The Saturated Palette

of mornings and playing and nightmares

2012-02-03T13:16:00.001-06:00

For three days a heavy shroud of grey has not allowed a single color from the sunset to shine through, tell me, is it still happening where you are? I do hope so.

Last night, I had just begun to clean the kitchen and the kids were playing so wonderfully, it was nearly silent and I glanced around the corner to find them both playing with separate things like little contented angels. If you must know, this is what our home is like always and there is a soft glow that radiates too. Nope.

So, I was speed cleaning, because of my great love of washing dishes, which stems from years of torture as a child, when I was forced against my will to clean the kitchen with my brothers every single night. I believe enough time have past that I can truthfully and safely admit that I would find any excuse to do the smallest tasks possible. You know the kind, “I’ll just go wipe the table off, really well.”

Anyways, it had been about ten minutes and I was sweeping the floor when that boy of mine, who had constructed a train track the length of the living/dining room, he walked up to me, put his hands on the broom and said, “All done broom.” I just stood there all frozen and he removed the it from my hands and placed it back in its place of storage. Then, he showed me his masterpiece and insisted, “Mama play train track.” What was I to do? I mean, I didn’t want to clean the kitchen anyways.

---

We’ve been having a nice quiet morning here. The kind where I give the baby girl her oatmeal with a bowl and spoon, she only likes to eat with proper dishes, that girl. And anytime you give her a spoon and some food, you can pretty much secure yourself five to ten minutes of sitting and drinking coffee, an essential similar to breathing. She does really well and makes a gigantic mess, which, of course is worth those blissful sitting and drinking moments. I will go to great lengths to sit down and enjoy my food, make no joke of that.

Speaking of quiet, slow mornings, the other day, in the car, I told my husband that the worst imaginable scenario was one that required me to wake up unmercifully early to feed, dress, make lunches, prep children for the day, and get out the door, all under the strict tyranny of someone else’s schedule. The fact that people have put up with this kind of oppression for years and years makes me sad and “revolty”. Will that be the deciding factor towards homeschooling? Maybe.

The end. Happy weekend.

art as a prayer

2012-02-01T13:10:00.001-06:00

Today, I’m not handling the great unknown as graciously as usual. On Sunday, I prepared the last details and then we celebrated her first birthday and for two whole days I had absolutely zero projects in the works. As ridiculous as it may sound, I might have temporarily gone crazy. Like, 48 hours worth of feeling lost or confused.

Last night, I searched the nooks and crannies of television and social media and found nothing, but didn’t I already know that. Of course, I did. After powering through yoga, even though I really didn’t want to and nearly stopped three times. I mean, I did stop three times. It was dreadfully silly. I soaked in the tub and then climbed into bed to read Anne of Avonlea, where she talked about souls and poetry. It helped some, almost.

The trouble is, I’m in this mix of distracted and excited, but the unknown is just so very unknown and distracting today. More than usual. It’s like the Godfather of the unknown. But, probably, it’s just normal unknown, really.

And today it is foggy, like the Godfather of foggy. A perfect day for thought and reflection and drinking in the sweet sounds of harmonicas and guitar strings. It’s a good day to feel things, for reveling in the deep, beautiful melancholy of it all.

It’s an even better day to feel things with a paintbrush in my hand. That is the place where sense comes, because there we meet the Creator and the brushstrokes come together like a prayer, like autumn leaves dance in the wind or like the waves crashing upon the shore. We call and He answers. And we are left with peace and clarity.

Here we figure out what questions we are really asking and at the same time, the answers too.

In the morning, O Lord,you hear my voice; and in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation. -Psalms 5:3

love and socks

2012-01-31T10:50:00.001-06:00

One pair of socks on the other side of the bed this morning. His, the keeper of my heart. The one who wakes up three hours before the rest of us and eats breakfast in the a quiet house and dresses for work in the dark.

Once I read a story about a couple on the verge of martial ruin. I can’t tell you where I read it, maybe you can tell me. In the counselor’s office, she unleashed years of bottled up frustration because every single day she had to pick up his $($&# socks and if he just respected her, he would pick up his own dirty socks. So the years went by and she felt unappreciated and the resentment burrowed deep down and rotted away at precious things. Then something else happened, but I forget, maybe he almost died, maybe they just came to a great understanding and healing, I can’t recall. All I know is that after this dramatic turning point in their marriage, everyday when she picked up his socks, she no longer muttered hostility under her breath, but she thanked God that he was there to leave his dirty socks on the floor.

It was a moving, life-changing story, but I only remember the sock. The socks, perhaps that is the whole point? How the small things are the big things, when it comes to love and marriage, And by love and marriage, I mean all of life too.

At the same time every afternoon, the key goes in and the door rattles. Two little creatures practically jump out of their skin. He barely has one second to take off his coat and set his things down, before they are in his arms. Then for as long as possible, there they stay. Daddy is a commodity worth more than gold around here.

I fill the French press with steaming water and watch the dark grounds dance and soak and become one. A few minutes later, I pour two mugs and bring one to him where he is the bottom layer of the pile.

Next to the yellow chair, his socks and shoes are cast off on the floor.

Linking up with Just Write

remember-a-day

2012-01-30T13:04:00.001-06:00

A few weeks ago, we were driving home and the sky was painted teal, peach, and purple. Everything in sight was alive with passion. Days later we were smothered by a blanket of grey, the world felt hushed and slow. Every night, the world’s largest canvas is adorned with radiant hues, because God is an artist.

Sunrises and sunsets will happen without our acknowledgement and we don’t have to notice, but if you are searching for beauty in the world, twice a day, you know where to look.

I decided that I wanted to record the colors of the sunset every night. I’m not always in a prime photo location, but I stop what I am doing and look out the window. I watch the first signs streak across the blue and notice how the colors dazzle until the light meets the horizon.. Then, I enter the date and colors into a note on my phone.

For a week now, I've been observing this practice. I suppose it is less about the recording of the colors and more about the noticing. Too many stunners have passed without me stopping to say, hey as usual, great sunset tonight, God. In reality, days will be missed, but no worries, another one is coming soon, another chance to marvel, to pause, to see, to be thankful, and to remember.

In the summer, I made an Index card calendar/journal. At night I write down one thing that happened on that day. (Find in here). Often, I write, spent the day at home with the kids, but there was the time Hudson helped me unload the dishwasher {on Saturday} or when my baby girl ate an olive and loved it. It’s just life, normal and silly, but everyday life remembered is never ordinary. I keep it near my bed and usually jot down one sentence before going to sleep or right away the next morning. And ten years from now, I’ll remember where we spent Valentines day, because, do you ever remember that?

The thing is this, the act of remembering, it’s an opportunity for gratitude, to notice the blessings or challenges of this life. It’s a brief pause to find perspective, to savor a moment, to collect joy.

I wonder, if you were to document one thing daily, what would it be? How would you do it? A journal? an e-mail to yourself? a blog post? a photo? If you are inspired to start collecting these tiny little pieces of wonder, I’d love to hear about it.

January 26- soft blue, purple, purple grey, and pink

January 27- blue-grey, pink, cream

January 28- pink and grey

The Story Collector: Hardly cheerful, but heavy and true.

2012-01-26T22:15:00.001-06:00

On a Wednesday when the sky was heavy with the grey of winter, masking the sun and the sky in a monotone blanket of haze, I found myself at a small square table. It was tall and the bar below was perfect for locking in my boots. The coffee shop was full of chatter, alive with people fleeing from the cold, dismal weather; seeking haven in the cozy, lodge like café and warmth in the caffeinated beverages.

A grand wooden beam sectioned me off on one side, creating the perfect spot to enjoy my black thai latte and read. Often, I found myself so lost in these pages that all other noise evaporated, but pauses and lingering sips brought perfect opportunities for watching and listening of which I am frequently guilty.

Once we were having dinner with friends and we (the wives) confessed our love of watching and knowing everything that happened outside our windows. Nosey, they called it. We’re writers, we said, we’re looking for the stories. Stories are happening everywhere.

Coffee shops are full of people with stories.

A few tables over, a man and a woman, middle-aged, successful looking sat with a comfortable discomfort. A date perhaps, a meeting of old acquaintances, I’m not sure. No one reached across the table to touch hands. There was little laughter. She had perfect posture and long, well groomed, black hair with a luxurious collared coat that reached her ankles. I imagine she used to be a dancer in her youth. Perfectly polished fingers wrapped around her small skinny latte. Much less suave, but not disheveled, the man in a leather jacket and sweater sipped his coffee, black. His face showed signs of many days spent in the sun. His smile never reached his eyes.

Her face was hard to see for the wooden beam and her voice soft, but his was deeper and stronger, and I heard…

A sigh, heavy with baggage, weary with a dash of lingering anger,

“I mean, she’s the mother of my children.”

And he went on to say how the summers were divided and the conversations about the kids and how they parented after everything ended. It was an exhausting few paragraphs and his regard for her was somewhere between his greatest foe and someone he wanted to respect. His tone was matter of fact, but emotion betrayed itself.

Then the lady in black shared her tale, one of tolerating each other in public, but little more.

Heavy wafted in the air, buzzing with the sound of the steaming milk.

I couldn’t forget the sigh that preceded, she’s the mother of my children. It felt fragmented and out of place, as if it has been one of many items in a long list, but now the last standing ruins.

No longer the girl of his dreams, his best friend, his wife, the love of his life… all these causing her to be the mother of his children. Just the mother of his children, was a tune that faired better with the accompaniment of love and struggled when solo.

In my journal I wrote, my darling, let us protect our love, for I never want to be just the mother of your children. I always want to be everything else too.

And then I went home to the man I love and found him sandwiched between two beautiful children.

Stories are happening everywhere.

(I do not intend to be insensitive to anyone in writing this, that is not my wish. I am merely collecting stories of humanity and life, as I notice them around me. Some stories are happier than others, but all are worthy of being told.)

She would have painted.

2012-01-25T13:38:00.001-06:00

I was talking to my mom one Saturday as she played on the floor with my kids. I told her of how I had learned so much this past year about making my own needs and interests a priority and how I’m certain that being an artist makes me a better mom. I asked,

Is there something that you would have done more for yourself when you were raising us?

Her answer took me by surprise.

Painting. I would have painted more.

I remember three paintings that floated around our home, mainly one of the sea, driftwood scattered with gulls on the shore. It’s a beautiful piece of art, the way she captured depth, dimension, and light. I want to be in that place every day of my life. Her love of driftwood was one we all knew, anytime we traveled to the beach, she would search for it, I remember her always trying to find a way to bring home these massively large pieces, we often suggested leaving one of our siblings behind to make space.

I thought about her answer and I only remember one time in the eighteen years of my childhood that I saw her sit down in front of a canvas and this latched tin of crinkled oils. I was a senior in high school and she had set up the supplies for my little brother, she was painting next to him. I remember a sky washed in the palest pink and the water was the softest blue, it was a foggy.

At first, my stance was disappointment in lost opportunities. I wanted to feel sad for her, for not making time to paint, in the midst of raising five children and helping run a business. I wanted to feel disappointment at the years that she missed out on doing one of the things she loved, while she was doing so much for the ones she loved.

I gazed out upon the world of light and dark, the pure, white snow made radiant by the shadowy brown of the tree, where approximately ten regenerate leaves have not surrendered. Tiny branches shivered in the bitter cold wind. Surfaces dusted with the latest snowflakes. And that is what I was watching, when my whole tone changed.

Because on this particular day, the one time I saw my mother sit down to paint, I walked in the room and I looked at the table covered in crinkled tubes of burnt sienna and titanium white and wooden brushes. I looked at her and said, I want to paint.

And friends, that was the day that I fell in love.

Without this day, would I be an artist now? It’s impossible to say, but thankfully, this is not a story about missed opportunity, it is not a tragedy.

And for all the days that she didn’t paint, she can do that now. And because of the one day that she did, I will too.

---

dear readers, tell me one of your stories.

Everyday love

2012-01-24T20:11:00.001-06:00

We’re growing this business slowly. One design at a time. The whole reason we started was because we wanted to give each other good cards, we’d look through dozens at the store and leave empty handed. Why did I want some silly, flowery nonsense that I would never even say, how does that say I love you?

Because, I love you is when…

you are drinking your morning coffee and you look over and smile.

or when sleep deprivation is ruler of your home, but you know that you get to spend the day with your favorite person.

or when it’s absolutely horrid outside and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

or when your wedding anniversary is approaching and you simply say, remember when.

And there are so many more little occasions, the everyday kind that we want to document and turn into a card, because love is everyday, and at the breakfast table, and simple and sweet and playful and fun.

And that is what we celebrate.

So, that’s why we started Furthermore Creative and we hope you find something that makes you smile. We also hope you might want to tell someone about our cards, because word of mouth is the best way businesses grow. And if you do, thank you for supporting our dream. It means so much.

today

2012-01-23T13:55:00.001-06:00

Fluffy little snow flakes are burrowing into the nooks and crannies of the bare trees.

Tiny bubbles are gathering on the rim of my mug, discussing Emerson and heroes.

The snow plow has been up and down the road at least four times.

I’m still thinking about the ending of this fascinating book.

Someone has been singing Happy Birthday to his sister all day, getting ready for her special day.

And I’m here with my favorite little creatures and quite certain that Downton Abbey episodes are far too short and spread out for the good of mankind. Is it too much to ask that I just want Matthew and Mary to stop being so stubborn and confess their love for each other? That it all.

tea + crafts

2012-01-19T11:18:00.001-06:00

There’s a negative sign in front of the temperature today, thankfully, I have nowhere else to be. Like most days, I am perfectly fine with that, imagine having somewhere else that I had to be. We just turned on Ratatouille and the kids are eating their respective snacks out of cups. The baby girl likes to pour her bunnies out and then put them back in one by one, just like everything else. She already helps clean up the toys, unlike the other child who is carelessly eating cheerios, while half of them miss his mouth and land on the floor, totally unaware. Don’t worry, they are polar opposites and everyday we see it more.

She picked out her own outfit today, as we stood in front of her closet, she reached for the dress with blue, purple, and yellow flowers. She reached for it yesterday too, so obviously, she’s trying to tell me something. Earlier she fell over and bumped her head, brother ran over and said, “okay baby, fall down on the floor?” She responded, muah, with a kiss.

He learned how to play his harmonica last night and now he runs around dipping at the knees, wearing a silly grin, playing a tune that would make Bob Dylan proud.

I’m drinking tea, because my throat requested it and getting things ready for that birthday party we are planning with fabric covered jars and paper hearts. {find my pinterest inspiration board}

The end.

A birthday quilt

2012-01-18T11:51:00.001-06:00

She’s nearly one, that girl of ours. And so her birthday was decidedly the perfect time to venture into the new territory of quilting. It’s a slippery slope, isn’t it? While I was surrounded with measurements and fabrics strips and tags, all I could think was, I want to quilt everything.

The front is entirely from fabric I already had {minus the pink back}. My thought was if it didn’t turn out, no real loss, just practice, and I’d pick buy more and make a new one. Except the thing is, I love every combination. I love how the strips from past projects come together in celebration of her first year.

My most favorite part is above on the left, the strips ended up being too short and I added the red polka dots to the end, and like magic, it was perfect. The Traveler quilt pattern is from Little Things to Sew, from Oliver +s, and my project for the sew along this month.

