Friends and blog followers!
I'm moving my musings and blog posts to : https://gracefullybound.wordpress.com/
See ya over there =)
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
To Wholeness
"I actually attack the concept of happiness. The idea that—I don't mind people being happy—but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It's a really odd thing that we're now seeing people saying "write down three things that made you happy today before you go to sleep" and "cheer up" and "happiness is our birthright" and so on. We're kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position. It's rubbish. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don't teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say, "Quick! Move on! Cheer up!" I'd like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word "happiness" and to replace it with the word "wholeness." Ask yourself, "Is this contributing to my wholeness?" and if you're having a bad day, it is."
Wednesday Morning
The morning sets up like a piano sonata.
Soft, quiet, with a moon still full.
Feathery clouds crest the mountaintops of the canyon.
All is still, save a few buzzing alarms in the apartments around the river trail.
Breakfast, coffee, emails as a rising sun turns the eastern horizon into cotton candy.
Soft, quiet, with a moon still full.
Feathery clouds crest the mountaintops of the canyon.
All is still, save a few buzzing alarms in the apartments around the river trail.
Breakfast, coffee, emails as a rising sun turns the eastern horizon into cotton candy.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
2014 Fall Foliage Pilgrimage
I feel as thought I've restarted myself. Which is a good thing to do I suppose when everything is failing. Like in a computer or phone or camera or car... unplug everything, take the battery out, start from scratch.
I blame it on the loons.
This year's pilgrimage was riddled with challenges... as Ben calls them... opportunities.
Things got off to a rocky start with shifting the days of the trip around, excluding Errin, and for very different reasons excluding Ben. So I slept best I could, shoved my whole bed in the back of the C R-V (whole new appreciation for it's RV status now) and headed north.
There is something surprisingly pure in heartbreak. It crushes facades and exteriors, leaving you in a sedated raw place.
We stopped at West Shore for a walk and a drink. When we got to the border the Canadians asked if we were camping alone and who we were meeting up there... ha... good one... not this time. The road to the Provincial Park was closed. Two-thirds of the camping loop was closed, the remaining four spots taken. I drove to the picnic area and trailhead, backed up to the woods. There was a man there with a truck, small RV, and tarped off tent. Judging by the comfort of his two cats seemed he'd been there for awhile. That sleeping spot would have to do.
So I rested.
Surrounded by western red cedars, aspen, birch and balsam fir. Beyond the lush forest - the lizard range, Mount Fernie, The Three Sisters, The Ghost Rider. Rigid, stark, engulfing me in only this place. Morning came and I was slow- breakfast, walk, book, afternoon. I traipsed through town trying to find a plan B for the Blue Toque... there was no suitable substitute. Crammed into an old bank however was a brilliant interpretive display of the history of Fernie, I explored for awhile.
We tried to drive to a different Provincial Park on Crowsnest Pass... but it didn't have camping. We stayed long enough to eat an Indian feast, then hit the road.
Somewhat satisfied, somewhat disappointed.
Koocanusa - Kootenai + Canada+ USA = the lake surrounded by all three nations, why not. Three miles off the main road, just a ghost park. The water so still, the two other campers absent or quiet. We backed up to the lake. A near full moon rose, sunset cast a ballet of colors on the water, geese honked with whooshing wings, splashing into a landing. And all was lovely, quiet, and still.
Exhale.
Like clockwork, the loons started their frantic cackle. Haunting, piercing, comforting. I put on For Emma, Forever. Lost in British Columbia with no one to protect me, or rescue me... and no one to threaten me or stress me. Fading into the landscape.
We slept. When you fall asleep around 8pm , eight hours later puts you at 4am... we tried to sleep again. But the morning was more lovely, more quiet than the evening. I fixed Geronimo's breakfast, grabbed my leftover kheer and sat on a log by the waters edge.
By the time I was sipping my favorite cappucino and lolligagging around quiet Kalispell I began to feel more like my old self. Brightened and relieved with the world around me. I made it home... eventually. With everything cleaned up and sorted my favorite neighbors visited. Canadian Pumpkin IPA and leftover Malai Kofta for dinner, bedtime with the sun by 9.
