Understanding life by the stone bridge

“This is the place of all our firsts,” she said.  We sat on a concrete bench just off the trail.  Runners and dog walkers passed.  Professors and students stretched their legs and cleared their minds in the middle of a Tuesday. 

Two babies slept in the two strollers, one on either side of us.  My oldest daughter climbed rocks in her natural fearless way.  Jumping and pouncing, so free and unaware of the high chance of smashing her head into the jagged stones and or slipping into the water.  Tragedy never came, but there were close calls.  Always close calls. She laughs in the face of those.  She ran through the leaves of last year, hunting the largest rocks to drop from the little stone bridge.  Sometimes a heavy one splashed her face and she giggled.  To say “don’t get wet or messy” is a waste of words, so instead, I suggest that her feet not get too wet because we didn’t have other shoes.   Her clothes were already a little dirty, since we got dressed in the dark.  To be honest, there is always a bit of dirt somewhere on my Harper girl, smudged on her face or knees, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve decided that I have more to live for than spotless children.

A reddish-brown hawk landed on a light post, clenching its lunch.  On the menu was mouse, all the way dead.  We stopped to watch.  Its wings were spotted black and white.

The air was cool and an early spring grey lingered.  Our feet were slightly chilled, because we had dressed optimistically rather than practically.   The woods were not yet green, clinging to the hues of last season.  The little brook trickled over the rocks and rippled as  breezes swept through the clearing. 

Next week, my friend and her little family sets off on a new adventure.  Here in the richness of these hours, we talked about this place.  I happen to know a few things about moves and new adventures, I’m rather fond of that genre.  To reflect on the way that leaving brings a great understanding of what a place has been is a beautiful thing. Chapters close. Stories advance.  It’s not a finality that comes with the end, as all the ends of our days just bleed into a new beginning, until the very great end which will lead into the greatest eternal. So, what is the end really, but a small word we use to make sense of that which we attempt to define. 

We paused as the runners ran and walkers walked, as another rock splashed in the water, and the babies snored.  Little feet stuck out from blankets.  Having faced similar experiences in this season, we celebrated how we were eternally grateful for the lessons and growth, because we would never be who we are today without those obstacles.

Sometimes, we take roads less travelled and not because we’re more amazing, it’s simply because not everyone needs to take the same path.  On my journey, I won’t face the same troubles as you may, but there will be times when our ways cross and then we will lift each other off the ground, shake the dust and continue onward. My greatest trials may wear a different mask, but bravery and hope are the same within us all.   We are shaped and refined.  We contribute what we have and who we are, which is always enough.

The ones who stay and build.  The ones who risk and question everything. The ones who float about with no place to belong.  The ones who encounter new lands and claim them as home. Home, belonging, mission, and purpose may sound different to us all, but bravery and hope are written in all our stories.  We must recognize them in our own lives. We compliment each other.  We need not conform. 

On most days, I question what everything means and what happens next, not out of discontentment, but because I will forever be paying student loans for that English degree.  Give me a good book and I will happily praise the most beautiful words and draw out themes and meaning. How does this character grow in light of their challenges?  How does this experience shape the story? I don’t just want to read a story, I want to explore it and understand each part.  I’m not into the casual, light read that is tossed aside and forgotten.  I suppose that’s also how I want to live too, always with meaning and connection. 

Here amidst the towering trees so bare and exposed by winter,  we rested in the beauty of truly being understood by each other, in the comfort of friendship, hearts and souls safely unveiled and vulnerable.  We speculated and dreamed about what lies ahead, naively though, because how can we know.  I won’t pretend I do. 

Over  warm coffee and a bag of cookies pulled out of nowhere, we celebrated the closing of this first chapter for my friend.  As we walked back to our cars, the sun sliced through the thick blanket of grey that had lingered all morning.

In a story, we call that foreshadowing.

 

 

 

 

on butterfly wings and roaring lions

He doesn’t want to try hard things.  When he doesn’t understand or it doesn’t come easily, he wants to give up, going back to something he knows, to the safety of the familiar.  Inside, this war wages,  the adventurous dreamer wants to shout, Try it! Don’t be afraid! YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS! I want to shake it free, the resting brave and fearless in him, the belief that with work, he can do anything.  But he’s always been cautious, slow to embrace what isn’t his own idea.  The entire world is discovered and understood at his own pace, while imagination soars.   The creative mother in me understands that and wants to protect that light in him, the tender speed at which he moves and sees and learns and plays, uninterested in timelines or charts of progression.

He’s pensive and feels deeply, a soul at peace, unless he’s pushed too hard or he senses tension.    He’s wild and happy, eager to make people laugh and smile. Then stubborn, in a rooted, brooding, silence, the most dangerous kind.

His father often sits down with him and says, “I understand, because I was just like you, when I was your age, I know it’s frustrating when...”  For he sees the young version of himself in our son.

How do we encourage a little bird to test out his wings, while protecting its fragile spirit?  Oh, it’s a monster of an idea, that we are entrusted with these wild and wonderful creatures, with the roar of a lion hidden beneath the fragility of a butterfly wing. (sometimes the opposite.) And the world is capable of so much good and so much evil.  As are we. 

This morning, we wrote the alphabet on a large white sheet of paper and used found objects to mimic their shapes. He found a stick of artist’s charcoal and started to draw.  After a while, on his own he began writing a few wobbly letters, something he hasn’t done without instruction. In that moment, I wanted to proclaim all the reasons why I knew he could do it and why he just had to try and so many other bits of evidence for my case, but I didn’t, because that would have been mostly about me.  Instead, I softly asked, Is that an H? Did you make a P?  In that quiet knowing way, he answered, I did.

See, I wonder if these great reservoirs exist inside our children and maybe we have to say it a million times. Perhaps, we grow weary and wonder if it makes a difference. And sometimes, when we least expect, the water spills over the top, a burst of confidence trickles down, and they do the hard thing, they just do. 

You can do hard things, we say, and drop by drop, the reservoir fills. 

One day soon, he’s going to write all the letters and create the most unbelievable stories and he’ll finally figure out that whole bike pedaling thing, and we’ll watch him streak down the path like the brave rescue hero that he is.  One day that hard thing won’t be so hard anymore, but he’ll face something new, which will shake him and stretch him once again.

You can do hard things, we say, and drop by drop, the reservoir fills.

This parenting thing, it’s serious. It infuriating and mesmerizing. Just when we catch our breath, we face something new.  And each time, we’re quite certain, we can’t contend.  But, you know what I think?  What we tell these fragile, wild creatures, what we know to be true, it no different for us. 

The message, the reservoirs, the moments of break-through.

You can do hard things. 

We’re all wild and fragile creatures capable of achieving the unimaginable.  We are the butterfly wing and the lion’s roar. And we must fill the reservoirs.