In other news: Something to read. Something to bake.

found: encouragement

2012-01-17T10:49:00.001-06:00

We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully.

Romans 12:6-8

Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully, administering God’s grace in its various forms.

1 Peter 4:10

Probably, just maybe that “whatever gift he has received,” includes:

how you generously make a meal for a family
how you pour hours of your time into a handmade anything
the cheer you put into the perfect gift wrap
the handwritten notes you sent to friends
the patience and love you use in raising your children
the kind words shared over coffee
the way you pick up your husband’s socks from his side of the bed every morning
the way your fingers dance across the keyboard as you write
bearing your soul on canvas
doing your part to keep an office running smoothly
the attention you put into planning a weekly menu
the long hours you work to support your family
a smile offered to a stranger
the way you seem to understand numbers unlike anyone else
your passion for health and fitness
the warmth that people feel when you are near
the way you serve, defend, and protect our country
the hours you spend caring for the sick
how you lead a team of people
your ability to fix just about anything
the passion that shines within you for living life
the childcare you provide for children who are not your own
the way you lead a classroom
the mountains of laundry you fold
the endless wiping of noses
Every item on your to do list

What I’m trying to say, whatever your day holds, whatever gift you have received,

it could be just the grace someone needs today.

From the pages || Art for all

2012-01-16T09:36:00.001-06:00

{stunning print from lindsayart}

Art is not something done for another or to another. Art is everybody participating, that is when ritual is real, when whole community participates. No one can pray vicariously. No one can sing or chant or dance in our place. We are all meant to participate because each of us must find the “center,” the eye of God, wherein the true peace flows. We are all meant to tap into the creative energy of the Holy One, the Artist of all Artists and the Source without a Source.

-Excerpt from Creativity, Matthew Fox.

the year of the encourager

2012-01-14T15:08:00.001-06:00

I’m excited seeing many people choosing a word for the year or rather a word is choosing them. A declaration of intention for the next 365 days which will translate into shaping the ones to follow as well. And for me, what I keep coming back to over and over again is one idea. It’s more than a simple word. It’s a way of life with endless possibilities.

Encourage.

The other day, a friend asked, if you could do one thing for the rest of your life {and get paid} for that, what would it be? Without hesitation, I knew, make art and encourage others in their own creative journeys. It’s two things, but only one really, because as you respond to the stirrings of creativity within you, something pours out. Creativity is the gift that keeps on giving, and there is no tolerance for hoarding. Why do you think we are so excited to share what we make with others? For affirmation, yes, but also for encouragement, to say, if I can do it, so can you.

And you can.

So, we take our word and as Mandy says, you seek out that word, always on the look out, looking for secret messages, for opportunities, you embark on a mission to {fill in the blank}.

…

Last night, I did something that has always intrigued and terrified me. And this morning, I woke up feeling braver than yesterday. Never again will I wonder, what if, could I? Because, I did it and I love it.

However, that’s a different story, because when I sat in the chair as the stylist chiseled away inches and inches of my hair, more inches than ever, we talked. It turns out that she has a giant book of poetry that she has neglected for years and she’s always loved drawing, but hasn’t done it in so long. And it’s strange how I didn’t think much of this conversation, I suppose, because talking about art and writing is like breathing to me, but I mostly noticed how she confidently shared her creative interests, instead of denying their existence or her ability to be such. It wasn’t even me who realized what had happened, until Matt mentioned, an opportunity to encourage.

I’m glad I sat in her chair.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

–Howard Thurman

So, if you could do thing for the rest of your life {and get paid} to do so, what would it be?

January Shop Update- New Art

2012-01-12T12:04:00.001-06:00

Just stopping in to share some new art in the shop. Original paintings and some prints too.

Hope you’re having a creative week.

New art + Until then...

2012-01-09T14:22:00.001-06:00

Unplugging from social media for a few weeks. Be back in February.

Still participating in the LTTS project for the month!

on peace and knowing

2012-01-03T13:49:00.001-06:00

In my arms, no space between us, her eyes fall slowly and the rest of her joins in slumber. The little boy on the couch, going on hour number three. No playing or running or chasing after sister. Sure signs of a sick child.

The world is small today, it exists only in these walls. And thoughts that dare to enter the stream and make splashes are hushed by a force of peace. Speaking of these walls, we’re moving in a few months. To create a home in another set of walls, which could be absolutely anywhere. Down the street, other side of town, four states away, or even where the roaring ocean meets the shore. That’s all I know, a move is coming and that’s enough to begin a new year, with the promise of change. Because change is like a sweet summer breeze to me, in the way it washes over you and fills you with delight and life.

We’ll know the right place, I’m sure. And when that happens there will be things to do and they will get done.

But, right in this moment or moments, for some last longer than others. I only hear,

be all here and nowhere else.

be all here and nowhere else, it’s freeing and full of questions, but mostly the first.

and more than anything it’s exciting, because we’re waiting for message and we wouldn’t want to miss it. This part of our story, the next turn of events, another clue into tomorrow, and promise for today.

So, that’s where I’ll be until… then.

Linking up with Just Write.

A creative year: 2011

2011-12-31T13:28:00.001-06:00

This year we became four, when we met the most exhausting little beauty with wild eyes. After many months (6 or 7), I felt like I had finally grasped being a mother of two. Two children who are so opposite that I can’t even begin to tell you how, except that I haven’t sleep through the night since 2010 and I have never been needed so very much. Having both of them here is my favorite and my greatest challenge to date.

And somehow in the midst of this, I remained sane because of art and the great life-giving, calming, energizing power of creativity. I learned to paint before washing the dishes and write before sweeping the floor. And by doing this, I found enough strength to carry out the long list of responsibilities with my name on it. I left the house once a week all by myself. I wrote my thoughts, my prayers, and dreams in the hours after those children were sound asleep. I took nap time for myself. I was unbothered by this idea of having to have everything so perfect, and choose simplicity and peace instead. Strangely, the year of great exhaustion was also my most creative.

Truthfully, the year was long and often lonely, as good friendships here are few, but I can’t help but notice that this season was more about collecting invaluable lessons within myself and practicing gratitude for the magically, common everyday. It was about taking long breaths and realizing that the often intense demands of motherhood can be done as an act of worship, and thus the hours of each day can be spent in connection with the one who supplies all our needs and is strong when we are not. It was about finding contentment on the water’s edge, when there were so many questions about being here and what is next. It was about scribbling down the tender moments of quiet mornings or sweet goodnight hugs and silly antics.

We chased after a dream and felt it was the right to begin and together used our creativity to work turning, wouldn’t it be great into we’re really doing it.

Nothing ever happens how we think it will, and really, do we still believe that silly old myth, because past the long hours, the nights spent dreaming of sleep, and the restless within, I can’t consider the past twelve months without a recognizing a sense of great accomplishment. It may look small and humble, but in a way, it’s been pretty huge.

it’s art and

2011-12-29T21:09:00.000-06:00

It’s a love song. A prayer. An act of worship. A place to meet God. The declaration of a dream. The whisper of my heart. An offering of gratitude. A tribute. An ode.

To the creator, with love.

Inspired by.

how creativity actually does keep you sane

2011-12-27T10:47:00.001-06:00

"I began to notice that when I was able to fit a bit of creating into my day, I was more centered, at peace, and fulfilled. All those things make me a calmer, more patient, and more mindful parent. My needs were getting met, and I was therefore able to meet the needs of my children even better. Creativity quickly became an essential requirement."

- Amanda Soule, The Creative Family.

The art in everyday

2011-12-22T20:21:00.001-06:00

An afternoon light show.

The language I understand

2011-12-20T22:21:00.001-06:00

This video. Can not stop watching, the wonder overwhelms me, the magic races through me and I feel as if I need to paint forever until I have captured it all and then instantly, start again.

I want to live there and I want my every morning ritual to be this, to wake up and take in its beauty, to breath in the aroma of pure, fresh air, and to revel in the creator who must dwell in this place, yes, in all places of course, I know this, but here I imagine, He favors and one can always feel Him in the cool mountain air and in the dancing, falling water, and in the jagged rise and fall of the rocks set against the endless blue.

It reminds me of the film Where the Wild Things Are and that one moves me like no other. How is it that certain things speak to us so? Like we are foreigners in a strange place, but in a sea of people, we alone speak the same tongue.

Beauty, wonder, mystery, marvel, meaning, awe, art, life, God. The language I understand.

Linking up with Just Write.

the date.

2011-12-19T12:03:00.001-06:00

On Friday night he came home from work, a long 60 hour week, the usual kind, and with our daughter in his arms, the one who demands to be there within one second of him walking in the door, he stood in front of me and said, I have a very important question. Will you go out with me tomorrow night? I hesitated only because my thought was, what about those two kids that are always hanging around here. I was then informed that he had arranged for my mom to come and watch the kids. Well, in that case, my answer, absolutely yes.

Then he handed me a dark chocolate sea salt candy bar.

Saturday evening, after another long day of work for him, he walked in the door holding my favorite flowers. I mean, alright, husband. I’ll go out with you.

And so it happened that a 8 o’clock in the evening, this old couple ventured out the door, hand in hand, child free. How wild of us. This hour usually finds us sitting on the couch, children in bed, drinking tea or hot cocoa, doing wild things like knitting and reading. Don’t be fooled, we’re not even eighty.

Our top secret destination was this hidden gem of an Italian restaurant not far from Uptown. We enjoyed toasted ravioli, chicken fontina with this incredible homemade pasta and beautiful mushroom wine sauce, and then tiramisu, my other true love. And like kings and queens or just wealthy people who have other people care for their children during meals, we ate slowly and tasted every gorgeous bite of uninterrupted flavor. The luxury of leisurely eating is finer than gold, because even I have to break my own rule of not holding children while I’m eating, on occasion. I’m serious about that rule, I am. Because, my children are lovely and amazing, but a hungry mama is not a happy one and a mother who gets to sit in a chair all alone and drink coffee in the afternoon is the key to a pleasant home. I’m also serious about that.

And thus my handsome husband gave me both of those things on this glorious December evening. Post dinner, we drove through the weaving roads near Lake Calhoun in search of Christmas lights. And we gazed in the open windows, like any decent person would do and decided that most people have bad art on the walls of their grand homes.

This was also the night were my husband willingly tried on an argyle sweater at the store, and I decided that it wasn’t him. That sweater stayed at the store, making it officially the first time in history that a husband willingly tried on such a sweater and a wife decided against it. Let the record show, this happened on December 17, 2011.

All this occurred one crazy, perfect night in December, when a boy asked out a girl, who was already his wife.

a Christmas coat

2011-12-16T10:11:00.001-06:00

She won’t remember this Christmas or the presents marked with her name, but perhaps, the first one is for the parents anyways. Because it only takes one breath to instantly forget what life was like before them, before those sparkling eyes and wild squeals. My son, I melt for him, I simply melt. But this girl, I look at her and I feel crazy alive and slightly terrified at the same time.

Last night her brother was drawing on his chalkboard, at a lovely 10 months old, she watched him, picked up a piece of chalk and started drawing like him. He began to put the chalk back into the cup, piece by piece and she copied, until they were all gathered. She’s a doer, my girl. That’s why I’m a perfect blend of awe and terror on most days. Anyways, look out world, and by world, I mean, me.

And so, for this wild-eyed wonder on her first Christmas.

The buttons are from the collection saved by my husband’s grandmother, given to me by my mother-in-law, one of my favorite gifts of all time. Tiny white polka dots on a classic red line the inside. The pattern is the Abbey Jacket from Shwin and Shwin, modified as found here.

pictures and words

2011-12-14T14:53:00.001-06:00

I’m kind of all warm and fuzzy inside, because I just finished adding pictures to our 2011 photo book. It’s pretty amazing, because I’ve never actually finished a photo book. I had all these grand schemes for our wedding album, Hudson’s first year, and so on, but those projects got too in depth and overwhelmed me. I no longer wanted anything to do with them.

But this time, I powered through and decided that no words would be allowed, after all don’t pictures already contain thousands? So, no words and no limited amount of pages. We’re 80 pages in, folks. Eighty pages full of tiny moments and big ones too, from this year known as 2011.

The cover alone hold 700 small photos taken on my phone turned in a massive collage.

And while, I feel rather victorious, I also just relived a year in the life of us. I filled many pages with photos of my newborn baby girl, superfluous amounts to be exact, and nearly as many with my goofy little boy. I watched the seasons change from winter to spring, and from spring, the sky turned radiantly blue and the water from the lake sparkled in the warm summer air. The warmth faded into a mosaic of glorious autumn hues and slowly, (thankfully) those colors floated down from the trees leaving bare, spiny trees and a brown earth. Even today, the rain is erasing any remnants of previous fallen snow, and rain means the temperatures are higher than freezing, glory.

I clicked and clicked as tiny newborn faces turned into a sitting, crawling, and standing, full of life, wild eyed wonder. I saw a brother very unsure of this new little creature in his home grow into her favorite playmate and he’s just waiting for the day she will chase him down the hallway as far as she can. I watched a two year old turn three, his imagination soar and his spirit as gentle (and yet, trying) as ever. I noticed the depth of the reservoirs of a father’s love for his baby girl, with the shiny blue eyes melting him always. And the way my heart swells when my little boy sinks into my arms.

As I revisited every walk to the beach, every trip to get ice cream, all the adventures and celebrations, I studied the face of my love, the one who stole my heart. The guy who I never planned on meeting on that California mountain and now everyday he loves and works so hard for me, for us. Sometimes, it still catches me off guard, this life, this family we have made, the dreams we are building. Sometimes, so much so, that I run out of words.

Linking up with Heather and all those Just Write folks.

homemade marshmallows

2011-12-12T11:37:00.001-06:00

The thing is this, they will change your life. And I mean that, because you think you like marshmallows, the ones in plastic bags at the store and you think you like them on your hot cocoa, but really, you don’t know.

Because, then you have a homemade marshmallow and you wonder, did I even know what marshmallows were until now? Nope.

One of my dearest friends and her parents came into town for the weekend and it was amazing. After a dinner of lasagna and homemade French bread, we stirred milk and three kinds of chocolate on the stove until they melted into perfection. Then we plopped one of these little guys on top and it slowly formed this creamy, delicious layer of magic. Game changer.

I make them every year, but usually only around Christmas. They are a perfect gift to give and people will stop and say, I didn’t even know people could make marshmallows. You don’t forget homemade marshmallows.

Here’s the recipe, enjoy!

When you only have a little to give

2011-12-06T10:24:00.001-06:00

Last night I dreamed of a land that was dark and gloomy, full of 2,3, and 4 am sighs. A world where parents never sleep and babies woke up crying. But, then strangely, that dream never ended and here I am in this foggy, foggy world, spending lots of time with this delicious mug of magical, black goodness.

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the snow is kind of assaulting my sleepy eyes with a rude brightness, a kind that only people who slept would enjoy, you know the chipper folks. Yet, somehow the brightness and the blueness are a comfort on this winter morning, telling me that life and fullness is possible, but only if I squint a little bit.

The truth is today might be long, really long, but right now I will decide that if I only have so much to give, if I only can do one or two things today, there is no competition.

It’s simple and really, they are the sweeter choice, with their hugs and their great interest in being with mommy. I’m pretty much a celebrity around here. So, I’ll choose them and nothing else.

Much better than trying to be a grumpy do it all monster walking around in a haze.

And I cleaned yesterday and who cares if I didn’t.