And so morning comes again. There is Errin, coffee, fish oil for dogs, and a subdued clank of wind chimes. October is here. I am still raw, but alive and present.
I blame it on the loons.
This year's pilgrimage was riddled with challenges... as Ben calls them... opportunities.
Things got off to a rocky start with shifting the days of the trip around, excluding Errin, and for very different reasons excluding Ben. So I slept best I could, shoved my whole bed in the back of the C R-V (whole new appreciation for it's RV status now) and headed north.
There is something surprisingly pure in heartbreak. It crushes facades and exteriors, leaving you in a sedated raw place.
We stopped at West Shore for a walk and a drink. When we got to the border the Canadians asked if we were camping alone and who we were meeting up there... ha... good one... not this time. The road to the Provincial Park was closed. Two-thirds of the camping loop was closed, the remaining four spots taken. I drove to the picnic area and trailhead, backed up to the woods. There was a man there with a truck, small RV, and tarped off tent. Judging by the comfort of his two cats seemed he'd been there for awhile. That sleeping spot would have to do.
So I rested.
Surrounded by western red cedars, aspen, birch and balsam fir. Beyond the lush forest - the lizard range, Mount Fernie, The Three Sisters, The Ghost Rider. Rigid, stark, engulfing me in only this place. Morning came and I was slow- breakfast, walk, book, afternoon. I traipsed through town trying to find a plan B for the Blue Toque... there was no suitable substitute. Crammed into an old bank however was a brilliant interpretive display of the history of Fernie, I explored for awhile.
We tried to drive to a different Provincial Park on Crowsnest Pass... but it didn't have camping. We stayed long enough to eat an Indian feast, then hit the road.
Somewhat satisfied, somewhat disappointed.
Koocanusa - Kootenai + Canada+ USA = the lake surrounded by all three nations, why not. Three miles off the main road, just a ghost park. The water so still, the two other campers absent or quiet. We backed up to the lake. A near full moon rose, sunset cast a ballet of colors on the water, geese honked with whooshing wings, splashing into a landing. And all was lovely, quiet, and still.
Exhale.
Like clockwork, the loons started their frantic cackle. Haunting, piercing, comforting. I put on For Emma, Forever. Lost in British Columbia with no one to protect me, or rescue me... and no one to threaten me or stress me. Fading into the landscape.
We slept. When you fall asleep around 8pm , eight hours later puts you at 4am... we tried to sleep again. But the morning was more lovely, more quiet than the evening. I fixed Geronimo's breakfast, grabbed my leftover kheer and sat on a log by the waters edge.
By the time I was sipping my favorite cappucino and lolligagging around quiet Kalispell I began to feel more like my old self. Brightened and relieved with the world around me. I made it home... eventually. With everything cleaned up and sorted my favorite neighbors visited. Canadian Pumpkin IPA and leftover Malai Kofta for dinner, bedtime with the sun by 9.
And so morning comes again. There is Errin, coffee, fish oil for dogs, and a subdued clank of wind chimes. October is here. I am still raw, but alive and present.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
June 11
The full moon makes it's way above Mt. Setinel. Strong canyon winds ruffle spring-lush vegetation while a full river swishes by. The sprinkler water tinges off the chain-length fence and wind chimes bounce off a wooden center.
Nighttime at Creekside.
There is an energy in the air of change. Changing weather, changing landscapes... perhaps more.
It is our sixth month here. Geronimo, Errin and I are finding our groove, as I pray for whatever final piece will come together for the next six months. For now home is quiet, peaceful and lovely. With music, NPR, books, journaling, bikes in the living room. A simple beauty of space.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Nearly Night
In a Montana summer the days take their time to exhale.
Eventually releasing a long, deep, slow breath as evening hours float just before night.
The song birds have much to say, chattering alongside crickets.
Pink and purple light drains from freshwater.
The skies stretches deep teal while stars sleepily emerge.
The air shifts to a mountain chill, staying the slide of glaciers.