 

Just Write

 

On sharecroppers and struggles in light of today

I’m reading Grapes of Wrath for the first time.  Somehow, I managed to graduate from high school and obtain an English degree without having to open its pages and I’m so glad, because I think young Olivia couldn’t have seen it as it should be seen.  And in some ways I’ll probably never be able to understand, because as I let the story sink in, as its cruel, maddening realities unfold before my eyes, it makes me wonder if I’ve ever struggled a day in my life.  At all.

Not to belittle trials and tough seasons of the modern day for they are hard in their own right, but comparatively, it all seems to be just a pile of inconveniences.  This morning, we loaded our family and three heaping baskets into the car and drove safely down the road to a Laundromat.  Our own laundry room off the kitchen still sits without a washer and dryer, as we wait and save or wait to be able to save, but this morning, it didn’t bother me.  Growing up in the suburbs, I’ve always held the belief that Laundromats are shady places, but they are just places that must exist, because people need to wash clothes and it’s not actually a right of residency to have your own machines.  There have been years where our apartment complex didn’t have laundry hook-ups in unit and there were years where we had our own, but it’s just a part of this whole big thing of life.  A people thing.  And truthfully, in one and a half hours, I knocked out three weeks of laundry for four people, I couldn’t have done that at home.   My clothes filled half the row of washers and the circular windows were a blur of color and soapy water.  One by one, the loads were transported in the cart that always reminds of the one episode of Friends, where Rachel washes her own laundry for the first time and Ross falls even more hopelessly for her.  The massive dryers tumbled until the clothes were folded and again, packed away.

As I sorted and folded, I thought about the things we allow to be such great inconveniences and I thought about the Joad family, from the book.  It’s night and day, what we call struggle, what we believe to be a hardship.  And I don’t want to be that kind of person.  The Dust Bowl era destroyed the lands, sucking the life out of fields and farms. The farmers worked tirelessly to salvage the land, but the crops failed, so the money didn’t come in, and the banks took back the land.  The land where their children were born and the elderly died.  The land was a part of them, until the banks wanted profit and saw people as interferences and kicked them off the land.  The tractors destroyed jobs and homes, turning legacies to rumble.  So, the masses fled West, with the hopes of greener lands and jobs.  An exodus that became something of a nightmare and the Californians didn’t want the Okies, no longer farmers, but considered migrants, who were forced to resident in little camps on the outskirts of town.  They were treated as foreigners, trouble, good for nothing, and dirty, but all they wanted was to work hard and raise their families, to have a little home and be respectful people.  The orchards dumped truckloads of oranges into the river to rot as children died of hunger.  I wonder if anything has really changed in the world at all, but that’s another thought.

Once California belonged to Mexico and its land to Mexicans; and a horde of tattered feverish Americans poured in.  And such was their hunger for land that they took the land—stole Sutter’s land, Guerrero’s land, took the grants and broke them up and growled and quarreled over them, those frantic hungry men; and they guarded with guns the land they had stolen.  They put houses and barns, they turned the earth and planted crops.  And these things were possession, and possession was ownership.

The Mexicans were weak and fed.  They could not resist, because they wanted nothing in the world as ferociously as the Americans wanted land.  Then, with time, the squatters were no longer squatters, but owners; and their children grew up and children had the land.  And the hunger was gone from them, the feral hunger, the gnawing, tearing hunger for land, for waters and earth and the good sky over it, for the green thrusting grass, for the swelling roots  They had these things so completely that did they did not know about them anymore.  (Chapter 19)

It’s the last line that grips me, They had these things so completely that did they did not know about them anymore.  It tumbles in head like the the towels in the dryer, again and again, each time bringing more understanding and more questions.  I think we are these children of the squatters, the offspring of a generation that achieved a way of life, a certain standard of living.  And I think we’ve forgotten that a good life is not easily achieved, but full of labor.  It’s ripe with hard times and monotonous realities, like laundry and dishes and paying bills, but such things are actually not the struggle. We wash clothes without hauling waters and heating it on a stove, we clean our dishes in sinks of hot, clean water or at the touch of a few buttons and we pay bills, because we have things, like homes and electricity.  We deem it all as inconveniences and create struggles out of our abundance and ease.  Struggles are real and they abound, but they are not these things.

Recently, I was speaking with a dear friend, a mother of three young children and she said, “These are working years, laboring years.  We do our best. We give and love until we collapse at the end of the day with the satisfaction of knowing that we loved, worked, and lived.”  I imagine the people of the 1930’s were not much different than us, but they knew that all of life was hard work, sprinkled with little bits of rest and reward. Sometimes, I think our society glamourizes the opposite until we come to believe it is an essential right of being a first world citizen.  Sometimes, I think we see the years of work our parent’s generation put in and think we can obtain it all right away, fresh out of college with two little ones in tow.  We forget the building years, or worse, see them as an inconvenience. 

And I think we are also the children of the sharecroppers, because the way of life our parents and their parents knew and lived, is now fading.  Perhaps, we are fighting to hold on to the remnants, but the shift is here. They went to college, walked into good jobs and worked until they retired.  So, we went to college too and for some, the transition was easier, but for many, it hasn’t been.  The jobs were few and the over-qualified, college educated were plenty.  We see it every day and the tension grows and I wonder just what our revolt will be.  I wonder what exodus we will make that will write the next chapter of history, the way the sharecroppers did. 

They had these things so completely that did they did not know about them anymore. 

 

 

On Ophelia and more tales from the neighborhood.

I snuck away to the front porch during bath time, which is always more fun, messy, and loud with daddy.  The darkness that teased of another thunderstorm had passed and the bluest sky was scattered with thick chiaroscuro clouds. 

Four feet away, she was sweeping her front porch and it being the first time we’ve crossed paths in five weeks, I introduced myself.

I wonder at which I point I should use fake names for my neighbors, in case I become wildly famous and one day, they start reading stories about themselves on the world wide web.  Until that point, I’ll call her Ophelia, which may or may not be her real name.  And which allows for the opportunity to say, “Ophelia and Olivia,” in the same sentence, which she thought was pretty spectacular too.  Bonus points to the one who immediately thought of Shakespeare.

Ophelia wore a stylish yet comfortable denim wrap dress and a bright orange tank top underneath with a pair of cute flats.  She’s a single black lady who has lived in the house for 20 years, in her 50’s perhaps?    Upon getting a good look at me as she pulled down her glasses, she asked how we liked the neighborhood.  I felt like it was a trick question.  If I loved it, was I oblivious to its horrors? If I hated it was I an awful and judgmental Northerner?  I went with the truth and responded, “We like it, and we haven’t had any trouble so far.  It seems like it’s an interesting place, but we like it.”  And with that, she stopped judging me.  Apparently, I passed the test.  I noticed her eyes soften during our chat and when she told me that she had been wanting to meet us for a while, but  wasn’t sure if we liked black people, I laughed out loud, at her bold, unhindered honesty and assured her that we did.   I like a person that doesn’t prance around with the small talk. 