And we have nowhere to go.

And projects will get done.

So, really, it’s simple. They win.

We’ll pile blankets on the floor and collect all the pillows, because that is a land where no one can be grumpy.

And in a way, knowing this and doing this means I win too.

It’s Tuesday, er, right? I’m linking up with Heather and the Just Write gang. You can too.

Memories collected in stitches: A Christmas stocking tale

2011-12-05T12:41:00.001-06:00

And one stocking knit by mama makes four. A {10+ hour} labor of love, of following patterns and making up my own. Every year I’ll notice the imperfections and remember the hours I spent counting stitches and how I learned to turn a heel {sounds like a dance move} and decrease for a toe. We’ll remember my adoration of all things mustard yellow and grey, of bows and buttons. Maybe, she’ll share those too or maybe not.

It’s unlike anything else, just like her and adds a crazy splash of bright, glowing spunk to our family lineup, just as she does. I studied it late last night as I knit the last stitch, and it puzzles me and it delights me. I’ve come to learn those are the best kind of creations, but something I could never explain. Maybe you understand.

To knit a stocking is something I’ve always wanted to do and I love that the first one is for her, my girl, on her first Christmas.

I see them all together, the ones we bought our first year as husband and wife (I didn’t know how to knit back them), the one I sewed for our boy from an old sweater and scraps, on our first Christmas as parents, and now…

our first as four.

Is that the reason for the timeless activity, do we knit to create a place for our memories to live?

Do you have a story about your own Christmas stockings? Please tell me.

Calm and Bright

2011-12-02T13:24:00.001-06:00

Last December was our first winter in this land of wintry oppression, known to the greater United States of America as Minnesota. At this time last year, we were already six weeks buried under countless feet of snow. I think six weeks is the perfect length for winter, incase anyone wanted to take note of that this time around, ahem. I was also supremely large with child, only eight weeks to go, eager and anxious. The day after Christmas our car died and we were carless for two months. Matt was still working two jobs (still is) and relying on the bus system, which took extra hours away from us and meant he faced frigid and inhumane temperatures. And our new baby cried for the first four months of her life. It was a long winter, literally and figuratively.

Today, I look outside my window and only a light dusting of the second snowfall remains cast upon the brown earth. On most days, I feel like I’ve got a handle on this whole two kids gig, at least 85% of the day. We’ve implemented a system that includes me leaving the house one afternoon a week all by myself. No errands, no demands, just a few hours of remembering what it was like to sit in a coffee shop at leisure. My husband gets an afternoon too, because he needs that time just as much as I do. It’s the best thing we ever done. Every night, I’m free writing (morning pages as known in The Artist’s Way). It’s a season of abundant creativity and I’m so thankful. On a regular basis, I have tea with a friend and the most encouraging and inspiring conversations, while our kids play. We started a small business this year, and we just completed our first custom family Christmas card. We’re getting to be part of helping friends grow their families. We’re investing in a dream that no longer seems far away, as we hold a large stack of printed cards in our hand. On the back, our own names where you’d usually find another. We’re seeing provisions come in the most unexpected ways. Last night, we stood in the kitchen at a very late, sleepy hour and acknowledged this first major milestone with Furthermore Creative. And today, when I paid the last bills of the month, I didn’t grimace or sigh. There was enough. Because, he is enough.

I’m knitting a stocking for my baby girl, it will be her first Christmas and my first knit stocking. Today, during her nap, we strung popcorn on a thread to hang on the tree. Mostly, my helper ate the popcorn and sipped hot cocoa, heavy on the marshmallows. And tonight, the evening is ours. We’ll tuck our babies into bed at a ridiculously early hour (because it’s already dark and we love them and our time alone) and catch up on our favorite Thursday shows, that we always watch on Friday nights, by the light of the fire and this week, the peaceful glow of that silly little tree in the corner.

I think of the words, “All is calm, all is bright.” and I wonder if the calm is more than a description of the manager scene. Is it also an offering of thanksgiving, a story of peace and contentment, an acknowledgement of love and hope? I think, maybe yes.

All is calm. All is bright.

Mixed and Matched and Magical

2011-12-01T10:59:00.001-06:00

Woke up the a world frosted in snow, must be December. It adds a little something to the bare spiny trees. I love bare spiny trees, but you knew that. Last night, we bought our Christmas tree, a small one again, because of the baby Godzilla who lives in our home. A tree skirt would be ripped off in 2.5 seconds. I daresay she might just try to scale that evergreen if it was on her level.

We bought the cheapo stand our first year and every year since, that darling man has declared in exasperation how we must get a better tree stand next year. We never do. Maybe that’s what he wants for Christmas? After busting out the drill and some twine, our stand is secured, but I wouldn’t bet my life that it won’t probably fall. That darling, she’s a force to be reckoned with, behind those beautiful, sparkly eyes.

It’s small, of course, and maybe a cousin of the Charlie Brown variety, but I love it, imperfect things have a way of sneaking into my heart and creating cozy memories. Is perfect a real achievable thing after all? Because a baby was on the floor discovering a strand of white lights for the first time and we were pulling all the ornaments out of the shoe boxes, remembering all over again. We listened to Perry Como and Frank Sinatra croon their carols. Hudson cried hysterically that the wooden Santa train, boat, and plane were not toys, but then he got to decide where they went and all was well. He picked them out last year, as our tradition goes of buying a handful of new ornaments every December. Always remember to write the year on the bottom so that 80 years down the road we’ll know, but I could tell you right now the story behind each one. The items topped with string, wooden and shiny, a tiny collection built each year, just like our family, our love, and our dreams.

And you better believe there is no pre-determined color scheme, just the one of life.

Mixed and matched and magical.

I wish they knew.

2011-11-28T22:51:00.001-06:00

I wore my hounds tooth cape, the one I made. Weaving through the aisles, I came to a full stop at that holiday cookie display. I want to pitch a tent and occupy the cookie display, and in protest, eat all of them.

The checkout line was short on this beautiful grey day, cold, but the kind of cold that feels warm once January comes. I will say this for my whole life, but how do people stand the winters in Minnesota? The friendly lady took my basket and then asked what I called that (cape), is it a poncho? Her friend and check- out counter relief partner came and replied, it’s a cape. This was followed by, Where did you get that?

I softly replied that I made it from an old jacket, hesitantly, because sometimes, when people hear that you can make clothes, they go a bit crazy. Enter scene. YOU MADE THAT? WHAT I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? NO, WOW. THAT’S AMAZING. IT’S AMAZING HOW PEOPLE CAN MAKE THINGS LIKE THAT. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT PEOPLE CAN JUST MAKE SUCH NEAT THINGS. I COULD NEVER. I COULD NEVER.

No, stop. not the never.

Now, being that words of affirmation is one of my major love languages, this would normally send me over the moon, pushing my tank to F, but in this moment, I’m embarrassed, If I shrank down to two inches tall, then I could sneak away, but they went on and on. Are they still putting my items in the bag? They were so loud and so shocked. People were starting to overhear the two of them and I just stood there, feigning a smile. I tried to tell them that all I did was cut off the original sleeves, reshape them, and sew the pieces back together, but they didn’t hear me.

But most of all, I wanted to scream. I wanted them to take back their I-could-nevers and throw them away over the ledge, never to be needed again. The amount of shock over a simple jacket refashion broke my heart, here were two beautiful ladies who believed the never, instead of the could. I wish they believed in themselves, in the abilities and potential they possessed. In the abilities they’ve yet to discover and pursue. I wish they were the proud owners of a notion that anything is possible. I wish they were dear friends with the truth that each one of us is capable, talented, and unique. Our gifts come in all sizes. We all have something great to offer.

Sometimes, it feels lonely to be a person who believes in dreams and possibilities, in a world where too many do not. What ever happened? What went wrong? Were their dreams trampled upon, smashed into oblivion? Did they ever meet a face of encouragement? If I shouted from the rooftops, YOU CAN, would they believe me?

I wish they would, because they can.

you can.

linking up with Just Write

Things and Cyber Monday Sales

2011-11-28T09:05:00.001-06:00

This is us on Thanksgiving, enjoying sixty degrees in Minnesota on the annual family walk.

Hello. Hello. Happy sunny Monday, also known as Cyber Monday in the world of online shopping. Visit my shop and receive 25% off your order with the coupon code: cybermonday at checkout. Also visit the husband’s shop and snag 30% off prints today, using code: cybermonday. (How original.)

Also, we were honored to design a Christmas card for an adoption fundraiser for our dear friends. Please, check it out here. We’d be so happy to help them raise enough money to bring home their son.

And lastly, I don’t post often on the weekends, but I had some major inspiration and I’d love for you to check out these posts Creativity and Exhaustion, the ugly battle and how to win and my very first video on The Saturated Palette.

Welcome to the season of gingerbread cookies and candy cane tea!

Creativity & Exhaustion, the ugly battle and how to win.

2011-11-26T22:00:00.001-06:00

I close the door as quietly as possible, right after I whisper the last, “Goodnight, I love you.” and I walk into the small portion of my night when I am no longer needed by people under three feet tall. I feel blessed and tired and exhausted and at the same time, ideas have been stirring all day, waiting a for their turn.

Right here, I have a choice.

I could relinquish to the tired/exhaustion combo, fill the kettle for tea and discover a show that I never knew I wanted to watch. Before I know it, the hours have slipped away and I’m ready to meet my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Pillow. And all I’ve done is drool over diner food and played lame words on Words with Friends.

I go directly to my computer, but still do the tea kettle part and I tap tap on the morning pages document. I enter today’s date and go. My fingers fly at a speed that speaks nothing of exhaustion. All of a sudden, from my soul, my heart is unleashed and the jumbles get punctuation and transform into complete thoughts, most of the time following the grammatical rules that make my English degree happy. Often, though, not. These thoughts, now clauses and phrases, they have a place to stay, I’ve built them a little home and no longer do they feel the need to occupy my brain.

And sometimes, it’s like my fingers know a secret message and they’ve been waiting for me to listen, because the words that come out are now front and center and in my stillness, when I have relinquished control over to the free writing, stream of consciousness act. I don’t even know what I’m typing, but they appear on the screen and I think, hey yes, I do feel that way, thanks for telling me. When my hands stop being busy with the beautiful and demanding responsibilities of the day, they are free to bring order to all the things that felt jumbled in my head. And strangely enough, after the frenzy of the click clack on the keys, my hands know when to stop. I take a breath. Clarity. Peace. Stillness. Want to know something else, I don’t feel so exhausted now and all that’s left is creative energy, roaring to go.

I could find myself back in front of the TV and believe me, I’m not against it, but in this season of my life, creative time is precious and I feel so much better when I use it well. I try to watch only the shows I love and instead, pick up a book or sit down with another project. And there is nothing wrong with collapsing on to the couch in front of HGTV for three hours of House Hunters International, yelling SOLD at the gorgeous villas set in picturesque Italian vineyards, but when you find yourself unsatisfied with your creative output, you have to decide, only you can make it a priority. No one else will free you to be creative, not even your thoughts.

Sometimes, I meet people who find themselves with great creative ambition, but feel too drained to even form a complete sentence. I wonder if this might help. I wonder if the act of de-cluttering your head, the way you do your home, would do wonders for your inspiration and creative energy.

Try it, let me know. Or if you have any great practices and tips on how you fight off exhaustion, I’d love to hear them, they may encourage others as well.

The one about art and de-cluttering your head.

2011-11-25T23:44:00.001-06:00

I’ve been thinking about this painting for a while now. It appears in my head, in-between moments of diapers and dreaming of sleeping. When that happens, you have one choice, to paint it. It won’t go away. It sticks to the sides of your brain and holds on tight, screaming, hello, remember me, I’m here. But, sometimes it just has to rattle along the road, like the cans on a string that people tie to the cars of newlyweds. And then, you stop, pick up the cans and say, oh yes, hello you. (we’re not talking about actual cans here, people.)
Enter morning pages/or in this case, evening-after-the-kids-are-in-bed-and-the-tea-is-ready pages. This painting was extra noisy today, clamoring for my attention, but there was just so much, SO many thoughts. So much nonsense. Clutter. It’s hard to paint with a cluttered head.
In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron shares the practice of filling three pages of thought first thing in the morning. It helps clear out the extra, noisy, and nonsense, so that you are free and clear to create. I used to be rather dedicated to this and let me tell you, it’s so helpful. Even if you don’t consider yourself a creative person, unleash it all on the paper, hopes, fears, questions, and prayers. Silly thoughts that you start to believe make less sense on paper and they suddenly don’t look as scary as they did floating around you head. Afterwards, you feel calm and uncluttered. You don’t believe me, try it. No one is supposed to read them, you’re not even supposed to go back and reread them. Just write it and leave it alone. Then go live your life.
In my case, I typed rapidly away in the word document until the last noisy little thing rattled its last rattle and then… I painted. I turned on Explosions in the Sky, one of my favorite bands to create to and during the process, I thought it would be fun to share part of the painting with you, which of course turned into something bigger, you know, the message that always comes forward when I talk about art.
Enjoy.

and how we shall not want

2011-11-22T09:36:00.001-06:00

The spiny trees are bare save a few renegade brown leaves. The chilly wind is rattling the world beyond my windows and small things dance to a frenzied, little tune. On the edge of my desk, the sprawling plant is mixing and mingling with the paint brushes and peacock feathers that fill a glass vase. It’s chaotic and beautiful. Inspiring and calming. Light filters through curved glass bottles that bounce and reflect light from the thick grey sky.

Fresh fruit fills a wire basket on the table speaking of provisions and how we shall not want.

Baby girl empties a soft basket of toys, near the warmth of the fire, she studies each piece with her hands and mouth.

Trucks are vrooming in the next room, so I scoop her up for our favorite part of the morning. Today, she doesn’t sit still as he’s trying to kiss the top of her head. He looks like a turtle, head bobbling around seeking its target. She pulls herself up on the bedside table and every time, he is still shocked. He looks at me, his eyes asking, did you see what she did? Maybe, he still remembers us bringing home that little baby who was too young to play. Now she follows him around and watches his every move and tries to eat his cars and can’t wait to greet him in the morning.

First, I see her grow through my own eyes and then all over again through his.

we shall not want.

linking up with Just Write

one for the memory box: morning hello.

2011-11-21T15:04:00.001-06:00

The baby o’non sleeper rises with the early sun. She doesn’t need sleep, she just needs mama. Strangely enough, mama needs sleep. Remember when my first born child started sleeping through the night at 8 freaking.fantastic.weeks old on Christmas Eve? The greatest gift ever. Hey, 10 months, get your act together. Is this the point in which we start comparing our children? You know, your brother did this..

Anyways, how odd that two totally different babies would be, you know, different. So, I suppose this is payback for all the sleep I got prior to January 2011.. all those days I thought, whoa being a mom is totally easy. Fact: Everything is easier on a full night sleep. But lately, us girls get up and drink some tea or coffee, I eat a casual breakfast, read a little or watch the travel channel. I love the travel channel in the morning. She plays contented by the fireplace o’electric . I don’t mind so much these few hours in the morning.

A few hours later, the golden child of slumber rises, seriously, like 9:30 or 10am. Oh, beautiful boy after my own heart. And I scoop up that little lump of morning lovin’ sugary sweet and we bounce over to his bedroom door. I turn that wretched doorknob, the one I’m certain will not work one day and he will be stuck in his bedroom forever until we take an axe to it and then own the rental company 1,000,000 dollars.