Rocky peaks and needled trees silhouette against a deepening blue horizon.
The day decrescendos to lapping water and nocturnal murmurs.
A wild quiet rejoicing.
Eventually releasing a long, deep, slow breath as evening hours float just before night.
The song birds have much to say, chattering alongside crickets.
Pink and purple light drains from freshwater.
The skies stretches deep teal while stars sleepily emerge.
The air shifts to a mountain chill, staying the slide of glaciers.
Rocky peaks and needled trees silhouette against a deepening blue horizon.
The day decrescendos to lapping water and nocturnal murmurs.
A wild quiet rejoicing.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Sinew
I miss
someone strong enough
to watch in wonder as I battle,
willing to scoop me into love as I break down wounded.
I love
someone joyful enough
to live a path set before them
thoughtful to pause and reconsider, asking me to join their journey.
I want
someone gracious enough
to weather seasons of unknown
with that cornerstone of commitment which binds two stubborn, broken... striving souls together.
someone strong enough
to watch in wonder as I battle,
willing to scoop me into love as I break down wounded.
I love
someone joyful enough
to live a path set before them
thoughtful to pause and reconsider, asking me to join their journey.
I want
someone gracious enough
to weather seasons of unknown
with that cornerstone of commitment which binds two stubborn, broken... striving souls together.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Lewisia rediviva
they are small and leafless
growing in gravelly, dry soil
that is pounded through the winter with harsh snows
and scorched in the summer with intense sunlight
they are bright with color
sustaining people here with bitter vittles
as communities collect them for feasts
and taste them during times of famine
they lie dormant in my planters
exposed to what the world will bring
and me, investing in the ways of this landscape
nearby these seeds, hoping in spring
growing in gravelly, dry soil
that is pounded through the winter with harsh snows
and scorched in the summer with intense sunlight
they are bright with color
sustaining people here with bitter vittles
as communities collect them for feasts
and taste them during times of famine
they lie dormant in my planters
exposed to what the world will bring
and me, investing in the ways of this landscape
nearby these seeds, hoping in spring
thoughtful spot
it is easy
to feel weightless
in a sea of glacial melt warmed by the sun
rolling with the wind funneled by moraines
it is peace
to let go
of the weights which keep us from deeply breathing
as waves lap perfect stones, clanking against each other.
i come this way often
because sometimes
I am more water than roots
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
blame it on the bluegrass
Like a firefly night
saturated with dew
a slight chill, a warm fire
I am drawn to you.
Faint resonance of strings
vibrating a wooded space
a pluck, a twang
a landscape singing grace.
Like a sleepy child
wandering towards repose
the day yawns
and I yearn to curl up with you.
saturated with dew
a slight chill, a warm fire
I am drawn to you.
Faint resonance of strings
vibrating a wooded space
a pluck, a twang
a landscape singing grace.
Like a sleepy child
wandering towards repose
the day yawns
and I yearn to curl up with you.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Drifts
It's quiet.
Soft.
The christmas lights are as bright as a match, in a very dark camp.
The Hellgate winds move cold, snow, our antlers sway in it.
Remarkable to have shelter at a moment like this.
Today, while working, I bundled up to explore, photograph, try to understand in a way which research will never reveal. To feel. Layers and layer and layers. Sun but still wicked cold - safe only by hiding bare skin from the wind. I wandered.
After footsteps, heartbeats, in wonder I made my way back to the entry point. Knee high snow, and a few yards away from the haven of my car. On the other side of the panels.... a man... smoking.
He asked me for a dollar, for the bus. I wasn't bluffing when I told him I had no money. I scanned the scene. External frame backpack, heeled boots like a fire worker, the back cuff worn from the bottom of his carhartt type pants. He sat on the bench, blocking the panel, and stuttered though not knowing where he was, where the bus was, where downtown was, and getting kicked out of the gas station.
ALL I could think was Sir - you need shelter.
I suggested warm buildings, places I thought someone would, could offer him something. he said Nah, no thanks. I guess I'll just stay right here.