And that’s when I learned that Ophelia is full of wisdom and she knows the not-so-secret workings of some of our neighbors, including the ways of the drug culture.   It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know which section of the street this may or may not be happening and she is tired of the “visitors” parking in front of our houses.   In her words,

“ The drug culture, they don’t care.  They don’t care because they don’t have anything to lose or anything to work towards. And they certainly don’t care about parking in front of people’s homes.  In fact, this guy, (pointing to an SUV), he pulled up here three days ago, with no overnight bag and nothing but a towel on his shoulder and he hasn’t left since.  Now, he doesn’t live here and he only shows up with a towel, he can’t be up to any good.”   

She’s fed up and she’s tired of the drug culture messing up our neighborhood. She’s going to call the cops.

I mentioned that we had only met the neighbors across the street and that we’ve heard some interesting stories, and as I did, I noticed Rose (the cat lady)  rocking on her front porch with her fire red ringlets and company of cats.  Ophelia’s eyes got a little shifty and gave me a knowing smile.

“Honey,” she said, “everyone has stories about everyone and they all think the other person is crazy,”  she narrowed her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “How in the world are we supposed to know the truth?  I’ll tell you. You believe what you know and what you see, that’s how. You trust your instinct and you’ll know the truth.”

And then she remembered that a blue Frisbee landed in her yard a few days ago,  and that she was keeping it safe until she could properly return it to us.  I went to leave my porch to retrieve it, but she stopped me, “Oh no, I haven’t done this in ages,” she laughed with a twinkle in her eye.  “Now stand back, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”  And she tossed that Frisbee into the air hitting the top of my porch and it fell directly two feet from where she was standing.   She nearly fell over laughing and I started and we both just really laughed together.  It was kind of great.

Our conversation came to a close as the family who lives across the street from her came home and she had to talk to them about all this traffic problem.  Ophelia is a woman of action, I tell you.  And she told me not to be a stranger, to knock on her door sometime soon and we’d have coffee.  And that she’s so glad she met me, she’s probably going to bake us a cake.

This neighbor is a gem, a real gem.  Until next time…

on the richness of life

The generous morning sun streams in, casting a halo on the peach and yellow blossoms in the jar, early birthday flowers.   And two little kids who were promised a treat for going to bed early eagerly devour the reward, even though they only kept up 70% of the bargain.  But, when a floppy child with bedhead stumbles into your room and says, I just woke up so that I could have my treat for going to bed,  the many attempts and long delays are forgotten.  
He wants to know where all the people are, because he can’t find a single person who was here, when he came out to use the potty last night, probably just to be sure there were in fact, no kids.
I fell asleep stuffed with delicious sweets and laughter and a heart completely blessed a night of friends new and old; conversations ranging from hilarious and ridiculous all the way to encouraging.   As I walked throughout the house closing windows and twisting shades, gratitude spilled out into the quiet darkness, for a home that is big enough to be filled and for the people to fill it.
I thought of the friends we left in Minnesota and I missed their presence in my home.  I thought about the fantastic contributions they would have added to the table.  Perhaps one of Danielle’s famous flourless cakes? Or the latest new culinary experiment that Elle would have tried.  I wondered what stroke of consistent genius my sister-in-laws would have presented.   And the local girls who couldn’t come because of last minute life.  The friend who would have brought cookies fresh from store bought dough, because no one at all hates cookies and everyone has something to offer that is uniquely them and beautiful.   And the one who recently moved away, but insisted upon telling me what she would bring, anyways.  I love that about her and I can’t wait to taste that Very Berry Coffee Cake.
In the last 11 years, in my winding trail from Michigan to Florida to California to Tennessee to Minnesota and now,  North Carolina, I’ve been fortunate to collect some of the finest people and moments in my vault of life.  And unlike the vault of a banker, the value never decreases, it only grows and memories sweeten with time.
Everyone has something to offer that is uniquely them and beautiful and we’re all better off when we believe it, about each other and ourselves. 
It’s the richness of life, the way the pieces are shaped just so.


.

On Otis, Rose the cat lady, and the real neighborhood danger.

“The thing you need to watch out for in this neighborhood, honey,  is the cats,” she told me as we stood in the middle of the street between our houses, meeting for the first time. She looked tired and her cigarette rested in her hand by her side as she tried to keep it from my direct breathing path.

Her skin showed signs of sun and wear and she coughed viciously in between sentences.

We learned about Rose the cat lady who owns half the block (and nearly 50 cats) and how the man who sold them their house left one specific dying wish, whatever you do, do not sell this house to Rose the cat lady. Under no circumstances.

In her yard is something not unlike a small zoo enclosure that houses cats. And one day, as I sat on my porch, I promise I saw three black cats walk out the front door to greet their owner at the end of a work day.  Her hair was fire red and short and the cats walked in single file line down the sidewalk.

They used to live in the country with ten acres and feel like fish out of water here in “this part of town.  So, if you knock on his door after 9pm and he’s not expecting you, he’ll be holding a shotgun. 

Speaking of water, they love the coast, specifically “our coast” and asked us if we’ve ever been to the ocean, like they were the only ones.  They want to move closer to the sea and run a charter fishing company and a boat that would take the women and children searching for shells and mussels in the cape.  Her face lit up when she talked about cooking mussels over a fire on the beach and popping in your mouth.   We were kindred spirits for only a moment when we spoke of the beloved sea. 

We learned about Otis, the block’s self-elected neighborhood watch.  He keeps an eye on things and if there is something to know, ask Otis.  And Pippy, whose name she doesn’t remember, but it might as well be Pippy Longstocking.  And then another neighbor came home and they exchanged passing remarks about car transmissions followed by “that one, she’s buckets of crazy,” to me.

Meanwhile the kids climbed up and down the stairs and went for a walk back and forth in from of our house. A grey cat strolled down the sidewalk and one kid ran away, the other chased it.

And so the story goes of meeting some neighbors and Rose the cat lady, Officer of Safety Otis, Pippy, and the real neighborhood danger, cats.

I almost forgot, the tomatoes. He grows 600 each year in his garden and wondered if we like tomatoes.  Well, sir, if we like tomatoes… You’re all a little bit nuts around here, but you had me at garden fresh tomatoes.

on the part before anything else

Rain fell softly on a cloudy day in May. The sweet coolness waltzed in through the open windows into the room, creating a delightful little reverie that invited my senses to dance.  Candlelight flickered on the mantel and Perry Como's timeless voice filled the air.

My love for the rain is great, but my fondness of rain and open windows is greater. It makes me feel free and wild, while it calms my heart and gently washes over my soul.

“You know what is great about our front porch?” I said to my husband, sitting in the next chair.
“Everything,” he answered without hesitation.