And she looks around the room as fast as she can, already squealing with all the delight that 19 pounds can hold. She spots him and practically leaps out of my arms. And he’s so amused and responds, hi, pretty baby.

Hands down, one of my favorite parts of the day.

Cozy lately

2011-11-18T13:46:00.001-06:00

Time for cozy knits and cute little hats.

I caught myself singing in the morning.

2011-11-16T09:57:00.001-06:00

I did. I did. But you’d never believe it. Me, queen of the un-morning lovers. People who sing in the morning get smoldering scowls for me. People who make noise in the morning, just get a less intense version. Good thing my babies are so cute, they get smiles. It was 9 AM and not a creature was stirring, besides that fantastic husband of mine who had been slaving away for the man for a few hours already. That baby girl, hater of sleep, she found her way back to the hushed rise and fall of slumber. My son, three going on teenager got all of my expert sleeping genetics and will happily sleep for another 45 minutes. I beam with pride.

For a moment, I thought, hmm, more sleep. But in an instant, I sprang to my feet, as silently as possible to not wake the sleeping babe in the room. I slipped into my fuzzy moccasins, the ones I bought to ward off the inevitable doom of winter’s cold feet and I grabbed my husband’s robe. Why are those always better than the three we own ourselves?

As I did a silent victory dance for having walked the dangerous dead man’s bluff-creaking planks of the space in front of the bedroom door and heard not a sound from the light sleeper of the century.

And that’s when I heard it, escape from the salivating corners of my mouth.

Good morning. Good morning. You slept the whole night through (this part is not applicable). Good morning. Good morning to you.

I almost reprimanded myself, but not today. Not on this special day. Not on this glorious morning full of radiant light and jubilation.

So I sang it again, and you can’t stop me. Then, I opened my first bag of Christmas blend coffee and the aroma carried me away to a magical land.

Welcome back, my love. The holiday season begins now.

A few notes:

I write a version of this post every single year. Yes, I do. It’s my favorite coffee in all the land.
This is not endorsed by Starbucks, but, shouldn’t it be? I mean, really? I will accept compensation in more coffee.
My children woke up in the time I sat down to write this, but I don’t hear any crying, so I shall steal a few more sips.
I hope they remember there is no crying on Christmas blend day.

Small victories

2011-11-15T08:51:00.001-06:00

An overwhelming sense of simplicity is weaving itself through my thoughts, in the way I knit this yarn over and under, over and under. . A freeing stillness beckons me beyond the noisy, swirling world. I left there and the only thought was how I was supposed to want all of that, but I didn’t. I’m still soaking in just how huge that really is.

We’re in the growing years, where our furniture is second hand, where sometimes we have rice and beans for dinner, and burgers, fries, and milkshakes are a real treat. A conversation over steamy coffee with a friend as our emotional three years play happily and then cry. Repeat. Words intermittent between babies in need. And then, one utters, “As if there is something wrong with that? It’s food, it’s filling, it’s sustaining. The problem is that it is humble. There’s nothing wrong with humble. What are we trying to prove?”

And you have to pause and ask yourself, what are we trying to prove?

We feel lost in a sea of voices that says humble is not okay. Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more. We swim upstream against the seductive currents of busy. We struggle and strive this internal battle but we wear the uniform on the inside, so no one knows.

And then one day, you drive away and you’re supposed to want all of that, but you don’t. You don’t. Not even a little bit.

Slowly, you realize the victory, when overwhelming joy is found in…

Sharing a hot cocoa, heavy on the marshmallows with your little boy.

Melting into the thrift store love seat, wearing a slip cover one size too big.

Sitting in a friend’s kitchen, as two three year olds both want the same snake and two babies seek the comfort of their mama’s arms… and you share a French press and say, motherhood isn’t something to just get through. There’s beauty and challenges and meaning and purpose and truth waiting to be found.

It’s full, this life.

linking up with Just Write.

Shop Update

2011-11-14T13:02:00.001-06:00

While we are slowly working on growing our collection of cards for our Furthermore Creative line, we are now able to turn some of our favorite prints into note cards too. This is something I envisioned years ago and it’s finally happening. It’s been amazing to see the results of ideas that have been simmering for quite a while now.

My newest note card gift set features the three prints from the Tree Series, which are some of my all-time favorites. It includes Silent Song, Dancing Blossoms, and Yellow Blooms. They are blank inside, because you don’t need my words, when you have your own and measure 5x7 inches.

Find them here.

This set joins my newest designs, the Patchwork Collage note cards. Have you seen them yet? Wouldn’t they be the perfect treat for a long distance friend?

This week is jam packed with projects, finishing touches on designs for a fundraiser, knitting scarves, a top secret Christmas gift, an alternation, and sending out my packages for the Holiday gift swap! What are your creative goals for this week?

Silent Night at the Opera

2011-11-11T16:17:00.001-06:00

Last night, I crossed off an item on the ole’ bucket list. Attend the opera. I was terribly excited, but so unsure of what to really expect. After all, the first thing that came to my mind was emotional women in enormous dresses being dramatically in love, and not the smooth sailing, blissful kind either. This was entirely different.

I had the privilege of being in the first audience of the Minnesota Opera’s world premiere of Silent Night. It was the first commission by the Minnesota Opera New Works Initiative. Before walking a few short blocks down the charming sidewalks of St. Paul to the Ordway theatre, we enjoyed sushi and drinks at Sakura, where we were introduced to the composer, Kevin Puts (writer of music) and librettist, Mark Campbell (writer of the words). The passion beamed forth as they shared their vision and excitement for this project. As an artist, witnessing other artists talk about creating things they love is a powerful experience.

Silent Night is based on Joyeux Noel, the 2005 French film that depicts the true story of Christmas Eve of 1914, when the French, German, and Scottish soldiers call a truce and celebrate the holiday together. The film is beautiful and moving, definitely something to see this holiday season.

But, the opera, transformed this story in a way I couldn’t imagine. Upon entering the regal theatre donned in rich crimson and gold, the stage transports you directly into the story. The monotone piles of rocks, ravaged battlefields, and the crumbling fortresses turned trenches all set against spiny shadows of trees, heavy with death and ominous clouds dripping hostility.

And from this tragically beautiful stage came music that was so rich with emotion and energy. I felt homesick with the soldiers as they bravely carried on and missed their families. I felt the loss as they mourned the death of their friends. I felt the tension between the armies as they fought in the name of their homeland. When the first brave man climbed out of the trenches bearing a Christmas tree and surrender flag, in the hopes of peace, I was sure that something terrible would happen. I suppose that is the power of the music, doing just what it was intended to do, the power of this art form, telling a story through notes on scale. The transformation of enemies becoming fellows was so remarkable, as they found kindred spirits in the most unlikely of places.

It was enchanting.

During the second act, the composer sat just three seats down from us. As the last notes poured out over the seats, he sat forward, with his fists clenched tight, frozen. And when they melted into silence, he dropped his head and exhaled with everything in him as the curtain cascaded down on his very first opera. I am certain, it was a moment he will never forget. I won’t either.

Find dates and ticket information here. Watch this video.

Photo: Michael Daniel

one for the memory box

2011-11-07T22:07:00.001-06:00

I walk him to his room, where he will nap, but more like play ~~almost~~ not so quietly in his room for a while during the middle of the day. He won’t sleep, but still says, “Good night, love you,” which sounds like “gah nite lav you.” and blows me a kiss. I could breath off those sweet puckers. And he’ll greet me when I turn the door knob with a “Good Morning,” at 3pm. I love every silly thing about him.

I respond the same way. He turns around to face me and says, “oh no, wait, hug?” He collides into my legs with his arms held high. I pick him up and he wraps his long, thin arms around me and pats my back, he’s done that since he was a tiny little babe. When he grows out of it, I’ll wither away, I suppose. He plants a kiss on my cheek and climbs down to play with his train track, but first he closes the door as I walk out.

I stand on the other side of the door, melting.

Little boys are mama’s heart melting machines.

Linking up with Just Write

a tasty bit of grace

2011-11-07T08:32:00.001-06:00

The day had been a long one, heavy in the waiting and trusting, noisy in the kid department. The kind where your energy drains faster because you are holding on to promises with all your might.

Lots of long stares into the cupboards, mostly bare, but not completely. Lots of turned up ugly faces at the can goods and other random items, I guess to let them know how much you wish they were deep dish meat covered, cheesy pizzas instead. Living within ones means can be a challenge and a battle of self-control at times.

Oatmeal for dinner.

And we all sit around the table, reluctantly eating this gourmet meal, husband and I exchanging hopeful glances that could fill novels. The baby foodie is grabbing at my bowl, as I’m breaking my rule of not holding kids while I eat. The little boy is snacking on raisins. Wooden Misters Elemant (Elephant) and Lion King (Lion) are walking across the table towards me. Clip clop. Clip Clop.

“Hi Mama, Hi. Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant. Bye.”

They march across the table in the opposite direction.

“Hi Daddy, Hi. Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant. Bye.”

A smile wipes across the daddy’s face. A sparkle glows in the little boys eyes.

They march back across the table.

“Hi Mama, Hi. ”

And before he can get the rest out, my eyes catch the daddy’s and we laugh, the kind of laugh that melts away heaviness. A joyful batch of tears well up in my eyes. The sparkle grows brighter and he laughs too. Baby girl squeals.

This is the most delicious part of the meal.

“Someday we’ll miss this” he said. “Miss what?” I ask and he answers, “being broke.” (I don’t know if we will, but I wrote it down just in case.)

DIY Christmas Inspiration

2011-11-04T13:15:00.001-05:00

Last night, after a doozy of a day, I made a fire with the flip of a switch, drank steaming tea, and paged through the new Anthropologie catalogue. Basically, beauty things euphoria and inspiration galore. And you know what I said, well, what every crafty person does, I can make that.

Here are a few things that especially caught my eye.

Now, this is Christmas décor that needs to be in my house. Find it here. I probably have everything I need on hand. Tutorial coming soon.

Again, sailboats, book pages, scraps of fabric, string, tiny dowels, a touch of paint. I adore this ornament and I don’t say that about many. I’ll let you know how it goes. Find it here.

Jars turned pretty snow globes. This will be happening. Tutorial here. Or you can buy them at Anthropoligie.

How pretty would these Christmas jars look on the mantle? (Not from Anthro, but still amazing.)

Do you have any Christmas projects on your mind?

12 scenes at the pediatrician’s office.

2011-11-03T14:00:00.001-05:00

Oh man, I wish I could take my kids to the doctor everyday. I mean, that is fun for all, something everyone can enjoy. It’s better than a vacation.

1. Check-in: Hey, fill out this form while you attempt to entertain your kids in this tiny closet of a room.

2. The form: Hey, there free-spirit kind of parent, please put your pride and joy in a box and check off items on this list. No pressure, but here’s what all the other “normal” kids are doing at his age. No, no, we’re not trying to say you are a bad parent if your kid can’t draw a circle, speak four languages, and recite all the digits of pi back to you, while standing on his head. And please, try to assess all these items, while all they want to do is push a truck around the floor and say, vroom vroom.

3. The wait: It’s always a mystery how long you’ll sit there, while everyone who came in after you goes in first, not the good kind of mystery either.

4. The summon: By the time, your kids are nice and antsy. Your name is called. You will then proceed down a long hallway with lots of open doors that your child wants to run in and explore, but never the designated room.

5. The interrogation: Have you housed any dangerous strangers since your last visit? Did everyone start smoking in the last three months? Is your native tongue the same since I met you in the waiting room? And did your kids ride in car seats on the way here today or did they roll around on the dashboard? I give the same answers to the same questions that I have been asked every month of their lives. Next time, I’ll ask the questions.

6. The check up: A friendly nurse tries to get your kids to stand on a scale and measure their height, which of course, said child doesn’t want to do. So, you have to do the weigh you, then weigh the both of you trick. Let it be known I was wearing boots and a thick sweater!

7. The check-up Part 2: A new face walks in, a new doctor, because your other doctor is apparently booked until 2013, quite the celebrity that one. Where they assess your pride and joy based on the shove’em in a box forms that you had to fill out earlier. They proceed to try and stick things in their eyes and shine lights in their eyes, you know, things that are awkward, especially when they are sitting on strange table with hard, crinkly paper, in a freezing cold, foreign room, in a diaper no less.

8. The Shots: Good gracious, saints alive, help. (And half the people, including my mother, gasp.) Next, you will be forced to hold down your sweet baby on the previously mentioned, strange table, while someone pokes them with needles. And every fiber of your nurturing, loving, parent-self is screaming inside along with them as you look into their pleading eyes, welling up in agony. I wonder if I deserve part of the nurse’s pay for aiding and abetting this torture? I mean, at least enough to buy a latte afterwards.

9. Damage control: Your victim baby doesn’t want you to set her down after that, but it’s only socially acceptable for children to wear clothes out of the doctor’s office, especially when it’s 35 degrees. Your toddler doesn’t seem to think today is a good one to gracefully part with the toys. So he screams. She cries. A nurse wants to give them a sticker, which will naturally end up on your sock by the time you get home. And you think, please don’t reward my children for their bad behavior with prizes, you know, we sort of teach the opposite at our house. I get it, a screaming baby leaving the doctor isn’t reassuring to the ones in the waiting room. So, sticker in hand, that doesn’t actually stop the crying and you try to navigate the maze to the lobby, where approximately 17 nurses will stop and want to gaze upon the radiance of your darlings. And you really should stop and schedule your next appointment so that you can make the cut this century, but your car can’t be in front of you soon enough. BUT WAIT. The one day you see a friend in the waiting room, a nice little chat might be nice. No, not today. Bye friends. There’s more.

10. The lab: Where in between the high frequencies of your high-pitched children, you check in and sit in a room, filled with elderly people. (Good thing they can’t hear so well, right?) And toddler is still lamenting the the toy that was never his and sad, sleepy baby only wants a mama’s arms, but fit throwing, body flailing offspring #1 fills the three floors of the clinic with his protests. You then must hold him tightly in your arms for the next 20 minutes until someone comes and says, hey, here’s a form! And tears well up in your eyes, dripping, and how do you suggest I fill that out? And an angel lady comes and fills it out for you and tries to comfort you with something about all the other kids that have done this and how it’s okay, you’re doing fine. And you think, well no other kids are doing it right now. So, you take your turn in making everyone else’s kids look like cherubs for the day. Everywhere people are looking at you, then whispering to their neighbors, some cast reassuring smiles. And then, sweet old ladies walk up to the stroller of insanity and say, “what precious darlings.” Umm, really? Yes ma'am, hearing/vision check is up the stairs, to the right.

When you’ve aged 30 years and the brick and mortar of the clinic is crumbling around you and your name is called, you get the technician who asks the other 10 questions, because they aren’t sure what this test is. They give your offspring #1 a toy that will be taken back in 10 minutes (No, not again.) And then force you to hold your little darling, sad, sleepy baby in your arms, as they poke her finger, stare in her face, and watch her beautiful blood drip into a miniscule tube that apparently, is bottomless. Hey, did I mention, how much she loves strangers… in her face?

11. The escape: Two and a half hours later, you walk faster than the speed of light to your vehicle, ignoring the murmurs of, “ooh, someone is not a happy camper,” and strap toddler the screaming one into his car seat, a little less nicely than normal and you take out a bit of aggression on the double stroller that doesn’t want to fit in the trunk and you collapse into your seat, muttering ~~beautiful poetry~~ .