Drunk I thought. Something. I encouraged him to get inside and wished him luck. Then something funny happened - he wished me luck too.
I got in my car and left, happy to have parked with an escape route. But worried about him.
A crossroads, a canyon, steeped in stories.
Last week - I was in the Emergency Room. A few days later I was dog sitting for my best friend. The next afternoon, her mother died. Phone calls. Logistics. My first casserole.
But somewhere in between I slid the glass door open, with three dogs watching, closed it behind me, and walked to the fence between the river and I. Frozen.
Wind. Cold. Quiet. Deep sadness. Deep thankfulness.
Saturated in the moment, I breathed, returned indoors.
It's still out there, all around, as we nestle in our homes. There is just enough light. Just enough warmth. Just enough food. Just enough love to continue propelling us though the night, into the next day.
Each of us needs these reminders - the yin to a yang.
Boreas. I know that wind. It brings a peace, a soothing about knowing, being, and doing what I need. You know where you need to be his voice echoes, you're getting there. You will get there.
As I lay me down to sleep, my heart is in my neighbor's apartment. With a best friend. Sorting and sifting though Life.
My wish is for a weary, lost, traveler to find solace and rest.
My hope is that tomorrow, we all understand, just enough, to bring light to that day and continue us all forward in our journeys.
But then again, a little luck sure couldn't hurt.
Soft.
The christmas lights are as bright as a match, in a very dark camp.
The Hellgate winds move cold, snow, our antlers sway in it.
Remarkable to have shelter at a moment like this.
Today, while working, I bundled up to explore, photograph, try to understand in a way which research will never reveal. To feel. Layers and layer and layers. Sun but still wicked cold - safe only by hiding bare skin from the wind. I wandered.
After footsteps, heartbeats, in wonder I made my way back to the entry point. Knee high snow, and a few yards away from the haven of my car. On the other side of the panels.... a man... smoking.
He asked me for a dollar, for the bus. I wasn't bluffing when I told him I had no money. I scanned the scene. External frame backpack, heeled boots like a fire worker, the back cuff worn from the bottom of his carhartt type pants. He sat on the bench, blocking the panel, and stuttered though not knowing where he was, where the bus was, where downtown was, and getting kicked out of the gas station.
ALL I could think was Sir - you need shelter.
I suggested warm buildings, places I thought someone would, could offer him something. he said Nah, no thanks. I guess I'll just stay right here.
Drunk I thought. Something. I encouraged him to get inside and wished him luck. Then something funny happened - he wished me luck too.
I got in my car and left, happy to have parked with an escape route. But worried about him.
A crossroads, a canyon, steeped in stories.
Last week - I was in the Emergency Room. A few days later I was dog sitting for my best friend. The next afternoon, her mother died. Phone calls. Logistics. My first casserole.
But somewhere in between I slid the glass door open, with three dogs watching, closed it behind me, and walked to the fence between the river and I. Frozen.
Wind. Cold. Quiet. Deep sadness. Deep thankfulness.
Saturated in the moment, I breathed, returned indoors.
It's still out there, all around, as we nestle in our homes. There is just enough light. Just enough warmth. Just enough food. Just enough love to continue propelling us though the night, into the next day.
Each of us needs these reminders - the yin to a yang.
Boreas. I know that wind. It brings a peace, a soothing about knowing, being, and doing what I need. You know where you need to be his voice echoes, you're getting there. You will get there.
As I lay me down to sleep, my heart is in my neighbor's apartment. With a best friend. Sorting and sifting though Life.
My wish is for a weary, lost, traveler to find solace and rest.
My hope is that tomorrow, we all understand, just enough, to bring light to that day and continue us all forward in our journeys.
But then again, a little luck sure couldn't hurt.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Faceplant: Dark, smooth, unfiltered, and malty.
It's a wild morning in the canyon. Our dog rope is frozen stiff and the Hellgate winds have drifted a carpet of snow in front of the sliding door. The air is cloudy with wind-displaced snow.
After the initial wake-up pee, Geronimo and I get back in bed. I woke up hot this morning... in an apartment we keep at 60 degrees thermostat.