“Well, yes, but because it's there, we can keep the windows open during the rain and that is marvelous and beautiful.”

He nodded.

Just another piece of evidence.

Life has been intense lately with so much uncertainty about income and jobs and such things of adulthood. But there has been great evidence with every step of the faithfulness and goodness of the one who knows and I'm choosing to rest in that place. Collecting all the pieces along the way that will give us strength and carry us.  Refusing to let go of the one certainty that will always remain. That He is.

Yesterday, I was sketching on the back porch, my hands were blackened with charcoal and my kids covered in paint. I opened to a page dated two months ago and it read,

“Only upon hearing the last note can we realize the beauty of the melody that has been created.”

This journey has been amazing, full of adventure and wonder and risk. And in the middle or near the end, or wherever we might be, there is challenge and struggle and the growth that forever changes main characters. But, like a good book or a beautiful song, redemption comes. Unless this is a Shakespearean tragedy, in which we all die, or The Great Gatsby, where nothing of consequence ever happens to boring, lazy, apathetic people, or anything written by Hemingway, where everything is meaningless and depressing, of course.

I've had a hard time writing lately, despite the fact that everyday I've been pouring words into my journal and morning pages as earnestly as I can. The words have been jumbled madness and I had determined they we never worth making known. However, no good story ever consisted of, “Everything is perfect and easy. The end.” Not one.

And I think that at some point, I let the exhaustion quiet my voice, rather than letting this part of the story be heard.  Rather than letting simple words bring peace in the way the writing process does, I gave them permission to roar and howl about in my head, because I thought they were safer there.   Clearly, that’s where they were the most dangerous, like shadows cast on a wall in the dark, when in reality, it’s a stuffed toy on a shelf.

So, today, I'm just going to write about the rain falling and the way the air carried a song and cool breeze, on a Tuesday afternoon.

And that's all.

on creating spaces

The porch sweeps around the house in a L shape, it's deep and covered. If you listen closely, you can hear the music from inside, the scratch of the record mingling with a spring breeze and sunshine. There is nothing like music dancing in the open air.

Here, I'm drawn to the simple, to empty corners and walls that hold one instead of many. I'm interested in less and fewer and the way it feels. Perhaps, because in settling in, we are saying, let's make this home, let's belong here, and while I find great comfort in that, I will always need the wide open; the balance of wanting to belong, while maintaining the roaring free that exists eternally inside. The two will journey with me for all my days, I am certain. And it's not about quenching one or indulging the other, because I need them both, and they must be nurtured, in their respective ways.

In the sitting room, on the wall across from the fireplace, my new painting lives, my first of North Carolina, and nothing else. Nothing rests in the corner or sits against the wall and when I see it, a deep breath sweeps through me. It says, there is room here and space to be and live and grow and love and create.

To discover.

To share.

To search.

To dream.

To risk.

To hope.

There is space here and we are free to do with it what we will.

In life. You and I. Today and right now.

As I walk down the hall, I am not struck my the emptiness, but by the possibilities that come when we leave room on walls, in our hearts, and our time. For where we leave space, things can grow and we need that, plants, humans, and dreams alike, space and air and nurturing.

It's a delicate balance, and it feels good here.

on conclusions and a city of yellow

From the space in between the blinds, I see a full moon shining boldly on a dark, clear night, piercing my eyes, eyes that should be sleeping.  It’s early in the morning, a time I’d never be stirring, but the anticipation…  rears it’s head and it’s weary of me pulling in the reigns, it no longer wishes to be tamed or managed at suitable levels of calm.  The anticipation sneaks in during the last nights and steals me from silent sleep, and in the stillness of the dark, exactly 1,000,003 thoughts are swirling and spinning in my head. 

On March 28, 2010, we arrived in Minnesota in a yellow truck, with our one and a half year old son.  Matt had been unemployed for thirteen months and we never could explain why Minnesota, because certainly, it’s nothing we would have picked.  But, there was a small still moment in the decision process, where our Minnesota? was met with undeniable peace.  And that was it.  So there we were.

It was never a long term thing, we always knew.  We never felt that magic that whispers home, except maybe during a sunrise on the rocky north shore of Lake Superior or in moments by Lake Minnetonka when the sun dances across the rippled water and the wind captured and contented my soul. 

Yesterday, for our last little Minneapolis adventure, we took the kids to the Guthrie Theatre to the Amber room,  an observation deck on the ninth floor that tints the whole city in a shade of radiant yellow.  Just to the right stands the place where Matt worked and just to the left, the flour mill ruins and the beautiful warehouse lofts overlooking the river, where we never did live.  (Although, not without help from an internet scammer, who was just dying to rent their unit to us and only needed X amount of dollars in exchange for a key that would certainly appear in our mailbox.) 

Suspended in a yellow box, we paused and experienced the wonder with our kids, as their eyes came alive with excitement and matching amounts of fear.  Cars, bridges, roads, construction cranes, buildings, the river, everything that is normally so big was tiny below their feet.  As their delight and squeals and endless chatter  echoed through the empty room,   I imagine we allowed the wonder and excitement and fear to sink in too. 

As this chapter concludes, for all the beautiful and perfect, the lonely and restless, the struggles and the belonging that never came, for the long days and longer winters,  this season will always be remembered.  Beyond that, it will always be with us, because it has been so crucial and formative to the people we are and the ones we are becoming.  

On March 28, 2013, we will leave Minnesota with that same undeniable peace that is leading us exactly where we are meant to be.

---

It’s still dark and the moon still radiant, I’ll just sit in the quiet with the wonder, excitement, fear, and peace for a while before the day begins.

The story of a season. part one.

We are moving this month.

Life is unfolding before my eyes, in the most brilliant and exciting way and I am being bombarded with understanding and clarity of what these past three years have been for me and for my family. 

Three years ago, this month, we left the charming state of Tennessee and drove north to Minnesota.  We lived in my brother’s basement for three months, in a less than desirable neighborhood.  We survived long enough to get work and move to what some around here call, “a yuppie lake town.”  We enjoyed that zero people got shot on our street on a daily basis and the lake was 1200 feet from our apartment door.  Matt worked two jobs, we had another baby, who cried for four months, didn’t like anyone for nine months, didn’t sleep through the night for a year and today is a wildfire of joy, love, and charm. 

With two kids, two jobs, one car, and our creative interests, we learned the importance of protecting our family time, preserving hours for quiet, sanity, and inspiration, and generally decided we liked spending our time together more than anything else.   We casually attended a church, but realized we weren’t looking for a church to fill our calendars, so we made our family a priority and strangely enough, as we grew slightly disconnected from the church world, we grew in our own relationships with each other and with God.   This is not a statement laced with negative feelings or opinions, it is simply part of our story.