12. Relief: Home. Tuck sad, sleepy baby into her bed, although you just want to hold her. And heat up coffee from earlier, which you never do, but it must be done. Sink into the couch, where your all of a sudden, kind, beautiful, tender, sweet little boy has returned and wants to pat your back and kiss your cheek. And you text your good friend a brief retelling of these events, because she understands and that helps.

Anyways, the above are just 12 scenes that may or may not happen at any given check up. I wouldn’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. This not a true story.

Please note: Doctors and nurses are great people and are not the truly horrible human beings that I may have depicted in my purely fictitious, frazzled-mama accounts.

on a Wednesday

2011-11-02T21:13:00.001-05:00

Today I sat in an oversized chair, drinking my gingerbread latte in a red cup. I tried to read Anne of Avonlea, but the words felt jumbled by the dozen conversations around me. Sales pitches, plans for BMW commercials, and the elderly couple talking about how difficult it was to find the kind of socks they like at Wal-mart now, because there were too many choices. I wasn’t feeling it.

I buttoned my red coat, tucked my kindle under my arm, and walked out. An hour and a half was all mine. I was beckoned by a particular wooden bench settled just down the way on the docks. A coveted spot on a warm summer night, but today, it was reserved just for me. The rest of the locals were tucked inside the shops and eateries, avoiding the chill. And in the quiet, I sat on the edge and let my boot clad legs dangle over the water.

I stopped and noticed.

Drooping branches hanging over the water, creating rippled, spiny shadows.

The sun peering through the murky layer of grey clouds, brightening the last color bursts of fall on a hill across the way. Renegade sea gulls circling the surface, swooping down and claiming dinner. A pair of ducks lurking near the shore, telling jokes and doing headstands.

The intricate etchings and shadows of the wood.

One particular yard with an abundance of trees, donned in greens, yellows, and even yellow-greens, Melancholy willows and prestigious oaks, and spunky, spiny, thin ones with their eager branches reaching for the sky.

A sailing club down the bay, practicing their curtsies, bending, and bowing in the cold November wind.

And I read,

Above the noise of selfish strife

We hear thy voice, O Son of Man.

-AW Tozer

morning

2011-11-01T08:52:00.001-05:00

She’s awake and has no intentions of returning to sleep. First priority, another go at that whole pulling herself up to stand in her bed next to mine, since she was so good at it yesterday.. Success wipes across her face and is heard in her squeals. I pull the covers close to my face and foolishly deny that all of a sudden, she’ll want to sleep again. Who am I kidding, that has never been her thing. She must take after her father in the department of light sleepers.

So, it’s brie and pumpkin butter on Ezekiel bread with a cup of spicy chai.

I’ve heard tales of this mystical morning time, when most of the world is slowly rousing from its sleep and others intentionally claim these few hours in the name of peace, progress, and uninterrupted thought. But, as soon as the idea creeps into my mind, I remember how I haven’t sleep through the night since 2010 and I can’t even remember how long ago that was.

Still, I want to be that person. I really do.

Last night I wrote and when I entered the last bit of punctuation, a strange and beautiful thought crossed my mind. This is part of my book. It was involuntary. It was shocking. It was amazing.

And this morning, the fireplace is humming and warming my toes and this tea is seducing me with its lovely aroma and the blue is sweeping across the grey sky as the sun returns to keep guard of the day.

Magic? Perhaps?

linking up with just write.

An evening with Anne and a cup of peppermint tea.

2011-10-31T21:28:00.001-05:00

I took a few weeks off from reading after I consumed the last words of Jane Eyre and then let breath enter my body again. It was a game changer, that book. I feel like I need to apologize to those Bronte sisters for ignoring them for so many years. They don’t get the recognition they deserve, maybe that’s why they were so dark and twisty.
Although, I don’t think I’d be friends with Jane Eyre, she’s so serious and ruled by reason. I’d roll my eyes at her a lot. But, Anne Shirley, now we could be the most darling friends, of this I’m sure.
And this is why.
“I’d like to add some beauty to life,” said Anne dreamily. I don’t exactly want to make people KNOW more… though I know that IS the noblest ambition… but I’d love to make them have a pleasanter time because of me… to have some little joy or happy thought that would never have existed if I hadn’t been born.” “I think you’re fulfilling that ambition every day,” said Gilbert admiringly.
Me too, Anne. Thanks for getting me.
And that is when I put my Kindle down and took a sip of tea. I might have to put that on a giant canvas.

A small crafting discovery: felt and the hole punch

2011-10-31T10:55:00.001-05:00

Good morning. Coffee sure is delicious, huh? How do you take yours? My vote goes to a steaming cup of strong, black goodness or on occasion swirled with half and half. Never sugar. Not for me.

Anyways, this morning I have a clever little discovery for you. Maybe everyone in the world knew this already, but I didn’t. It is a perfect trick for decorating your holiday packages.

Use your paper hole punch to puncture felt cut outs and add them to your gifts and projects.

I used it here to add a little something to my packaging for my paper collage postcards. It would also be a fun project to have kids decorate felt Christmas ornaments.

Speaking of holiday packages, I’m participating in the Freshly Picked handmade holiday gift swap. It’s going to be so fun.

this place

2011-10-30T13:52:00.001-05:00

Whenever I feel a little soul scattered and restless. Whenever I start with the questions that I can’t answer. Whenever things look blurry in a life sort of way. When it’s been too long since I met the salty spray of the sea and I wonder why we live here and I miss my friends. This place helps.

The summer crowds are gone. Only an occasional boat is stationed in the marina. The boardwalk is empty. The crisp wind chills the air and paints our noses a rosy shade. The stroller wheels meet the dock with a rickety-rackety sound. The water coos a soft lullaby against the rocks. The sky is donned in wispy grey clouds and relaxed sunshine.

I see art in the beautiful imperfection of the weathered paint. I look up at the endless sky and feel small in a good way. I whisper, thanks for always being here, to the one who spoke and all was.

There will still be questions and restless blurry days. And yet, while we are here, for however long that might be…

this place helps.

A pretty little apron //LTTSA #3

2011-10-27T20:13:00.001-05:00

This pattern is darling and a major breeze after the backpack. It takes me back to a place of china patterns and homemade meatloaf on the table, when I look at the combination of the floral print with the peacock blue bias tape. This one is going to a friend’s daughter, because every little girl needs a pretty apron. I know it will be perfect for baking holiday treats with her wonderful momma.

See more projects from our Little Things to Sew Along here.

Ready or not

2011-10-26T14:11:00.001-05:00

If mothers of an older and wiser brand read this, please be kind to my trembling soul. A knowing smile will suffice, but today I sit here and at last, I’ve captured a few moments of breath and an entire lunch, because mothers need to eat too.

I’ve entered a new awareness and I must admit, it feels heavy.

As in, on several occasions I could be found blankly staring out the window, my mind escaping to a very far away and extremely wonderful place, a land that existed before now.

You see, my son just turned three and the little girl is a professional crawler with a keen sense for all of her brother’s most prized possessions, a baby Godzilla who seeks to destroy all train tracks and anything in her reach. And age three has brought this perspective of all toys are my toys and you get none. Then baby thinks, oh look at how fast I can get to all these fun things. Do you see where I’m going?

And thirty minutes into the day, there I was, window staring and knowing, it was a new day. Time to embrace my most unwelcome role, the referee.

I’m positive it’s my new least favorite.

All the sweetness that abounds in him seems to vanish and her most passionate cries of injustice, oh, Harper the fierce. Over and over and over again. And that’s when you find me starring out the window, thinking about things like preschool, nay, boarding school. Sounds divine.

And then my mom’s voice pops into my head with something about evidence of the sinful nature of man displayed in children and another voice muttering something along the lines of, one day you’ll miss this. I roll my eyes, literally and inside my head, so the voices can see too, and think that I probably won’t miss this exact part, thank you very much. But, I can’t listen to these voices for long, because well, someone just found a train track and is destroying it, piece by piece. Cue unhappy three year old.

I send my husband a text, is this my new forever, referee for life? and he responds with a stupid smiley face, because he probably doesn’t want to type, yes, maybe. Smart move. BTW, I hate stupid smiley face texts.

I mean, it’s no wonder people seek out refuge in their vice of choice, lucky for you, mine brings me to the click-ety clack of computer keys, where I can write down a bunch of life and by the end, feel lighter and know that everything will be fine, probably. Boiling water has just been poured into the French press and it is nap time, so, there’s the bright side.

I sit here and wonder what my mom felt like with five kids. five. But lucky for her, I never started any sort of shenanigans with my siblings, so there’s that, for the record. I can imagine a few of my best friends reading this and feeling validated in no longer wondering if their kid needs a sibling.

So, here I am, my resume just got longer and I get to admit once again, that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Referee status, consider yourself acknowledged.

Olivia, lover of Jesus, wife, mom of two, artist, writer, coffee admirer, super fan of nap time, hater of stupid smiley face texts, window starer, and referee.

linking up with Just Write

a non-birthday birthday

2011-10-25T13:23:00.001-05:00

Let’s talk about birthday parties for kids. Parties are fun, mostly exhausting, but fun. For his first birthday, we had four. FOUR parties, and traveled from Tennessee to Alaska to Kansas and back. By the last one, we sat on the couch in a birthday overdose haze and let the grandparents do everything. We vowed to never have more than one party per birthday ever again. Sorry to the rest of our children. But, this year, as we approached #3, I couldn’t think of anything better than a whole weekend together as a family. Matt works two jobs, so our weekends are only Sundays and that day fills up way too quickly. So, he took a few days off and we had an amazing four day weekend. FOUR WHOLE DAYS. It was the best thing ever.

The weather was ideal fall. Cool in the shade, warm in the sun. We didn’t want to waste such a marvelous thing, especially with all this talk of, I can’t even say it. I can’t. Naturally, we went out for donuts and coffee, our favorite bacon maple glazed long john donuts and s’mores donuts and apple fritters. Then we found the most wonderful park and spent the next few hours playing in the delicious fall sunshine. We visited the new Whole Foods that is only three miles away, where we fell in love with their burritos. We may or may not have eaten there twice in two days. The rest of the day we laid around, played with birthday gifts, watched movies, and skyping with family.

I love planning parties and creating all the special elements, but hands down, out of all three, this was my favorite.

You know, the very first memory I have is my third birthday. I was wearing a red dress and watching Zorro with my brother. I wonder if he’ll remember this one? What is your first memory?

What are your thoughts on kids’ parties?

three

2011-10-20T21:28:00.001-05:00

When I found out that we were expecting our first baby, I bought a journal and began to fill it with letters to my child. I keep it near my bed and write in it on occasion and one day I want him to have it. I have one for his sister too.

This weekend, we celebrate his third birthday. As I was looking through the journal today, I read these words that I wrote about the day we met face to face. I saw his squirmy little face looking at me, one eye closed and kissed his perfect little cheek.

Happy birthday, my love.

the 2 in 1 clutch from lbg studios

2011-10-17T17:26:00.001-05:00

Hooray, I won a little giveaway from A Little Gray and LBG Studios for the 2 in 1 clutch pattern and then I took approx. 17 coupons to Joann's, it’s the only way to go. I love the tweed, which is a bit more brown that my cool photo pictures show. The inside is this crazy green and brown zebra print, I was in search of wild.

I think this one will be used often, I could even throw a diaper or two inside for those silly babies. I love that it's not huge or too small, but cute and functional. I get so weary of gigantic diaper bags that you hard ever really need. I'll definitely be using this pattern again and think of how many friends would love this kind of gift... I can already name five.

Merry merry.

2011-10-17T09:08:00.000-05:00

I’m biased. I know, but I am just crazy about our newest card from Furthermore Creative, which is us, of course. But, sometimes you have ideas and when they come to life, they are even better than you thought. That’s how we feel about this little charmer. It makes me want to pour maple syrup on something. I love how Matt can capture emotions in his drawings.

The inside reads, Merry Christmas, merry us.

I can’t help but see this design customized to say, Merry Christmas from the AndersenSmitroniskiwallaboos. I mean, photo cards are awesome, but this one would stand out. We could even throw a few bambinos in the mix too. Your little family could be immortalized in a festive cartoon for all of time. Think about it and then send us a message.

Find our newest card here.

And we’re also on that old facebook thing on the world wide web.

Thanks for reading. Are you thinking Christmas yet?

On Jane Eyre and the most scandalous statement of 2011.

2011-10-14T14:29:00.001-05:00

I have a confession to make. Last night I finished Jane Eyre for the first time in my life. And then I wildly and emphatically proclaimed to world via select social networks, HOW IN ALL THE GREAT EARTH HAVE I NEVER READ JANE EYRE UNTIL NOW? Because, really? How is this possible? Whenever people would mention Jane Eyre, I’d shrug my shoulders and say, Oh yeah, Jane Eyre. But, No. I didn’t have a clue. How silly of me. How foolish of me to shrug in response. And now, whenever people shall mention it, I will clasp my hand to my chest and sigh, Oh, Jane Eyre. It’s like I’m a new person.

To have a Bachelor of Arts in English, to be a lover of books and now at 27, finally know this story. I’m so disappointed in myself. I must tell you that a few years ago, I checked out a copy from the library, but the first few bleak pages launched me into boredom with all that mistreatment at Gateshead and the way that Jane was just so serious. All that logic and reason was exhausting. I closed the book in ignorance and returned it. Oh, silly, young me.

Now let me tell you, even when I found myself sneaking in every moment possible to turn another digital page of Jane Eyre, she still exhausted me with her rational nonsense. She’s a thinker, that Jane. Just calm down a little Jane, just a little. But, then the wonder of this story is that she feels reason the way others get swept up in emotion, just a wildly. Wild with reason, that Jane Eyre. “And as I think and breathe, I must love him.” And the other characters, namely the men, are her greatest foils. Ms. Bronte, you’re totally brilliant.

I happen to be a very involved reader and a total feeler (INFJ, right here) and if you were a fly on the wall at any point, here are a few things you may have heard me shout out, resulting in ridiculous glances from my husband.

You love him, Jane Stop talking. You love him!
Who the f$#( is Grace Poole?
Ahh, no marry him anyway! (Please tell me I’m not the only one who wanted them to still get married after finding out you-know-what. Does this make me a horrible person?)

Passion and reason are huge themes of this book. I would say that Mr. Rochester and St. John are both extremely passionate suitors, but on opposite ends of the spectrum. Mr. Rochester lives and breathes for Jane, as if he’ll crumble into a million pieces without her, and he loves her Oh.my.word He loves her, gushing out obsession, passionate love. St. John is passionate also, which you might not see, but in the way that the Mr. R. is wildly blinded with consuming love for his little Jane, St. John is consumed with reason, duty, and responsibility for the mission/for his position of ministry and for that reason, he feels his proposal to Jane just as strongly as Mr. lover-I-have-a-tragic-secret. I mean, why else would he think this an acceptable and enticing proposal, “You were meant for the hardships of a missionary’s wife. I’m not really in love with you, but we could do the work together?” Wrongo, Johnny boy. Gah, I wanted to scream, DON’T MARRY HIM. Well, I did.

Upon reading the end, I let breath enter my lungs again, and my head fall back in the most Kathleen Kelly dramatic of ways. And then the most shocking idea traipsed into my little head. Please sit down, are you sitting down?

