doesn't exist anymore. Not here anyway. Maybe life on earth is meant to give us a hunger for heaven, so that by the time it comes to us, we are ready. I'd like to think that at least. Our desires are not insatiable.

"Will you be ok when we sell the house?" my sister asks over dripping ice cream and 50s music. She and her husband and their beautiful eight are transitioning, changing and the house that this family has called home since sometime in the mid-70s will end up in someone else's hands. Someone else will make memories there, which is just weird for me. That's our house, I think to myself when I see its peaks in the trees.

But it's not even ours anymore. And when it's gone, the roots in this small town become less deep, and more removed. It's a strange thing, to go from rocking chair and pine trees, to being home and not feeling at home.

"Mom, sing the dream song again," Madeleine says, her legs still tucked under my arms. This may very well be the memory she'll have in 20 some odd years when she's rocking her own. I sing, she leans her head against my chest, and I know my alto voice is buzzing inside her ears. This is home, me and you, I think. Where our skin is close and our hearts sync up, and we hold each other on this spinning planet, singing about the dreams that our hearts make when we're fast asleep. 

This weekend I want to go somewhere, but I'm not sure it will happen. So many limitations on this antsy, transient, wanderlusting heart. So many homes to go look for and find, and leave again. Instead, I watch the rain fall, wrap my sweater tighter, pour another cup of coffee, and rock with this spinning earth waiting for redemption.

Between You and Me

Ok, spring, let's do this.

Hey there, little heart, there's grace for this too.

Oh, and you too, weary spirit, lift your eyes to the hills.

How about we spend a week in the mountains.

We can see my sister.

Shop with my mom.

Listen to the creek thaw.

Then we'll work. We'll work hard.

We'll sketch and dream, and step out into some new territory.

Confidently. Without disclaimers.

We'll go to the City and record some music.

(And let's go see the Avett Brothers.)

Let's empty out closets and make deliveries to second-hand shops.

Let's write more, for us, for them.

The guitar is a friend. Let's put our unspoken things there.

The pen is a confidant. Let her spill.

There's a little girl watching, growing, and asking.

Let's love without restraint. Give her the mountains and the valleys, the truth and the spirit, the hands to hold and the arms to protect. And Grace. The Gospel grace. The knowing of brokenness, the honest emptiness, then the story of the man who rescues us.

Dear mind that races, and wakes before dawn to pray and worry... how about you give up the old song? It's on repeat and it's not worth listening to.

And, about that stack of books? I think it's time.

Sure, people are falling in love, getting married, having babies, 

traveling, moving, 

making dreams come true. 

And some people are dying, grieving, 

letting go, scared, uneasy, desperate, reaching, waiting.

But in all this things, in some ways, 

poetically

proverbially

actually,

so are you. 

So let's take the week to wring out the winter. It's ending. Winter is one of those lingering friends who you love in the first 5 minutes, but after three hours it's the same old story. It's time for her to leave. So we'll wave goodbye from these hillsides and wait for the spring rain. The rain that could've been snow, but it's not.

We'll dream about the summer. The ocean. The camping. The kayaks. The lakes. The festivals. The sunburns, the road trips, the "how will we all fit", and the "let's just rent a bus" conversations.

We'll take the prayers and whisper them out. To surrender. To thank God for winters that come and cover. For winters that kill so that something else can grow. 

Because I need the winter to lift. Don't you?

I need her to spin away.

I need the warmth, the rain, the earth to break and breathe.

And that's why I've come here to say this to you. To wring. From this mountainside. And of course, 

to lift up our eyes and see where our help comes from. 

We Left and Now We Sing.

I'm taking a break from this full day to write.

Mostly because I can't stare at numbers, colors and paths for too long before I feel like I'm going mad. I know I'm getting tired when I look at a color on my couch pillow and wish I had an eyedropper tool to bring the color into a palette.

It's been a year since I packed up my car in Texas and hit the road with a two year old for a week of traveling with no real plan in mind.

A year since I lay still on the floor of my best friend's apartment and cried because dawn meant departure. Sunshine meant driving far. The wisps of pink on the Lewisville horizon meant we were headed north.

Denton had wooed me one last time, and I hoped that it would be enough to bring me back. But the road is long and far between New York and Texas, and I guess I just never imagined it wouldn't carry me home again. 

Life is weird.

Also, it appears I cannot give creative energy to too many things at once.

And since I've started writing more songs (and now posting them online), and prepare for an upcoming recording, my blog has gone quiet. I can throw my words and heart on screen or into lyrics, but not both, it seems.

Want to hear what I've been writing in music form?

Start here? :)

When I Give Myself 10 Minutes to Blog

It's Friday and so far today my conversations have consisted of the following:

M: "Mom, I want to pour the popcorn."
Me: "Just scoop it."
M: "Ugh. But I want to pour it."
Me: "Then use your bowl."
M: "But I want the cup."
Me: "Then scoop it."
M: "Ugh. You do it."
(15 minutes later)
M: "You haven't done it yet!!"
Me: "I'm.. I... I will."
M: "You forgot!"
Me: "Sorry."
M: "Look, I'll do it! I'm scooping!"

So. That being said, here's a smattering of thoughts for this Friday afternoon.

1. Tomorrow we rest, and I can finally give myself some free time to read this:

2. I will sit and write another song this weekend. They're at the forefront of my thoughts these days, and I must get them out. To think, obsess, wonder, question and feel as much as I do, songs better be written.

3. My daughter's (apparently new) sleep schedule gives me two quiet hours in the morning to myself. This is a beautiful thing. To thank her, I will make her french toast and pancakes, maybe at the same time.

4. I have to do my taxes. And by have to, I mean... I have to. It's almost March and I can almost hear the sound of the IRS barrelling toward me. Yes, giant scary organization, I know. I know.

5. I have dreams of spring, a fire escape garden, outdoor bbqs, bicycle rides, warm starry nights and camping. Come, sunshine, come.

6. I can't remember the last time I had a haircut. All my hairstyling-type friends just winced and my split ends mocked me when I said that.

7. I love this song. And this music video. It makes me think of my sister-in-law who can actually dance like this. She showed me once at my parent's house. I immediately knew my brother should marry her because it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. And then she did. So we're good.



8. Be close to the ones you love. In heart. In word. In presence. In prayer. When in doubt, choose love. I can't stop thinking of this and more and more I'm amazed how many of us want, need, crave the same thing. Maybe if we stopped looking for it for ourselves, and started giving it to others, we'd find God reflected in everything we do.

9. This morning, Madeleine and I snuggled under the comforter on my bed and read from the Jesus Storybook Bible. This today made us both smile from ear to ear: "No, the Bible isn't a book of rules, or a book of heroes. The Bible is most of all a Story. It's an adventure story about a young Hero who comes from a far country to win back his lost treasure. It's a love story about a brave Prince who leaves his palace, his throne — everything — to rescue the one he loves. It's like the most wonderful of fairy tales that has come true in real life! You see, the best thing about this Story is — it's true."

Happy weekending friends!

5 Things Before the Week Ends.

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!

A Little Bit of Sunday.

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.

Oceans and Streams

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.

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

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

"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.

shooting straight.

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.

 

the good life.

(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.