Last night Dacia called me, looking for adventure. In the right place. She caught me eating BBQ pizza, drinking a local unflitered Doppel Weizen, dancing in the kitchen. I love that in a lot of ways our friendship is just as it was ten years ago. Me in the dorms, her in a little apartment, a quick call and we're in her car going who knows where around town. Only now I have Geronimo, she has Maya. Excellent additions in my humble opinion.
I'm extra giggly by the time I walk into her mom's apartment next door. Two 7.5 % beers... she loads my silly self and Maya into the van and we drive across town to her apartment. "I swept the snow off your car this morning! It was my little love note to you." she says. "But I didn't leave the apartment until 6pm today! Shoot!" We laugh. I'm almost sad purely for that gesture that I didn't drive to the office at 8am. What love.
We get to her place and she sends me to her storage unit to inspect a futon mattress her neighbor stashed in her unit. She needs it out for Maya's toys, I need to not feel the slats under my current futon mattress. We tromp through snow loading baby clothes for donation, my backpacking food, and a pretty nice futon mattress into the van. And drive back across town.
We talk about guys, work, our homes, our babies. We vent, we dream, we hope, and laugh until we nearly pee our pants.
I start singing and dancing with Maya. More more she giggles. Shy, but always charming she steals the show around my home.
We get this mattress into my room and I decide the best thing is to fold over my current mattress, with all my bedding still on it, and just... you know... sliiiiiide the second one under it. Yeah right. These floppy mattresses, weighted down with a Montana amount of blankets- Dacia has the foot, I have the head, and I yell for Errin, Miss Sporty Spice to bring her muscles in here and work out this issue. So Maya climbs on the bed and starts pushing. Sweet almost two year old Maya. What a mighty baby. Errin, of course is the secret ingredient, and somehow we work it all out - panting, laughing.
"Princess and the Pea!" Errin yells. =) Yep. But the real princess hops on before I can even try it out... and Geronimo stays in bed the rest of the night.
Dacia threatens that aunty Bekah will have to try to get Maya to sleep after all the excitement.... but I know I'm off the hook, because I don't have what My calls "milkyside".
Morning - Errin's already made coffee. I grab a cup, topped with some of Andie's extra creamy whip cream. Mo and I get back in the warmest, coziest, loveliest nest in all of Missoula.
Another beautiful day of blessing, love, laughter - and having just enough shelter from a howling wind to know just how lucky I am.
After the initial wake-up pee, Geronimo and I get back in bed. I woke up hot this morning... in an apartment we keep at 60 degrees thermostat.
Last night Dacia called me, looking for adventure. In the right place. She caught me eating BBQ pizza, drinking a local unflitered Doppel Weizen, dancing in the kitchen. I love that in a lot of ways our friendship is just as it was ten years ago. Me in the dorms, her in a little apartment, a quick call and we're in her car going who knows where around town. Only now I have Geronimo, she has Maya. Excellent additions in my humble opinion.
I'm extra giggly by the time I walk into her mom's apartment next door. Two 7.5 % beers... she loads my silly self and Maya into the van and we drive across town to her apartment. "I swept the snow off your car this morning! It was my little love note to you." she says. "But I didn't leave the apartment until 6pm today! Shoot!" We laugh. I'm almost sad purely for that gesture that I didn't drive to the office at 8am. What love.
We get to her place and she sends me to her storage unit to inspect a futon mattress her neighbor stashed in her unit. She needs it out for Maya's toys, I need to not feel the slats under my current futon mattress. We tromp through snow loading baby clothes for donation, my backpacking food, and a pretty nice futon mattress into the van. And drive back across town.
We talk about guys, work, our homes, our babies. We vent, we dream, we hope, and laugh until we nearly pee our pants.
I start singing and dancing with Maya. More more she giggles. Shy, but always charming she steals the show around my home.