For the longest time, I would swear that there was no greater romance ever penned, that there was no set of lovers that could even stand in the shadows of Miss Elizabeth Bennett and her Mr. Darcy. Yet, today as I sit here, as if I’m about to say the most scandalous of statements, I believe we have some competition.

Stop.

Watching the film tonight.

Thoughts?

The Patchwork Series

2011-10-13T12:38:00.001-05:00

My new set of prints is finished. They was so much fun to make. I used paint and scraps from old books, art paper, and lace to create each design. There is something magical about the process of collage, making something out of essentially nothing. Then they were digitally finished, thanks to that cute man I love.

They will be available as prints, greeting cards, and postcards. If you head over to the shop, you’ll see all three designs.

Art: Float away

2011-10-12T13:10:00.001-05:00

This morning started out clear and blue, and then thick, heavy clouds rolled in and brought a thunderstorm. I’ve got a thing for thunderstorms. Louis & Ella accompanied the rain for the perfect painting soundtrack.

I created this collage ages ago, but never felt like it was finished. Today, I added this dreamy little scene. I want to float away with them and watch the sun sink below the horizon.

It’s 11x14 on framed canvas, I’ll be adding it to the shop in the next few days.

New set of prints

2011-10-10T15:05:00.001-05:00

In the works...

The place where the Divine and the human are most destined to interact, creativity

2011-10-10T10:17:00.001-05:00

Art of Losing myself, on soft canvas, 2007.

Creativity is intimate because it is us most truly, spontaneously, and totally. It is also intimate because it is Spirit working through us in so profound a way that Eckhart says, God “becomes the space where” we want to act.

Creativity is not a noun or even a verb—it is place, a space, a gathering, a union, a where—wherein the Divine powers of creativity and the human power of imagination join forces. Where the two come together is where beauty and grace happen and, indeed, explode. Creativity constitutes the ultimate in intimacy, for it is the place where the Divine and the human are most destined to interact.

From Creativity, by Matthew Fox

“We reach for God in many ways. Through our pictures and our prayers. Through scriptures and sculptures. Through our writing and our worship. And through them He reaches us.”
From Windows of the Soul, Ken Gire

Jacket into Cape Refashion

2011-10-07T13:19:00.001-05:00

On my latest solo Wednesday adventure (Do you know how much I adore Wednesdays?), I found this jacket at the thrift store. It had good bones as they say, who are they? Good pattern, good collar, good buttons, good pockets… and who says we should listen to them?

The plan was to refashion it into a cape, thanks to the cutest little blog called, scwhurlie. She does some really great tutorials, and she’s so adorable. So, today, on this Friday of windy fall wonderland wonder, I did just that.

Urban Outfitters is selling them for $60, and Anthropologie double that. Mine really broke the bank at $3.99. Don’t you think I need ten more?

Also, the Elizabethtown quotes are involuntary at the point in my life. Kind of like how for everything there is a Friends episode. It’s pretty serious.

Happy Friday.

The day my painting came to life.

2011-10-06T16:44:00.001-05:00

It came to life. I saw it with my own eyes. I felt the breeze dance around and through me. I sat in the middle of swarm of leaves twirling and prancing in the warm October wind. It was magical.

I remember today, I painted it in 2007.

a true creative

2011-10-05T22:42:00.001-05:00

Last night, after a fun splashy bath, we built towers on the floor of their bedroom. Not your average tower, but the mixed media variety. Every single kind of block we have, we threw them all in a pile and began construction. And as soon as that little boy of mine decided it was ready, he’d knock it down. Normally, I encourage this behavior because his I-just-knocked-the-tower-down-laugh is a treasure, but I heard myself saying, “Hey, we’re trying to build something here.”

That’s when it hit me, “no seriously, we’re trying to build something here.”

Like, in life.

Every day, every moment, all the challenges, the victories, the affirmations, the questions, the dreams, the lost sleep, every time we give until we have nothing left, and every second we keep going, keep living. It’s all about what we’re building.

A story. A legacy.

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”

-Steve Jobs [Stanford commencement speech, June 2005]

Rest in Peace Steve Jobs, a true creative.

Art at Bordertown

2011-10-04T10:36:00.001-05:00

Friday night we took over the walls of Bordertown Coffee on the U of M campus. We basically had the place to ourselves, I guess college students don’t study on Friday nights, but then again, I never did. Bordertown is in the coolest old building. If there is one thing that Minneapolis has, it’s really old cool buildings. And tons of coffee shops. Oh yes, and 1,000 months of winter. You see my dilemma.

Anyways, I shot a little video when we were finished, to share with everyone. If you are local, stop by this fall for a pumpkin spice chai and a little art show.

Art at Matt and Olivia Moore at Bordertown Coffee, Minneapolis, MN.

deep refreshing, life-sustaining breaths

2011-10-03T13:27:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was the kind of day you crawl into bed, hide under the covers, and are truly glad that days end.

Today is full of new mercies and new strength found in the cool, crisp air, foliage painted in oranges and reds, and mornings spent at the trunk of a grand tree drinking coffee with your sugarplum playing next to you, and your little boy throwing rocks down the slide.

You lay on the ground, gazing up at the clear blue sky and you revel in the beauty of autumn and new days and deep refreshing, life-sustaining breaths.

And remember everything will be just fine.

Spent.

2011-09-29T22:09:00.001-05:00

Upon finishing this painting today, I felt thrilled and utterly exhausted. I’m spent, but in the best way. I’ve given my all this week, to life, to love, and to art. I even cleaned the kitchen. And it feels great.

I mentioned earlier this week, the affirmations and messages that were pouring in to combat the questions and fears, and they keep coming. From the exact supplies we’ve needed simply being handed to us by the boxfuls to encouragement from strangers.

In the words a friend, take it in, drink in the little victories along the way.

And that is exactly what I will do.

Art, when you need it the most.

2011-09-28T11:33:00.001-05:00

The past few days have been a struggle, tiny little teeth are reeking havoc on our sleep and the baby’s mouth. As I’m preparing to show my art this weekend, I feel this flood of ridiculous ideas, things that want to hold me back from sharing, silly nonsense that is trying to combat my excitement. I know it’s all opposition, a force trying to damper this amazing creative surge that I’m experiencing.

It’s no coincidence that signs of encouragement are everywhere, whispering, we are intrepid, we carry on. All these little messages reinforcing, pushing me on. I sign into twitter and I read,

"Blessed is he who has found his work." —Van Gogh

I read new posts on blogs I follow and this jumps out of the screen,

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

-e.e. cummings

You’d think I’d get the message. And I do. Most of the time.

But on occasion, I’ve felt silly for telling people I’m an artist, when they ask, what I do. As if, being an artist isn’t a real thing, like an accountant or a nurse. I think, well, I play around with paint and I design stuff.

As if being an artist isn’t a real thing? Surely, my most ridiculous thought to date. Because, I know more than anything that it is. I mean, just look at nature. Consider how every single day we are given these works of art, in the painted sunrise, the fall trees ablaze with the season’s greetings, the sparkling, blue waters dancing in the sunlight, how mountains take your breath away, the magic in your daughters eyes when you have come to the end of yourself and then she melts comforted into your shoulder, the mischievous smirk of a little boy rolling in the crunchy fall leaves. The way he gets really close to his little sister, looks her in the face and says, hi pretty baby. It’s all art.

And the thing about art is this, on the days when you fail to recognize it for yourself, it has a way of reminding you, exactly who you are.

It’s simple. Birds never question their ability to fly. You were meant for greatness.

Find this painting in the shop.

What helps you when you start to wonder if what you do isn’t a real thing? What speaks to you in a way you’ll notice? Where did you find art today?

On art shows and transparency

2011-09-26T11:22:00.000-05:00

This week is all about art, as I’m getting ready to display my collection at a local coffee shop. It will be my second official exhibit, but technically my third. You see, I went to a college where boys and girls were not allowed in each other’s dorm rooms, except for a few hours a week, as crazy as that may sound, it was just fine. One day some friends wanted to see my art, so we brought it all out and lined the balcony. My funny roommates felt left out so they searched for art projects made by the preschoolers they taught and other random things and displayed those too. It was the best time, but I was terrified that all my mystery would evaporate as certain individuals looked at my paintings. I wondered if my art would give away secrets that I was probably already failing to keep. “Trust me, everyone is less mysterious than they think they are.” A few random people walked by on their way down the stairs, but it mostly a private exhibit, with a handful of friends. So exclusive. I’ll never forget it.

Here’s the thing about sharing your art with others. It’s wonderful. It’s great. It’s terribly frightening. Strangers standing face to face with some of your truest expressions. Things to marvelous for words uttered in hues of paint. What if they hated it? What would they think? And you never know because you leave your art in a foreign place and willingly welcome critics. Maybe artists are crazy, after all.

But beyond the crippling roadblock of transparency, you know art is meant to be shared, because you, the artist have something to say, a message, an idea, a dream. It begins deep inside and as it grows, it begs to be brought to life. You never really know how it will speak to others, but you are only responsible to create. You art will speak for itself.

I’ve been sensing for a while, this shift here on The Saturated Palette, a return to the things which led me to blogging in the beginning, art, creativity, meaning, faith, inspiration. So, if you have questions or things you’d love to start a conversation about, let me know. You can leave comments here or send me an e-mail, liv AT furthermorecreative DOT com.

Also, I’ll be removing most original paintings from my shop for the show, so if you’ve been eyeing one for your home, they will be available until Thursday, September 29, 2011.

And, have you entered the caption contest yet?

Art: Morning Glory

2011-09-25T15:14:00.001-05:00

I place the paint brush on the palette and I breathe. The adrenaline of completion overcomes me. I blink. When my eyes open, I can see nothing clearly. I look around, everything is distorted and blurred. I flex my face and blink a dozen more times, nothing changes. Each blink is shocking, almost painful, because I realize that I exchanged blinking for the dance of brush strokes. Artist eyes.

I bring my espresso up to my face. I inhale the aroma, my eyes shut again. A long pause. Then world around me is a million blurred dashes. The only thing I see clearly is my painting. I get lost in the colors, the shadows, and every nook. A presence surges through me, I am still. The greatest force, the most astonishing beauty, the one from whom creativity flows. Here with me.

This is how I worship.

Every stroke, a praise.

Every smudge, a prayer.

This is how I connect.

This place I’ve painted out of my heart, translated onto canvas, I’m certain that I’ll see it one day. And when I stand on the cliff, adorned with wild flowers and look out upon the sun rising over the speckled see, I’ll know.

Buy it here.

Wednesday's art.

2011-09-22T12:23:00.002-05:00

Two paintings in one week. I feel amazing, my kitchen does not.

Luckily, kitchens have zero feelings, so all I see when I look in there is a successful week of creativity. My home is often clean, but I have no problem getting lost in the creative flow first. In fact, I feel much better about tackling the kitchen after I finished a painting or a sewing project. My creative voice is so much louder than the one that says, you need a spotless kitchen. The latter voice is a very quiet whisper that can only be heard when I can't find a clean mug for my coffee.

Now, I know there is a balance. I have a family, who is my heart and it's nice for them to have clean forks and to be able to find the floor in our bedrooms, but primarily they need love, peace, comfort, and encouragement. And I'm better at all those things when I'm creative. If I always had a clean home, I'd just be tired and grumpy, who wants to be live with a person like that?

Yesterday, I told my husband, I know the kitchen is a mess, but I had to paint. He answered, good. I love that about him. He understands.

I'm not really one who struggles with guilt or feeling like I should do something. I tend to reject the things that go with "shoulds", because mostly those voices are from somewhere else, not so much inside. Outside voices bring clutter, clutter of thoughts, time, and energy, this does nothing for creativity

Even still, sometimes, I feel like there is this societal pressure to have a perfectly clean home, be super busy, and be everything to everyone, where does that come from? Honestly, society doesn't live in this house, we do. And society probably isn't going to knock on my door to check if my home is pristine anytime soon. I leave the house maybe 2 or 3 days a week, I don't even mind. I hate being busy, it sucks my energy dry. Creativity requires energy.

Lately, I've come to this realization that for too long I've been idealizing an image that I don't even desire. It's an image of a busy, super-involved life. I struggle on and off with this idea that we're not doing enough things. But, in moments of peace and clarity, I remember that because I'm not doing all those other things, I'm painting, baking, reading stories to my kids, writing, taking care of my family, taking walks, noticing the sprawling shadows on the sidewalk, breathing in the deep comforting aroma of my coffee... all the things that fuel my creativity, make me better, and allow me to serve and love my family more.

Life is huge, but I told a friend recently, that creativity keeps me sane. I suppose that is the point of everything I just said.

Thoughts?

This painting was inspired by one I found by this French artist. I was moved in a deep, I can feel the wind sweeping up my hair, gazing at the masterpiece that is the sky, kind of way. So, I wanted to attempt a reproduction for myself.
This one will find a place on our home, not in the shop out of respect for the artist of the inspired piece.

The new Furthermore Creative website launch and a caption contest

2011-09-21T08:33:00.001-05:00

We’re growing our little greeting card baby and would love for you to check out the new website. To celebrate the launch, we are holding a caption contest for our new card design, below.

Visit the new site for details and to enter your own caption. I can’t wait to read them all.

City by the sea

2011-09-20T14:44:00.001-05:00

The city streets are a frenzy with motion, but just beyond lies a sea of blue, with a power that will reach into your soul and whisper, be still.

In the shop. || Prints available soon.

Penguin backpack || LLTSA#2

2011-09-19T09:33:00.001-05:00

I loved this project and that penguin, he needed to be in my home. My kid makes the cutest penguin noises. I don’t know what letters to type to make that sound, so, take my word for it.

One thing I’ve come to love about sewing this year is that if you can follow directions, you can make just about anything. The people who make these patterns do such a great job of giving you all the information you need, taking away all excuses not to try. You cut out all the pieces and little by little you see your project taking shape. And was my little encouragement to all the I-can’t-sewers out there. Because, you can. No seriously, you can.

Jessica and the rest of us are working our way through the wonderful Little Things to Sew book, by Oliver + S. This month, the backpack.

Whenever he puts it on, that little boy of mine does this running dive. Apparently, it’s also a magical super hero backpack.

a list.

2011-09-16T09:18:00.001-05:00

It’s grey and outside all is a frenzy in the wind.
I cooked a whole chicken first time.
Which means, I proceeded to make chicken stock. So freaking delicious.
Pumpkin spice latte cupcakes. I told my husband he could bring some to work to share, he declined.
The leaves are on fire with fall.
After just two chilly days, I started browsing through knitting patterns. Just like that.
I find myself thinking about Earl Gray tea, thanks to my friend Danielle.
A giant pot of jambalaya. Husband informed me it’s already on the all-time favorites list.
New Coldplay single.
Bob Dylan + harmonica, my favorite.
A new card is coming next week.
Started reading Jane Eyre.
Someone’s going to be crawling any second.
Also, the Curious George movie is hands down the best $10, I’ve ever spent.
A visit to the apple orchard is in our near future.

DIY Infinity Scarf tutorial

2011-09-14T13:24:00.001-05:00

These amazing things are popping up everywhere, see: (here) (here) and you know what I saw, scarves for everyone. Well, I say that at home sometimes, not usually proclaiming it in the streets. I’m not so much a street proclaimer. I say it like the Banks family, “POSTS EVERYONE!" Because life should always include Mary Poppins.