I’m beginning to see that these three years have been a gift, an intensive study in marriage, motherhood, and artistry.  I have learned who I am and I have let go of who I am not.  It has been amazing.  It has also been lonely and disconnected from everything outside of my home and family.  I have met only a handful of friends and truthfully, only one has become a true kindred spirit, a sweet breath of fresh air and support. We can laugh in our broken frustrations, delight in small joys, and encourage in our exhaustion-laden hope.  It has been abundant and rich in a season of social drought and introspection.

I have discovered that art is not simply something I enjoy, but it is the way I see the world, it’s the way I understand God and the way that God reveals himself to me.  I have learned that it is so essential to me, that I want to encourage others, to help them see that a gift lives within them, a story to be told, an adventure to be lived…. something great that brings meaning to this existence, something that compels us onward, leaving behind a wake of beauty, truth, and hope. 

In these last years, my world has been small, home.  Yet, I have screamed dreams, big world-changing dreams into the pages of journals, blog posts, and through paint.  They have brewed inside of me, growing like an unborn child until there is simply no room, until I felt that I couldn’t manage the weight any longer.  And in the slow gestation of these ideas, I began to doubt that these God-given dreams would ever be possible, and I wondered if it might be easier to let them go.  And they grew and grew and tossed and turned, until one night in my impatient and hopeful soul, I crumbled.  I wondered if we would ever leave this place that never felt like home, if we’d ever find community,  a place to belong, and if we’d ever begin to see the fruition of these tormenting and beautiful dreams.   I felt like I would explode.

And you know, perhaps, that is just the right timing, when you cannot continue as you are, because your dream has become so interwoven with who you are, and together you have outgrown your current fishbowl.

End of part one.

The challenge.

I heard it in the beginning of January and I didn’t know then how revolutionary it would be. The words came out of his mouth and them danced into my soul and shook me up a bit.

The key to discipline is desire.

It simmered on the stove, those words, bubbling around in my head, shaking me in the best way.  I think that some things in life are hard, but most things are easier than we make them. 

People ask me how I find time to be creative. The question always shocks me, as if they are asking me, how do you find time to breathe.  For me, art is breathing and without it, I’m a seriously less pleasant person.  Ask my husband on day two of no creativity, I’m scratching at the walls, contemplating to sell everything we own and become Amish. I want to deconstruct every piece of furniture, including the ones we are using and turn them into something new, abstract and less functional.  It gets a little crazy. Usually, I just move the couch to the other wall and then smear some paint around with no plans.  It helps some. 

It’s just that art and writing have been essential in my life. That’s how I do it. And I find time for everything else, like cleaning and laundry. I also don’t do housework after the kids go to bed and we have a rule about not holding children while we eat or drink afternoon coffee, but that’s another story.  Somehow it works for us, because as the say goes, it’s not hard to figure out what you want in life, it’s hard to figure out what to let go of to make it happen.

The key to discipline is desire.

So all the above is great, but I was terrible at making prayer and the  Bible important. I could give tons of excuses, but ultimately I just didn’t want it bad enough.  Plain and simple.  The same goes for yoga. It sounds like a great idea and I do love it, but at the end of the day, they were sitting low on the priority list.  And I was feeling it, in the aches of my body and my soul.  Discipline, well that has always been such a restricting word to me. Discipline, who needs that… I’m a free spirit.

In the beginning of January, our church, along with many others joined in a time of fasting.  When seeking how I would participate, the answer was clear and it was a tough one.  Now, I love sleep, in a huge way and I’ve never been accused of being a morning person, ever.  Please don’t hate me, but my kids are good sleepers and they usually wake up around 8.    I would stay in bed until my little boy woke up and came in my room.   The challenge came, set your alarm, wake up, read the Bible, write, and pray. Give up the extra 1.5 hours of sleep.

Oh, now I was morally opposed to this because,

1. Those-know-it-all- mommy blogs are all like, you must get up early before your kids and it’s the only way to do get things done, blah, blah, blah.  Well, I would prove them wrong. I would certainly do no such thing.

2. The idea of jump starting my day with activity is my wildest nightmare. 

3. Waking up to the horribly, unnatural sounds of an alarm would be the end of me.

This was different, it was an invitation that required great sacrifice, surely I didn’t think this one up on my own accord. The first morning I woke up three minutes before my alarm. I was spared that trauma.  The next day, it happened again. The third day, I was tired and pulled the blankets over my head, but something beckoned and I answered.  Three weeks later, I can honestly say that I never felt exhausted from losing that extra sleep. In fact, I had more energy and more strength to face the day. I would even dare to say that desire began to grow. I looked forward to these moments of scribbling prayers and thoughts in the pages of my journal and finding the age old words speak new truth for my days, the quiet with the Creator of the Universe, before the motion. As it turns out, I even had time for yoga.  The time of the challenge has ended, but in three weeks, I have seen how essential it is for my life.  Like breathing and art, and I don’t plan to stop now.

The  key to discipline is desire.

Whatever it is you desire, begin.

Begin by showing up, by making yourself if you must… until it becomes a part of you, until it feels like  a desire.

And we fight for our desires, do we not?

for the dreamers: a declaration

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts.

They are gifts of great power and responsibility, to borrow the words.

They beckon us to a deeper, beautiful story in which we are living a life set on fire,

in meaning and intention and love.

 

And we stand before the water, as we face this new year and

we dare to believe that they are good and true and

above all, possible.

 

We dare to acknowledge that if we work hard, love well, and pursue

that which shakes the inside of our souls,

the right doors will open.

The right people will walk beside us and disrupt our steady stride.

 

We know the road will be full of obstacles and struggles,

we must collect our daily strength, faith, and bread.

And we can be sure that we will be required

to walk bravely into the darkness and

remember that the light glowing inside, although at times dim,

cannot be quenched.

 

And if we are faithful stewards of these dreams,

these gifts, these creative urges,

the calling that echoes in our rising and slumbering,

we will look back and know,

we will raise our eyes to the heavens and breathe in

the breath, ever sustaining and always beckoning.

 

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts,

whispering with all the power of the wind and the moon,

with all the intention of the great Creator,

a fresh new page awaits, shall we?

 

 

My friends, Create boldly.

-Olivia

Good Morning Sunset

In the mornings, I walk through the house and pull open the blinds, tie back the curtains and let in the light.   I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, in a sweeping motion barely recognized as a motion at all.  We stumble into the rooms without beds and they tell me that they had a good nap.  Yes, good morning mama, I had a good nap.  And it never fails to spread a smile on my face, I don’t even think about correcting them.

Today, he climbed into my lap as I sat in the yellow chair next to the window and he squinted at the sun.  The sun is so bright, good morning sunset.  I corrected him with sunrise, and regretted it immediately.  After all, he’s right isn’t he?  Good morning sunset that makes the snow a glittery blanket of white for now and later will paint the wintry sky before dinner.