We get this mattress into my room and I decide the best thing is to fold over my current mattress, with all my bedding still on it, and just... you know... sliiiiiide the second one under it. Yeah right. These floppy mattresses, weighted down with a Montana amount of blankets- Dacia has the foot, I have the head, and I yell for Errin, Miss Sporty Spice to bring her muscles in here and work out this issue. So Maya climbs on the bed and starts pushing. Sweet almost two year old Maya. What a mighty baby. Errin, of course is the secret ingredient, and somehow we work it all out - panting, laughing.
"Princess and the Pea!" Errin yells. =) Yep. But the real princess hops on before I can even try it out... and Geronimo stays in bed the rest of the night.
Dacia threatens that aunty Bekah will have to try to get Maya to sleep after all the excitement.... but I know I'm off the hook, because I don't have what My calls "milkyside".
Morning - Errin's already made coffee. I grab a cup, topped with some of Andie's extra creamy whip cream. Mo and I get back in the warmest, coziest, loveliest nest in all of Missoula.
Another beautiful day of blessing, love, laughter - and having just enough shelter from a howling wind to know just how lucky I am.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast
“Alice laughed. 'There's no use trying,' she said. 'One can't believe impossible things.'
I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast".
~Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
I have loved the Alice tales since I can remember hearing stories. Riddles, wit, nonsense, dreaming, curiosity, adventure, poetry... I love them.
Having caught a nasty illness, I spent most of last week in bed; while there I watched Tim Burton's Alice and Disney's Alice... because... why not?
Having moved into a new, completely unfurnished apartment recently... with other... non furniture nomads... I've been on pintrest a lot, dreaming about how to frugally and artfully arrange my new home.
Some of my best friends in Missoula have been visiting a church they enjoy, so I've been tagging along. We sit in a large space with a lot of strangers, feeling the comfort of camaraderie, and listen to the pastor get all fired up about how beautiful the Christian world view is.
In a way, the Bible is a fairy tale, as Alice is, as Cinderella and King Arthur are. And why shouldn't it be? For stories stitch our being together. Words that mean something to us, stir our souls, shape the world we believe we're living in. Epic tales of adventure, hope ... impossible things happening. And we, as students of stories, begin to believe this adventure, hope, impossible things.... miracles... can happen to us too! Our very own story.
I believe them all. I know this makes me silly, full of nonsense to many people. But let me tell you... in my near thirty years of life, what others find impossible, often becomes possible for me. Miracles. Blessing. And I am nothing but awed and grateful in the wonder of it all.
Recent events.... Six impossible things ....
1. I found dog-friendly, affordable housing and community to share it with in the only city I wanted to live in!
2. My new home is on the river, in a gorgeous mountain canyon, across the grass from my best friend's Mom and now we see each other often!
3. I have a new job where I'm paid to learn and share about river recovery and restoration, and a little independent contracting on the side for an organization I'm super excited about.
4. After ten years of purging my possessions every move to only keep what fits in my car... I'm now the proud new owner of a truck and trailer full of furniture a best friend needed to unload.... and all it cost me were phone calls, emails, catching up with old friends and sharing chili dinner with the movers/ new friends.
5. My longest, dearest friends in Missoula have all sat in Church with me! And hopefully will again soon!
6. Last year was hard on Geronimo and the CR-V. They're both hanging tough, doing well, carrying me through the beginning of yet another life chapter.
I've never read much formally on the power of positivity... but I know this...
Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
~Romans 5, ESV Bible
Hope, does not put us to shame. It's all possible. My cup overflows, my heart could burst.
So... the only question is - what have you been practicing? I recommend believing impossible things before breakfast... and using the rest of the day to bring the dream into your reality.
I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast".
~Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
I have loved the Alice tales since I can remember hearing stories. Riddles, wit, nonsense, dreaming, curiosity, adventure, poetry... I love them.
Having caught a nasty illness, I spent most of last week in bed; while there I watched Tim Burton's Alice and Disney's Alice... because... why not?
Having moved into a new, completely unfurnished apartment recently... with other... non furniture nomads... I've been on pintrest a lot, dreaming about how to frugally and artfully arrange my new home.
Some of my best friends in Missoula have been visiting a church they enjoy, so I've been tagging along. We sit in a large space with a lot of strangers, feeling the comfort of camaraderie, and listen to the pastor get all fired up about how beautiful the Christian world view is.