Please know, I’m not the best instruction giver, but hopefully this will show you the basic steps to make your own. I just used fabric from the pile of clothes that I no longer wear, which I was saving for sewing projects.

1. This skirt was from a pleated dress, it measures 30” x 66.” You could use something much shorter. Scarves hang all crazy, so I wanted it to be “reversible,” as in there was no wrong side to it.

2. This old crochet type shrug, the closest thing I had to a lace, but together they feel like fall to me. I like fall.

3. Press the main fabric, then fold the right sides together, in half. Press again.

4. Sew one straight stich down the fabric about 1” from the edge.

5. You know have one very long tube.

6. Press the seams again. Then, fold the edge up, right sides together about 1”. Press. Then fold that back under so the unfinished edge is inside. Repeat on other end.

7. I cut the sleeves of the shrug. If your fabric is already a rectangle, take a break. Mine is wider at the ends, which made it rather bulky for the next step, but it wasn’t too bad.

8. Take your second fabric and place the edges inside the tube of the main fabric. Ideally you would pin in place, but this was way bulky already.

9. Sew a straight line about 1/2 inch from the edge. Sew another close by for reinforcement.

10. You should have this. Repeat on other end.

Done. Now spend ten minutes in from of the mirror seeing how many ways you can wear it. Here are some examples…

If you have any questions, leave a comment. I’ll try to answer, if not I’ll find an answer. Let me know if you make an infinity scarf of your own, I’d love to see it.

I’ll be wearing this for the rest of forever.

The Sewing Report

2011-09-08T10:32:00.001-05:00

First, the Explorer vest from Oliver + S, Little Things to Sew. I skipped the size that said up to 3, since he’s almost three, but I apparently forget he’s the skinniest almost three ever. It will fit someone day. Same fabric as the hat, but he’ll likely outgrow the hat before he can wear this, so no over-matching issues. That would be a disaster.

This was my practice for the LTTSA later on, there are some major problems with this one, but perfection is not required for playing outdoors, only for perfect land, where we do not reside. Next time, I want to use a solid fabric, this looks rather woodsman to me. Cute, but not my favorite.

My sister brought home this lovely, brown wool skirt from France, I knew it would make the perfect coat. I used the Chic cocktail coat from Heidi & Finn. The smallest size of the pattern is 12M/2T. There are some 12 month clothes that do fit my sugarplum, so I thought she’d definitely be able to wear it this winter, ewww, winter. Well turns out that super skinny almost three year old of mine could wear it now, so maybe next year for her. I used the leather and circle closures from the skirt, instead of the bow suggested in the pattern, but I definitely plan on making another one with the giant bow. The world needs more giant bows, as far as I’m concerned.

Le fin.

In the lane where all things play

2011-09-07T14:05:00.001-05:00

In the late morning hours, the sugar plum naps and we make the best kinds of messes.

love captured. love painted.

2011-09-07T09:24:00.001-05:00

They were sitting on the balcony, my husband and our daughter. She was batting at the wicker arm of the chair, cooing and creeping further into his heart as every second passed. We would be leaving soon to head home, so I left them to gather our things. But, I found myself in the bedroom looking at the same sunset they were watching. I’m a sucker for sunsets, a new masterpiece each night, a little gift that says, “I love you, here’s something pretty to hold you over until the stars.”

I stretched out on the bed and heard through the open windows,

“Do you see the sunset? It’s pretty, just like you are. (Coo.) Yes, I know. You’re one of God’s greatest creations, it’s true.”

Love between a father and daughter captured as love was painted across the sky.

see the wind

2011-09-06T20:47:00.001-05:00

On nice days, we lay the quilt on the ground under the shady oak tree outside. We sit and watch the world around us. He chases the bugs and collects sticks. She kicks and coos with delight. I watch, revel, and take pictures.

His mind is curious, an explorer by nature, he is a child and a boy. He believes he can climb very tall trees and wonders where the bugs go when they sink into the cracks on the sidewalk. The world is alive and ready to be learned.

A breeze is often blowing in from the lake down the street, filling the leaves with a joyous rustle, a summery tune. One day, he pointed as he watched them dance. I told him, that’s the wind in the leaves. Wind, he responded in his own way. Now whenever he looks out and sees the world caught up in a flutter, he says, wind. I don’t correct him, because I’m beaming with delight. His mind free from the haunting of impossibilities is so pure, vivid and mesmerizing.

Last night, we were visiting my mom and as he looked out the windows of her third floor home, the trees below danced to a melody only they could hear. She asked, What do you see?
Wind, he answered.

She was taken back by his answer and laughed out loud, because every adult knows that you really can’t see the wind. Adults are silly like that, how they get all sensible and such. Then a sense of pride washed over her face at the wonder that is her grandson.

But children, they are eager to soak in the magic of life, optimists by default, ready to discover the great big world. They are sponges and they hang on our every word. Words about trees and words that affirm them. Like many, I read The Help and was so moved at the love that Abileen had for Mae Mobley. When her own mother wanted little to do with her daughter, Abileen, the maid, took it upon herself to instill in that girl a very crucial message. “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” She told her every chance she could, but maybe it only took once for her to capture that affirmation and store it deep inside.

We have this great opportunity to pour into these little lives, these messy, little, exhausting darlings and if we are intentional, they will grow up to believe that they are all the things we tell them. They will see the goodness in people and in themselves, they will find truth, beauty, and hope.
In a world were so many have traded in the possibility of magic for the realism of sensible, they will see the wind.

P.S. The most beautiful post.

the pie project– brown butter and cheddar apple pie.

2011-09-02T10:34:00.001-05:00

I was drawn to this recipe because, hello, cheddar in an apple pie? I need to know more. But it’s not such an unusual combination, because beyond the crust, apples and cheese are darlings. While reading the notes I saw,

“She employs no cinnamon or nutmeg to cloak their sweet perfume; instead she browns some butter, which complements the apples with a faint nuttiness.”

I realized probably every apple pie I’ve had called for those spices, so I was intrigued. This wasn’t overly sweet and syrupy like many apple pies, I enjoyed that. So often desserts can leave you feeling heavy, this was light, crisp, and delicious. The apples were slightly sweet, but mostly tart. In my opinion, the crust was the star of the show with that hint of cheddar at the end. It was the kind of melt in your mouth flaky that floods your mind and heart with memories of comfort and happiness.

Paired with a French press of Starbuck’s Café Verona blend.

Apparently, a pretty pie crust is an art to be learned, because mine looks sad. Look at this post full of great tips that I found this morning from everyone’s favorite Pioneer Woman.

Do you have any clever little pie tricks? Does making pies terrify you? What should I make next time? And if anyone decides to attempt their own pie project or (insert you own whatever here), let me know.

the pie project

2011-09-01T13:46:00.001-05:00

Last weekend during our lake escape, we asked the motel manager for eating recommendations. First thing he said was, “Betty’s Pies.” I’m certain we heard nothing after that and knew we would go. The service was slow-ish, the food was good, but the pie… I guess that’s the whole point. I spent most of my meal staring at the menu, because this was a very important decision. We choose French Blueberry Cream and we were not disappointed.

As my son and husband built towers out of coffee creamers, I decided right then that I wanted to make more pies. I also want to grow old to be one of those ladies who people beg to make her famous pies. Pies don’t get the recognition they deserve in the unjust world. Cakes can be so iffy with all that nasty buttercream icing, so uncertain, but pies ooze comfort from under their crispy, buttery crusts.

And there’s coconut cream and rhubarb and pecan and my friend Danielle’s amazing chocolate pie. I’m just saying, pie.

So, I’m starting a little project, mysteriously named, the pie project, where I will try a new pie recipe every two weeks.

1. Since I grocery shop for two weeks at a time.

2. Because we can’t eat pie everyday, well …we could, but we’re not.

First to celebrate our awesome sauce anniversary is this browned butter and cheddar apple pie from food52.

I’m making this as soon as nap time commences. But for now, I need to know, are you team pie or team cake? And if then, what is your absolute favorite?

I’m also taking reservations for coffee and tea time.

If you are on pinterest, I started a Pie Project board here.

Image 1 || Image 2

four years

2011-08-31T21:01:00.001-05:00

I pulled back the curtain and was swept away by the softest breeze, grey hovered around, faint storms lingered in the distance and Moon River serenaded the air. I closed my eyes and etched in my mind everything about this moment. A magical little morsel of goodness just for me.

On my father’s arm, I walked to meet a man who was standing in front of the most beautiful red barn.

The minister forgot to instruct the guests to sit down, they stood for the longest time. We wondered just how long it would take until they got a clue. A fly was feasting on our communion bread, we tried not to laugh too loudly, as Ernie prayed. We pretended to sign the marriage license, with our best man and matron of honor, except we only needed one signature, no one ever knew until now.

It was wonderful.

I’d marry him all over, even without the guests, the food, the music, the parasols, the twinkling lights, the dress… all the details that made it so special.

I’d stand in front of that barn holding his hand and promise him my forever, I absolutely would.

Four years. Happy Anniversary my love.

{Card available here}

skipping rocks

2011-08-30T12:50:00.001-05:00

Upon arrival, he took one look around and set to work, all these rocks in dire need of a swim. He watched as daddy scoured the beach for the perfectly smooth rocks that would dance across the lake, and for hours, a rite of passage into boyhood, skipping rocks. He settled just a few feet from our blanket, showing bits of independence, while knowing we were still so close.

I’ve seen it before, that look on his face, the engulfing alive that sweeps over him as he takes in the breeze floating off the water, but we saw him connect in a new way.` His soul was well and overflowing. Being months away from turning three, he couldn’t put it in words, but they often fail to describe how one connects to his maker. It was as if he just sensed it, the way his eyes searched the shoreline, the way he watched the clouds paint shadows around the bay, ushering in the night. That childlike wonder. We felt it too, that’s why we crave the water, it’s where we feel the closest to God. But to witness this in our boy, it takes my breath away.

As he “skipped” rocks, fellow beach goers would pause to watch, smiles would wipe across their faces along with a glimmer in their eyes, full of memories. A quick glance down the water’s edge showed a dozen others doing the same. This repetitious, calming act that seemed to bring out the best in people. I wonder if they were connecting too. At one point, I noticed a group of boys, ranging from age two to fifty. All of them trying to be the best rock skipper in the bunch. Even the youngest, with every throw his whole body moved, he was trying so hard. The older ones appeared to be more relaxed, but if you really watched, the same eager look appeared in all their faces.

Childlike wonder is a treasure never to be lost.

at the water’s edge

2011-08-29T13:49:00.001-05:00

We’re better at the water’s edge.

I’ve known this for a long time, but this weekend, I saw it in the most captivating, beautiful way. I’m still composing words that will do justice to this truth.

For now, this.

Announcing Furthermore Creative!

2011-08-25T09:39:00.000-05:00

We just launched our newest project, a collaboration between husband and wife, Furthermore Creative is your solution to the so-so greeting cards. After years of searching and searching tirelessly for a good card that we didn’t already give each other, we finally set out to make our own. We are proud of all these designs and would give them to each other in a heart beat.

The drawings are done and editing by that talented husband of mine, the rest we do together. We will be adding new designs frequently.

Our inspiration is simple, our love.

We hope that you visit the shop and then feel free to make us famous.

The Sewing Report/ LLTSA Bucket Hat (Almost)

2011-08-23T09:09:00.001-05:00

I don’t know if this really counts as the Oliver + S bucket hat, but it is… minus the brim, insert my own brim, trim, and vintage buttons. I like to break rules after all. Isn’t the point of a sew-a-long to see how everyone makes the same pattern with their own spin? It reminds me of an old solider cap. I know your favorite part is the Thomas pajamas, and the run around the room and under the table while mommy takes pictures concept. It came so naturally to him. Enjoy.

This blanket was made for a very special little boy who is about to become a big brother to twins! I can’t wait to see how it looks in his new room, once his lovely mama sends me photos.
And sometimes the best way to end something is…

the end.

New in Shop- Postcards

2011-08-21T20:54:00.000-05:00

My paper collage prints are now available in postcards! They are fun, quirky, and unique. When I designed the originals, I used acrylic paint, charcoal, pages from old newsprint, and craft paper. Then we did a little digital touch up for the finished look. I am so fond of this series, because it was one of the creative moments that just happened, those are the best kind.
They are available in sets of 3 (one of each design) or 9 (three of each design).
I love postcards and a little handwritten note. I know I’m not the only one, there’s just something about snail mail, when you normally expect bills and junk, a friendly little card is such a surprise.
You can find them here in the shop.
And remember this sneak peek that I mentioned… be looking for the announcement this week.

within a child

2011-08-19T11:22:00.002-05:00

Daily, I watch in wonder this child growing into an adventurous explorer. It wasn’t too long ago that he wouldn’t finish his meal if his hands got dirty. Now, he can be found on all fours searching through the dirt. He found this little opening in the bushes and slowly realized he could crawl in and hide, as he went in deeper, he kept looking back at me smiling. We collected rocks, sticks, and leaves, which we pressed between wax paper later that day. I watched him as I sat on the bench, listening to Edith Piaf and holding my little girl who loves the sunshine and breeze and French music, she told me so.

I love how he points in the air and exclaims, Wind! How he chases the bugs down the sidewalk. How he says hello and goodbye to everyone we see. I love the delight in his eyes when he’s running in the grass. How he declared all the letters he knows. How he can distinguish between the sounds of a truck, car, motorcycle, or train.

Picasso said that, “Every child is an artist, the problem is how to remain one once he grows up.” I think the same goes for adventurers, explorers, being friendly to strangers, finding wonder in the everyday, believing that you can climb a very tall tree when you are small.
I never want to be the kind of mother to squelch that spirit, the world will try hard enough.

stories from the park

2011-08-17T17:23:00.002-05:00

We were playing in our ‘secret garden’ after delivering some friendly packages to the post office. The sun warmed us and painted dozen of shadows across the earth. My little boy was on hands and knees peering into a flowerbed, hunting for rocks and sticks and other important discoveries. Happily playing on the blanket near us, the girl is content in the fresh air.
A man enters the park, much to our surprise, I guess we aren’t the only ones who go beyond the wrought iron gates of this magical little place. He finds a bench and pulls out his cigarette. Then, he starts chatting with the boy explorer as if they were old friends, “What are you finding there, buddy?” He holds up a rock and shows it to him and then a stick and an acorn and a leaf. We chat a little bit about the fresh air and how nice this park is. I mention how it’s perfect for me, not having to worry about the lake, marina, and parking lot that surround the other park in town.
Which led him to a tale about the time he took his four year old son to a giant sledding hill and he was so scared the whole way down. At the bottom of the hill, he was yelling, “Jump off, jump off Danny!” He did and was soon met by his dad to calm his nerves. It was a few years later before they returned, and then he loved it.
“Yeah, we lost him way too early though, Danny liked to drive really fast. It was a month before his eighteenth birthday and he liked to run from the cops. We sure do miss him.”
“I'm sorry, that’s terrible.” I said, not really knowing what to say. “Was he your only child?”
“Oh no, I have three boys, well three boys now.” He said, “but I guess, Danny’s just getting to do all the things he loves now, and we’ll see him again someday.”
“Yes, so, really you still have four, he’s just not with you here right now.” I replied, not really sure if I thought that one through, but it felt okay to say.
“Yeah, you’re right, he’s with us in spirit, and one day, we’ll be together. Can you imagine it, a place with no pain or suffering? It must be pretty amazing, huh?” He said and then got up to head back across the street
I paused and smiled, “absolutely.”
He left after wishing us a wonderful day and I stood there, as my son said, good- bye towards him.