And sure there is the rather overwhelming list of needs and requests that these wild things need, a steady downpour of mama, mama, mama, breakfast, so much breakfast, because, of course, they hardly ate their dinner.  So, I fill their bowls and they fill their bellies, sharing half with the floor, while making sure the day starts will plenty of noise.  Perhaps one day she’ll understand that 10 baby dolls can’t fit in the high chair with her and he’ll learn to eat cheerios at a slightly slower… more human speed. (probably not).

Not every part of everything is warm and glorious in life. 

But, the sun is mesmerizing as it rises higher and higher in the sky on this quiet morning at home, after a week of being gone.  A foamy latte is in my resting in my hands.

It’s good to be home. 

Good morning sunset.

The jar of wild collected beautiful and jumping frogs

The steam is rising from the first mug of Christmas blend 2012. The sunlight catches the rim and in the middle of the enlightened area one tiny sparkle dances into my eye. The light stretches diagonally across my old wooden desk highlighting the layers of peeling and scratched wood. My beloved ten dollar garage sale find of a desk, so loved and well altered in the name of many an art project.

A jar holds treasures in a bouquet of random that are not at all random to me. Dried flowers and peacock feathers, found shells from the lake, vintage buttons, spools of thread, knobby sticks, and well loved paint brushes donned in layers of paint. The brushes no longer paint pictures, but their matted bristles carry the stories of my days, days of favorite paintings and struggles and countless times of art as worship, art that compels us to the light, art that brings to the surface that which was previously unseen.

The jar of wild, collected beautiful rests in the path of the morning light casting brave shadows upon the standard white wall. I watch the etchings transform as the sun rises in the sky and something comes alive in my soul on this Friday in November.

My coffee mug is illuminated now, the painted shadows from the jar more or less are faint patches of dark of the wall. I turn and see the sun peeking in from the top corner of the living room window. It is 8:44 am. That fleeting moment is passed, but not forgotten. In the pausing and seeing, we allow these small gifts to become the exposition for the chapter of our days.

On Sunday, we found these hardcover books, dressed in the most decadent vintage patterns. In each book, collections of old stories have lived since 1954. They sat on bookshelves until they were tossed into the donation bin, where they were placed on institutional shelving in the thrift store that smelled bad. Jane Eyre and Les Misérables sparked my interest, but the real appeal was in the the magic of the binding, the painted pages, the golden adornments, the pages rich in old book smell. To our delight, these books were marked at $2.49, as if the employees had no idea of their real value.

I devoured Les Misérables in four days, a story that I thought I knew, but had never read.

If ever there was a story of grace and redemption, it lives here. It says that in a world oozing with broken wretchedness, grace transforms and frees and births new possibilities, unimaginable possibilities. And it speaks of love, the passionate, young, blind version and the kind that grips our beings and changes who we are, beckoning us to compassion and sacrifice and dedication.

In the words of Kathleen Kelly, “read it, I know you'll love it.”

But that isn't even what I wanted to tell you about today. I turned the page and discovered, The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, by Mark Twain. A title like that could not be refused. I read the introduction pages and learned that this was the story that launched the career of Mr. Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain). As a young journalist, he would sit for hours in bars and listen to drunkards tell their stories to willing ears. I can only imagine the rubbish that he heard, but I think he knew that treasure could be found in most peculiar places. He listened and gathered. And one day, he wrote down this tale about a gambler, a stranger, and a bet on a jumping frog, a bit of regional folklore and submitted it for publishing. It was rejected again and again, until a couple years later, someone said yes. It was rather successful and printed in its own copy. This ridiculous tale is how the world came to know the creator of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. This short story is pure nonsense, nothing but the sheer enjoyment of a good tale that may or may not be true.

As I finished reading, I laughed out loud twice, once for the silliness of it all, and again at the realization this was his first big break. Something so incredibly random and inconsequential. And I thought about how most of us are searching for that “big break,” in whatever it is that we do, the ladder to success and affirmation that we are talented and appreciated for what we love to do. But how much effort do we place on predetermining the value of something, by what it means to us. Oh this isn't any good, it can't be worth finishing or submitting or sharing. Oh, this is just a bit of nonsense, no one will read it. Oh this painting is just average, but not nearly as good as that one over here. And so we go about the limiting the value of our creations, causing them to wither before they even bloom. But, honestly, great creators don't just give away the answers and meaning of things. No they do not, do they?

It's like a mother bird who has nurtured her young and when the time comes, she must allow them to leave the nest. She must accept the chance that their little wings might struggle before they can really fly. And she must be brave enough to send them into the world, because they can not remain in the nest, for if they do, they will never reach their full potential. It would be a tragic waste of wings.

I wonder how much bravery and beauty is being held hostage by us? The ones who aspire to greatness, but fear the journey, criticism, and rejection. How many of us will ignore the jumping frog tales and fleeting shadows on a wall and in doing sacrifice the Huck Finns? What are we suffocating because we simple do not understand what it means and we are not sure what will happen?

On terror and bravery, a true story.

Today I’m filling pages with memories and stories and this one just started pouring out.

After college I spent one year working with a non-profit company that traveled the country presenting character education programs to students K-12.  We set up three giant screens and speakers, the video was full of stories and chart topping hits that would engage and encourage students to be kind, strong, and determined people.  The stories spoke of kids overcoming obstacles and making good choices.  It was relevant and well done.  Overall, this tour was a good experience filled with meeting wonderful people and seeing new places.  Some places were harder than others.  Some places were more forgettable than others. This story is not one of them..

…

This job brought me to places in the US that I would have never seen on my own. I experienced social norms that felt like foreign countries to me. My view of the world grew  during this year in ways I will never forget.

One day, we traveled to a desert town north of Los Angeles.  The district was new, schools, stores and homes. It was beautiful. We were told that the new development was an attempt to get families out of the roughest L.A. neighborhoods. Gang violence was at a high and there were police dispatched to the schools and extra law enforcement, especially in the after school hours. The drop out rate was higher than the graduation rate.  I went to a high school that has rowing, equestrian, and tennis teams. There were 600 students in my graduating class.  I think two kids dropped out that year.

I stood in a gymnasium of five hundred high school students.The only adults in the room were me, my co-worker, and our contact person, a guidance counselor, who was less than courteous. It didn't take long to see that we were merely babysitters for the next two hours. The students were mostly bigger than me, their faces were hazed with apathy and anger. We gave a brief introduction to the video and I couldn't even hear myself through the PA system. I stopped talking and we pushed play.

They talked and laughed and walked over to their friends. Some turned to face the opposite direction. I was furious at the amount of disrespect that I saw, but not really for myself.  Never in all my years of life had I felt such hopelessness in a room, it didn't matter what I had to say, because it didn't matter what they became.  Why should they believe anything different.

