A brief prelude to the show.

The air is electric. Blades of grass and infant green leaves shake with anticipation.  That smell, the one that reminds you that you are so deeply alive.  The scent more intoxicating that almost any other thing, it calls us one by one.

As far as the greatest scents, I argue the following: brewing coffee, cookies baking in the oven, onions simmering in butter, old books, and the sea.  But this is a magic so fleeting.  A brief prelude to the show. Nothing we can ever contrive.

Stop the baths. Stop the dishes. Get out here already. Scoop up the clean baby with fuzzy hair in ducky pajamas. 

We gather on the swing, on the rocker just her size, on a white, wooden chair.  Another stroke of grey darkens the sky, pressing in all around us. A butter yellow in the distance, but for now, rolling grey.

A rumble booms and sends delight through our souls.  The children jump in a blend of excitement and uncertainty. They run inside and return just as light slices through the air.

Children shriek wildly.  Eyes twinkle.

It’s getting closer.  Do you feel it? 

A hat! A hat! She decides that alone will protect us all, as we sit under the large covered porch. 

The baby, she doesn’t know what is happening, but all the living creatures feel the magic in the air. All of us living creatures feel the power of our maker rumbling and shaking the places we exist.  Her little body flutters in the playful wind like a butterfly, barely contained in my arms. Her eyes fill with a radiant light.

My head on your shoulder, my favorite place.  We rock gently as the grey spreads, like a wash of saturated watercolor leaving no fibers untouched. 

One more giant gush sweeps up all the branches on all the trees announcing an arrival. 

And in unison, in a song, in a rhythm that sustains the world, drip drop drip drop drip drop.

We’ll go about what must be done, washing dirty faces and dishes.  But  we pause to breathe in the moments that usher in the rain, to wait in anticipation with all the natural world, once again finding our place among creation as electricity dances in air, declaring the creator.

And in unison, in a song, in a rhythm that sustains the world, drip drop drip drop drip drop.

 

 

a breakdown and a love song: a true story

Last night,  a breakdown over the feelings so familiar refused to be calmed.  My pillow collected tears stained with mascara, heavy with words I just couldn’t find and when the reservoirs dripped no longer, I fell into an exhausted, deep sleep.

But, in the light of day under a radiant blue sky, I see it was a breakthrough in disguise.

And in the spaces made vacant from the emotions that spilled out of my eyes, bubbling waters of beautiful things are no longer dammed. And what I thought was this great internal struggle, turned out to be a love song.

A love song of crashing waves and roaring wind, from God who knows the language of my soul.

Even when I can’t see it, for all my silly humanity.

In 2004, the hurricane season brought us many canceled classes and one of those weekends, I went home with my roommate to Boca Raton, Florida.  Like any sensible Floridian, the day before the storm made landfall, we went to the beach.  The tourists evacuate and the locals, they go to the water, because they know.  As the storm approached, magnificent waves beat the shore and in the wind, all were captive.  This is magic.  Facing east in the darkness of night, with only the occasional, scattered light on the beach, the stars tucked behind the heavy storm clouds, I stood before the wild waters crashing with His love and power, with his greatness and glory.  I never in all my life feel closer to God than when I am standing on the edge of the ocean, with my hair swept up in the wind and the salty waters misting over me.  

For a while now, in my own restless, adventurous heart, behind the calm and collected face, those waves have been crashing around inside of me, rattling my bones.  And I’ve been fighting it, feeling as though it was another trial, another lesson.  Sometimes, I take extra long to do things for my kids to teach them a little bit of patience and I’ve been certain that God was doing the same thing for me.

Last night, I felt like I was drowning under the struggle, the waves swallowing me whole.  But, until that struggle was emptied onto my pillow, I couldn’t see that the waves, they were never intended for such purposes.

Instead,

For all the days of feeling stuck in a place that doesn’t feel like home,

the days of working toward dreams,

the constant energy it takes to create and see possibilities and hope,

and all the days of feeling so lonely in this season of life…

He brought the crashing waves and the roaring winds and he tucked them safely inside of me, so  I would never have to be too far away from that place.

For all the days of this journey.

A love song, that will indeed swallow me whole, if I let it.

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.

 

The language I understand

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.

Calm and Bright

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.

skipping rocks

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

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.

within a child

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.