People everywhere are walking this earth full of stories. Stories full of happiness, courage, love, sadness, loss, and hope. It’s beautiful.

oliver + s bucket hat (LTTS Sew-a-long #1)

2011-08-16T20:32:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, my Little Things to Sew book from Oliver + S arrived at my door, thanks to the delivery man
and guess what happened today…
The clouds parted, the stars aligned and the kids both took a nice long nap. Glory!
Good thing because, I was shoulder deep in the it-has-been-too-long-since-i-made-anything blues, so today was just what I needed. Coldplay and the thunderstorms helped too.

The fabric for side one is this muted, soft, fall-ish print. It’s cute, but woodsy and whimsical, perfect for a little girl about to enjoy her first fall, isn’t fall the greatest? The reverse is a lovely green, richer than the photos show. To ~~remedy a problem area~~ add a little something extra, I hot glued a small Velcro round and did the same to a simple brown felt bow. This one is a size small and it fits her well, with room to grow.
The pattern called for a blind stich by hand to add the cap for the reverse side, but umm, I didn’t do that, I folded under the edge and pinned it like crazy, then I sewed from the front side, so that the threads would match, brown on front, white underneath. It looks like an intentional top stitch and I think it was way easier… and faster.

I’m going to make one for my hat-loving boy next, so he won’t steal this one from his baby sis.
I can’t wait to make the rest of the projects from this book and to see everyone else’s finished hats, see who’s sewing along here.

a scoop of thankful

2011-08-15T10:46:00.001-05:00

cool breezy mornings
espresso
weekend dinner with friends, complete with pots de crème and coffee
lazy weekends of movies
a stack of fabric waiting for me
a few sneaky leaves changing into their fall attire
quiet moments before the kids wake up, something I want to be better at doing.
new books coming in the mail
exciting new products coming to the shop very soon
a heaping plate of homemade coconut shrimp
a giant pot of homemade meatballs

what about you?

one summer morning

2011-08-10T16:06:00.001-05:00

The clear blue sky and 70 degrees beckoned us to come play. So I loaded up the stroller and we accepted the invitation. A stop into Starbucks for a coffee, which poured over with every bump in the sidewalk, clearly the designer never pushed a stroller with a coffee in the cup holder. In this little beach town that we call home, our Starbucks is 100% business meeting all the time. I almost feel out of place in there with my double stroller and kids, the people who shallowly grin at you and are probably thinking, two kids, oh my, quelle nightmare!

But honestly, I never feel out of place in a coffee shop, not even snobby meeting people can mess that up. Perhaps, they could use a little sugar & fat in those sugar-free, fat-free lattes.

Someone once called this place a yuppie lake town, they were right, but I do prefer this to gunshots and gangs. High end shops and restaurants line the shores of the lake, the waters sparkle the most radiant blue, the community takes pride in their extensive landscaping of benches and flowers anywhere there is space. Boats pour out of the marinas all day long, gliding across the water, soaking in the summer. It’s a nice place.

Just a few blocks down is Caribou Coffee, I know, how I suffer. The outdoor tables are filled with the retired, older crowd and young people laughing and meeting friends. Bikers stop in for a cool drink. Ladies with their silly tiny dogs get together with their friends and their silly pets. They probably buy tiny cappuccinos for them too.The vibe is so different there. They prefer their coffee with fresh air, sunshine dancing, and water. I understand. I prefer everything with fresh air and water.

Down the street and around the corner is the post office, our next destination. People rarely smile there, rushing in and out. But, we take our time, we like it that way. We notice the boats and the bikes and the dogs. We look for sprawling shadows on the sidewalk telling a mysterious story. We watch the butterflies flutter through the flower beds. And the coffee spills with each bump (I should have gotten a bigger cup).

Across from the post office is a lovely little park, pleasantly titled, the Post Office Park, a place for neighbors and community. Sadly, though, as I’ve said before, I have never seen anyone else there. It’s fenced in, quiet, and shaded and we are frequent visitors. Today, we stopped in and played soccer with fallen crab apples, collected sticks and leaves. And for a few moments, someone watched the bees ever so closely (maybe too close) as they collected pollen. He answered their buzzing with his own, as if they were having the best conversation.

A beautiful older lady noticed the park and entered through the patina green iron arch, she smiled a genuine smile and her ruffled collar moved in the breeze, her diamonds sparkled in the sun. She watched Hudson playing with found objects and peeked into the stroller to see the baby. Then she hesitantly asked if they were twins, I laughed and said, “Oh no. Six months and nearly three.” Another glance towards my baby just to be sure I wasn’t teasing and she said, in the sweetest way, “Oh well, I never had kids, I guess I’m silly about knowing things like that.” I assured her that someone else had wondered the same thing three days ago. She watched the kids for a second longer and wished us a nice day. We did the same. I felt a little sad for her. She had kind eyes, they sparkled like her jewels.

For the next hour, as the post office goers rushed along, we got lost in the dancing leaves of the trees, providing us with shade and a quiet swishing song. I laid on the grass next to my girl and inhaled this intoxicating summery day. We listened to She & Him on my phone. Harper tried to eat the grass, Hudson tried to drink my coffee. We played more crab apple soccer. It felt like we were hiding in this magical glass globe, we could see out to the busy world, but no one could see into this lovely place where time is still…

but only because they never stopped to look.

The Sewing Report

2011-08-09T14:56:00.001-05:00

A sweater for my boy, made from an old sweaters. I added wool patches the the elbows, I love elbow patches, they’re so cute old man. The collar is this faux-turtleneck/scarf ordeal with Velcro. I get such satisfaction out of designing things for boys, it’s just different than cute little dresses for girls, do you know what I mean? Some of my favorite pieces have been for him, like this jacket. Maybe, I just love outerwear, and by maybe, I mean I absolutely do. Is a sweater technically outerwear?

I love this pillow, late one night I felt the unquenchable urge to sew, and that’s how it happened. It adds so much color and fun to our living room. I couldn’t resist the free as birds fabric from cloud 9, paired with a red linen and yellow lace. The reserve side is plain, because I could only buy a few birds, sadly not all of them. I now want to redo all the pillows into fun, mix-matched designs, I don’t even know how I’ve had matching pillows for this long. I apologize for that boringness. I should know better.

I bought some fabric for dresses, but it turns out it’s not fabulous dress-making material –literally. I also have cute coat patterns that I’ve been dying to make for that baby girl of mine, who I caught doing a downward dog this morning. I’m very disappointed in her behavior.

Speaking of sewing, that talented Jessica is hosting an Oliver + S Little things to Sew-a-long. Each month, we are making one project out of the book. I’m excited to start.

There is it, the sewing report.

fall asleep smiling

2011-08-08T21:43:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was the kind of day that you fall asleep smiling. We slept in, visited a new donut shop and enjoyed maple glazed bacon long johns. Truthfully, I don’t know how I lived 27 years with bacon-less donuts. Then we visited the farmer’s market, where we found radiant purple “red” onions and plump, scrumptious tomatoes. On one corner, a man played his accordion, down a little ways, a smooth summery sound came from a saxophone, isn't open air music magical?

It was a perfect 79 degrees, free of humidity, sunny and sweet, ideal for an evening at the beach.

After basking the sun, splashing in the water, seeing the rays flicker and dance creating a show of yellow and 100 shades of blue, watching my husband and son happily playing in the sand and my baby cooing and laughing in the breezy fresh air…

Any more goodness might be overkill, but think Sleepless in Seattle, coffee, brie, and apples.

I wish this kind of good day for you.

grace.

2011-08-07T21:34:00.001-05:00

My six-week old baby and I were flying home from the best reunion ever, she was snug and sound asleep, wrapped up next to my chest. I stood there in my planned out travel outfit, stylish yet decently comfortable with my coffee in my hand. I looked down the corridor and saw her, frantic, frenzied, in sweats and a large tee-shirt. Her hair pulled back and her eyes full of desperation. On one hip, a chubby little baby, stripped down to the diaper, wailing. In her other arm, a diaper bag, a soiled outfit, and an umbrella stroller trying to keep up. For a moment, I wanted to raise my eyebrows, but my heart spoke louder and I wanted to help.

There is a lady who lives in our building, I often hear her escaping outside for a cigarette. Mother of two year old twins, long-term fiancé to man who prematurely moves around with a walker and thus is not employed. Neither of them work, and their disputes and door slamming can be heard from across the building and up the stairs. I hate that I have to breathe in her addiction as I approach my front door. But, as she sits numbingly looking forward, I know my attempts to avoid eye contact would make her feel even more invisible, so I try to remember a smile.

I was talking with a friend about how she is so cautious to ever discuss her parenting decisions with family, because of the waves of negative feedback that often follow. This morning I read an article from a blogger that I enjoy about her own thoughts on motherhood, the comments were an onslaught of judgment, hateful, spiteful, and ungracious words.

As women, mothers, wives, heck, as people, we are constantly battling something: for our marriages, families, finances, faith, careers, hopes, dreams, that impossible customer service department, and even our sanity. Why must we battle each other too?

How powerful would it be, if instead of our opinions, our judgments, our scowls…

we tried grace.

To the one with the screaming child in the grocery store, because that was probably you yesterday. To the one who dares to show a bit of vulnerability, by saying, hey today is rough.. To the lady whose fashion choices are forlorn, because every last bit of her soul might also be. And yes, even to the one who doesn’t parent like you do.

Whether you think you are saving the planet or your wallet with your cloth diapers or happily keep target in business with disposables, whether you stand by this parenting book or that one, whether you choose to work outside of the home because of preference or necessity, whether vaccinations are helpful or hurtful, public school or home school or un-school, it goes on and on. It seems that once you decide what is best for your child or even yourself, you must then defend your decisions to anyone in sight.

If we stopped fighting against each other, won’t we have more energy to be better for ourselves, our families, or jobs? If we offered grace, we could save each other from one less struggle, opposition, or frustration.

And wouldn’t that make a huge difference?

I suppose this might apply to people without children too, but I could be wrong.

inherently boy

2011-08-05T11:22:00.001-05:00

“Hey baby, come look at this tree,” I said to him.

“Up?” he asked. He reached down in his knees and lunged up and when that didn’t work, he tried harder. A few more times and he was frustrated. Then he stretched his arms and high as they could go and jumped all of two inches off the ground, surely this would work.

I watched in amazement, the power of childhood, a world free of impossibilities.

Here’s the best part, he’s never climbed a tree, but deep inside his little boy heart, he must have known that trees are for climbing.

And then he found a big stick.

DIY: textured, spiced, painted poetry wall art

2011-08-03T10:15:00.002-05:00

Recently, I posted this photo of the new art piece in our living room. I actually decided to take some photos of the process, which is strange for me, because I don’t normally think that way. So, here’s my little contribution to the creative world today. This is very precise and scientific method.
Nope.
The story goes, I had been dreaming of a large canvas for ages, but never desire to shell out the money for one, I blame diapers. But, one day my sister brings this one from my mom’s house. My mom is always getting rid of things, and she thinks that I want everything she is purging. I do not. Canvases are the exception. VHS tapes are not.

1. Gather old book pages from a book you no longer want, or one you bought for art purposes OR if you just happen to have one that some guy bought you years ago as gift, because he liked you but not enough to really, actually be in a relationship. HA. Use that.
2. In a dish mix water and a spice that you think would make a cool color. I used turmeric, because I have it and I don’t really know what to use it for, except for art projects. So add a few tablespoons to the water and stir, stir, stir.
3. Soak pages in the water for about 30 seconds each and then spread them out to dry. You’ll have to take them all back up again, so don’t spend much time thinking about placement. I don’t know how long they take to dry, because it was like an oven in my house this day thanks to the burning fire in the sky.

4. You could totally skip this step, but I think it adds a fun texture and it’s interesting.
5. NOT PICTURED- Cover the canvas with a layer of modge podge.
6.Arrange pages as you desire, then enlist an artist apprentice for the next step.
7. Mix some brown/yellow water color paint with some water, so it’s really runny and let small child have the best time ever.

8. Take paper towel/ news paper and dab the wet paint in various spots to create an aged/texture look.
9. Let it dry.
10. NOT Pictured- When dry, apply another layer of modge podge to seal the pages. It’s boring, but the right thing to do.

11. More drying. more boring.
(At this point, I stopped taking pictures.)

13. Take white paint (or whatever color you desire) and casually paint the canvas, we’re going for the messy look here, which might be hard for some of you, but you really want the words to show through in various parts.
14. Ugh. let. it. dry.
15. Lastly, you can do whatever you want next, paint, chalk, pastels, fabric, strawberries- like Jude in across the universe… ANYTHING. I chose to write a poem with a sharpie, because this much writing would be hard to do with paint. I used this poem by e.e. cummings. It’s always been one of my favorites. I wrote it very quickly and haphazardly, because I wanted it to look that way. Imperfection is perfection.
Voila. Textured. Spiced. Painted. Art.

If you ever decide to have so much fun doing anything like this, please let me know. I’d love to see it.

inspiration trio

2011-08-02T18:01:00.001-05:00

1 episode of Project Runway. //photo

this adorable blog //photo

this breathtaking shop //photo

In the last week, these three things have overwhelmed me with inspiration to sew and design. Just a warning…

What has been inspiring you?

file under:

2011-08-02T14:35:00.001-05:00

my heart.

P.S. Yes, she totally spit up all over his shirt.

her happy place

2011-07-29T11:51:00.001-05:00

Months before she was in my arms, she was trying to get there, scooting and twirling her way up in utero. It wasn’t until that first day, gazing into her enchanting dark reservoirs of blue, oozing over all 10 pounds 3 ounces of her, that I realized what she was doing. As I brought her close, she would nuzzle and scoot and scrunch her way up to that spot between my chest and shoulder.

And then sweet Selah, rest.

When that little boy was baby, he found contentment being near, close by, and while he loved falling asleep to the rhythm of my beating heart on my chest, he’d fall asleep just about anywhere, really. He’s pretty chill like that.

But this girl baby, this wonder of a whirlwind of a child, she needs me, as in the most desperate state of needing, nothing else will do. Not just near, but with me wholly and completely. I’m quite certain she wakes up half way through the night, just so she can spend the remainder nuzzled into my armpit, because there is no personal space between us. As far as she is concerned, I am her personal space.

Often, this is exhausting. I think, can’t you just play over there for a while, kid.

But that’s the thing about one’s happy place. There is no counterfeit replacement. Gas station “gourmet” will never take the place of a well brewed French press. None of these 10,000 lakes will never compare to the roaring spray of the salty ocean. Wal-Mart will never be Anthropologie, for obvious reasons. And as hard as those designers might try, the swing will never be a mother’s arms.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, all those clichés about cherishing and moments and the speed at which they grow, give me a break already… we get it. It’s true.

But I suppose, it’s pretty special, it is kind of a big deal, to be able to be just what someone needs and for that to be enough for them. Isn’t that the whole point of this parenting deal? That we are capable, equipped, and able to be what these little noisy creatures need, which is mostly love.

and so…

My arms are tired. Tired and full, but I get to be her happy place.