I went to the guidance counselor and asked if I could stop the presentation to speak to the students. She looked at me with huge, amused eyes and said, well, if you wish.  I saw her shaking her head as I turned.

The only light in the pitch black room with no windows and two sets of doors was from the three giant screens that projected the video.

I asked my co-worker to hit pause and with 111% fire in my blood and 110% fear, I  walked to the front of the bleachers and said,

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” could they see me trembling, I don't know, I didn't matter. The fire was burning now. I continued,

“Every day, we travel to schools sharing this video, because we want to encourage students who need someone to tell them that they can do great things and overcome trouble, no matter the circumstances. Never before have I seen such rudeness and disrespect from a group of students and I am afraid for you, because if you don't start caring, you will mess up your life and you may not get a second chance. It doesn’t matter if you remember me or this video, but we are here today to share this and even if you don't want to listen, stop talking so that other students can listen. Thank you.”

The room was silent.

I set the microphone down and walked across the floor. In that moment, I felt like I could climb Everest and crumble into a sopping heap of tears at the same time. It took me five minutes to stop shaking. I was thankful for the darkness. My co-worker looked at me stunned, but proud.

It didn't take long for some noise to resume, but the levels stayed at a minimum. The bell rang just before the end of the video, the students filed through the doors. We torn down our equipment alone, usually students helped. I can't remember if the guidance counselor said good bye or not.

I won’t soon forget that day.  For all the fear that shook me, I could not breathe another moment of the apathy and disrespect that filled the room.  And still, I knew that sitting in those bleachers were kids who did care, kids who had big dreams, and kids who just needed even a sliver of hope. 

The intoxicating mix of terror and bravery are forever scribbled into my memory.  Even as I typed this out today, I trembled remembering those steps to the front of the room.  More than the fear, I remember the presence of the courage and how I shook with fear the entire way, but the courage was leading my steps, pushing me forward. Standing before one thousand eyes, hundreds of lives full of good, bad, beautiful, heartbreaking, hopeless, and hopeful.

There are moments that shape and define us, and even if every single one of those kids walked out of that room unaffected, I drove away with that desert gymnasium forever imprinted in my soul.

I think we forget, I think we’ve been playing by the wrong set of rules and I’m pretty sure that if courage and fear were a game of paper rock scissors, courage could beat fear every time.

Because courage fights for hope and light. Fear fights for darkness.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.  John 1:5

 

So when your hopes on fire

But you know your desire

Don't hold a glass over the flame

Don't let your heart grow cold

I will call you by name

I will share your road

(Hopeless Wanderer, Mumford & Sons)

October 3, 2012

The world is ablaze with season right now, sprinkled, drenched, smeared with colors of the best kind.  Every window becomes a frame for a masterful, temporary work of art.  Today as I drove into town, the residents of Minneapolis were out in full force.  In fact, I believe every bike was biking, every path was filled with walkers, every al fresco chair was filled with diners and afternoon coffee drinkers.  It’s almost like it was the first warm day of the year, when the masses suddenly appear.  Except, it’s probably the last. These people know this and they are soaking it up, every last drop, because not sure if you are familiar with Minnesota winters, but they are not friendly.

Today as the sun danced over the trees of red, yellow, and orange, there was a serious energy,  a rare 80 degree day in October, a gift.

Tomorrow the thermometers will read 40 less than today.

My creativity comes in seasons too and this extended warmth was like a jolt of make, make, make.  There was so much making, so many ideas, which is never a bad thing.   It’s harvest and I was constantly reaping the bounty. 

But, yesterday, I found myself trying to sew items for the shop.  I was frustrated at every turn, the machine was annoying, the colors of thread I needed were gone, everything was a challenge.  I was trying to finish these items so quickly that I was resenting them.  I had lost the sweetness of the creative process and traded it for the end result.  Way wrong answer. We are not machines.  We do not exist for the sole purpose of creating a finished product.  The magic is in the process, in the molding and in the creating.

I walked away from my machine.  I needed a break.  It’s tricky sometimes when your art is also a business, even a tiny, little one like mine.  It’s easy to lose sight of why you are writing, sewing, painting, etc.  Yesterday, I was frenzied and frustrated.  This kept sounding in my head and in my heart.  It was a fresh breath and hope.

It is not by coincidence, that the seasonal shift is in sync with my creativity or rather the other way around.  The colder weather has a way of bringing us in and slowing us down, because we need it.  Circumstances beyond our control take the lead.  We get so busy with busy and life and art and everything that the fall sort of picks us up by the collar, dusts us off and sets us back on the right path.

Seasons are so intentional in that way, the shift of nature, the constant waves of change: life, growth, energy, pause, death, re-birth… and again.

Cease striving and know that I am God. Be still and know that I am God.  This message is everywhere for me, in conversations with friends, in things I’m reading and seeing and feeling.  I can hear the whispers in the rustle and crunch of the leaves, in the color parade of the trees, in the brisk wind warmed by the sun.

We tend to get pretty good at striving, in fact, our days are spent perfecting the art of striving, but this message is life and we are invited to rest in that sustaining power and in it find all that we need.

So that’s where I am again, learning this life long lesson.

October 4, 2012

Today the wind is tearing leaves from branches and composing an emotional song, leaving no loose item untouched.  It reminds me that we are small and that we must let the process happen, we must trust the maker’s hands, and remember that all of our breaths and all of our days are the process.  It’s our story unfolding safely in His hands.

His nine day vacation ended with his alarm this morning.  We returned from our week away to find parenthood just as good and challenging as ever.  Yesterday there was football watching and napping.

Today the leaves rustle a tune deeper as they begin to adorn themselves with their new fall colors.  The sun shines through the open windows and a chatty wind sweeps through the house again and again.

A new season is upon us.

New ideas. New intentions. New pursuits. New creativity.

The beginning of new is full of life and energy.  It gives us a friendly push onward and forward.  To sweep out the corners that we neglected, to initiate new goals, and take steps towards dreams.  Do you feel it in the air?

I’m overwhelmed with the sense that some dreams will come alive in this season.  Do I say that with every seasonal shift? I hope so, oh I do, because dreamers never stop dreaming and they never run out.  New ideas lead us down unseen paths and into foreign places.  We are dreamers, that is what we do.

So today, whether the leaves are beginning to celebrate their annual wardrobe change or not, what do you dream for this new season?  What ideas will you dare to utter into the wild September wind?  Your thoughts are safe and welcome here in this space. 

Friends, let’s be what we were made to be, brave, strong, and courageous.

 

Autumn print is in the shop**

Evening in Missoula, the dance of the water at dusk.

A typical sequence of events on a Monday afternoon, walk to the mailbox, check e-mail, read a text, so ordinary.  We spend minutes and hours, living and doing these normal things.

Yet, there are days when each note plays out like a grand orchestra, conducted by the most brilliant of masters. The skin shivers, the breath quivers, the tiny forming eye wells, I have a friend who calls these secret messages. Yes, indeed.

And you consider how each piece played out, how the sender mailed the letter at a certain time, entrusting it to the system who took x amount of days to deliver it to you, and how a random errand meant you were the one to walk across the grass to the mailbox, when usually it’s him.  After catching your breath, another message is waiting for you, but not moments earlier, right now.  Because in the raw emotion of blessing and awe, these words transcend their usual power, once again taking your own limited breath, so you only can inhale love from the origin of love itself. And it rushes past body and into soul, leaving you amazed at the one who pens the story of our days.

We don’t always see how our actions touch others, how one small ripple shatters the smooth, glassy surface and prompts the dance of the water at dusk.  My lovely friend was drinking tea the other day, it was called Evening in Missoula.  If this dance had a name, the dance of the water at dusk, it would be Evening in Missoula. Lights once still flicker and sway extending past their origin, tiny currents lap the shore and wash over the stones, smoothing them, in contrast to the gritty sand.  One event sets this scene in motion, creating a masterpiece to behold, but no one dwells on the exact boat or breeze or rock that started it. 

In the same way, life can feel trivial, the stirrings we respond to, the encouragement and light we send, but perhaps it’s the best way, so we step out of view, letting the true masterpiece shine.

It’s magic really, and not the card trick kind, but something so much bigger than our wildest imagination, something that connects us all to each other and to the heavens.

 

on the bat pandemic of 2012…. that never was.

We are on day seven of the plague over here.  After we came home from the cabin, the kids got sick.  The husband got sick.  God spared me for the sake of my family, I’m sure, but people, my battery is exhausted.  Funny little story, all seven of the other kids that were also at the cabin have been sick all week and some parents too, that is not the funny part.  This past weekend, when we found out, someone suggested that it might have been caused by the bat feces that was swept up from the deck, where they all played.  Well, upon hearing such possibilities, we took a trip to the doctor, who wore a face mask and scared my children, just to be sure that we were not going to be the origin of the great bat feces pandemic of 2012.  I mean, I watched Contagion, it happened here in Minneapolis. For twenty-five minutes in the car and in the waiting room, we entertained ourselves with the  hypothetical events that would happen if in fact the great bat pandemic of 2012 was real.  Of course, it was only funny in our exhausted heads.   And as it turns out, the real problem is  four little infected ears. 

The doctor humored our inquiries about the diseases caused by inhaling the fungus found in bat feces (how disgusting was that sentence?), and I’m pretty sure he searched WebMD or something.  I mean, I already did that.  He tried to get H to talk to him, which of course he didn’t, because he not overly conversation with strangers, especially people wearing masks.  And then went into a full monologue to the baby girl about the flowers on her shoes, so he could check her ears and eyes, she fell for none of his tricks.  I don’t know, again, maybe the mask?

Alas, the verdict was nothing that will ever be make it in the history books or future documentaries.

Miracle of miracles, they are willingly taking the medicine, which is now recorded for all time and I know this has to end soon.  We are going to make it!  Until I have more eloquent words, some photos of items recently added to the shops.

His name is Thatcher and he’s new in shop.  Feel free to visit him here.

Stripes. Hood. A touch of green.  The Finley Hoodie.

This lovely winter jacket is made from 100% French wool.  The Claire Jacket.

 

I’m sorry for the sentence about about the fungus and bat feces.  The end.

an adventure within the adventure

They have this way of talking, special conversations between the two of them.  He sits next to her and asks questions,  Is that your shirt?  Are you okay? Are you thirsty? No, Harper, that’s not a baby, that’s a dog. She looks up at her big brother and in a sweet, high pitched voice tells a tale in words to complicated for adults. Somehow he gets what she’s saying and responds.  He waits for her answer.  Repeat.

It’s my favorite thing.

Sometimes he speaks for her, but mostly she speaks well enough for herself.  Want some chips Harps?  And without waiting, Harper wants some chips.  For breakfast.  How could anyone refuse when they both want chips, for breakfast?  I laugh and she confirms their request with a squeal. Chips.  They have already learned the power of joining forces.

When he’s sick, she senses the difference and and brings him essentials: bears, cars, coloring books, and her babies.  She sets off on a mission and doesn’t stop until all of babies and animals have been relocated to his side.  She’s sits with him and if he throws up or coughs, she makes the same sounds. Her eyes tell how she loves doing this for him and his gentle smile comes alive and he thanks her.

He named his bear, Beetabop.  Beetabop it is.

The way he’s cautious and she is fearless makes this perfect blend.  She instigates the stacking chairs on top of the coffee tables.  At eighteen months.  He catches the infectious look of her eyes and joins.  When we intervene, she’s crushed and he gets over it quickly.  We’ve banned her from watching any of the gymnastics during the Olympics.  She doesn’t need anymore ideas at the moment.  But, that thrill in her eyes, the way she is so alive when jumping off the couch or climbing across a collection of furniture, it’s the most amazing to witness. The wild eyes, the energy, the moment between the destinations, the squeal,  her happy place.

This week, I took them to the park where the play structure is not too high for small ones and she couldn’t believe how I let her roam across the bridges and scale the stairs.  One of those squeaky bridges caused her brother to pause and ask for my hand, while her little legs bolted across bravely onward.

She is expressive and he is pensive.  The worlds he creates in his head, the way his toys have ideas and feelings and stories to tell.  We marvel.  When she sleeps, we build little towns of trains and Lincoln logs and animals and garages for his cars. It’s creating and possibilities, getting lost in imagination and adding details just for fun. And by fun I mean necessity, because life is our canvas and we can create just the basics or revel in the beautiful details.  Especially… the details.

You know, in the same way that God created rocks that sparkle with a parade of colors and rocks that are every inch smooth and black.  How he designed sunsets and snowflakes and the color scheme of fall.  The way leaves rustle a sweet song when they dance with the wind.  The way that the sea is moody and grey one day, then brilliant and blue the next. It’s all extra, the finishing touches on his great work.  Because, why not? Because, he can.

And in the same way, he could have just given us any old random kids, but I’m in awe of how he knows us and our children. We talk endlessly of dreams, risk, adventures and here we have this wild eyed, daredevil of a daughter looking for every chance to fly.  Her brave heart left in our care. Our boy with his quiet ways and a head full of stories and possibilities.  That which we pursue for ourselves, we are entrusted to protect and nurture in them. An adventure within the adventure, really.

It makes me feel small in the best way, how this huge part of my story is really about them, and how these pieces of them are so crucial to who I am. How we met and fell in love and made babies, these two marvelous babies. What a wonder these details that make up our days.

Rocks on the shore, decorated with a parade of colors that sparkle and glisten, shades of bravery and possibilities and love.

What do you see in the eyes of your children? What details leave you in awe?  What radiates from the shore?