In a way, the Bible is a fairy tale, as Alice is, as Cinderella and King Arthur are. And why shouldn't it be? For stories stitch our being together. Words that mean something to us, stir our souls, shape the world we believe we're living in. Epic tales of adventure, hope ... impossible things happening. And we, as students of stories, begin to believe this adventure, hope, impossible things.... miracles... can happen to us too! Our very own story.
I believe them all. I know this makes me silly, full of nonsense to many people. But let me tell you... in my near thirty years of life, what others find impossible, often becomes possible for me. Miracles. Blessing. And I am nothing but awed and grateful in the wonder of it all.
Recent events.... Six impossible things ....
1. I found dog-friendly, affordable housing and community to share it with in the only city I wanted to live in!
2. My new home is on the river, in a gorgeous mountain canyon, across the grass from my best friend's Mom and now we see each other often!
3. I have a new job where I'm paid to learn and share about river recovery and restoration, and a little independent contracting on the side for an organization I'm super excited about.
4. After ten years of purging my possessions every move to only keep what fits in my car... I'm now the proud new owner of a truck and trailer full of furniture a best friend needed to unload.... and all it cost me were phone calls, emails, catching up with old friends and sharing chili dinner with the movers/ new friends.
5. My longest, dearest friends in Missoula have all sat in Church with me! And hopefully will again soon!
6. Last year was hard on Geronimo and the CR-V. They're both hanging tough, doing well, carrying me through the beginning of yet another life chapter.
I've never read much formally on the power of positivity... but I know this...
Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
~Romans 5, ESV Bible
Hope, does not put us to shame. It's all possible. My cup overflows, my heart could burst.
So... the only question is - what have you been practicing? I recommend believing impossible things before breakfast... and using the rest of the day to bring the dream into your reality.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
December 25
The lights around the tree used to move between colors - casting bough shadows on the ceiling. Tonight they glow a steady, constant, icey white.
After a day of wrapping paper, homemade treats, and what makes a house a home... I lay down under a perfectly clear night sky.
And feel less alone.
Light in the darkness.
This year I flew across the country and spent Christmas as an only child. As a consolation, my parents offered to do whatever I wanted to do all day long. Too heartbroken to leave the house or see anyone, I quietly rested in an echo chamber of Christmases past. Still, soaking up this strange new thing.
The theme of my December has been believing in Christmas miracles. Hoping and praying that magic could come true.
I'm not really sure what magic is, other than having a tiny place in a constantly spinning universe. A way to see the stars and have cold night air sting the airway.
I know that others see things differently. They keep their blinds closed, locked into a den of their own definition of the universe.
I watch light.
My chest aches.
After candle-lit Silent Night, I opened Christmas Eve pajamas. And burst into lonesome tears. For the first time, I left nothing by the fireplace for Santa. No birthday cake for Jesus. Morning came, ready or not, and Christmas without them came and went.
Tonight my dreams are dormant. My place is less than whole in each world. My heart is heavy. The world spins on. The stars sparkle. The tree glows.
Some moments are unrecoverable. Since September, that reality is palpable. With heavy eyes, I release today to the past.
After a day of wrapping paper, homemade treats, and what makes a house a home... I lay down under a perfectly clear night sky.
And feel less alone.
Light in the darkness.
This year I flew across the country and spent Christmas as an only child. As a consolation, my parents offered to do whatever I wanted to do all day long. Too heartbroken to leave the house or see anyone, I quietly rested in an echo chamber of Christmases past. Still, soaking up this strange new thing.
The theme of my December has been believing in Christmas miracles. Hoping and praying that magic could come true.
I'm not really sure what magic is, other than having a tiny place in a constantly spinning universe. A way to see the stars and have cold night air sting the airway.
I know that others see things differently. They keep their blinds closed, locked into a den of their own definition of the universe.
I watch light.
My chest aches.
After candle-lit Silent Night, I opened Christmas Eve pajamas. And burst into lonesome tears. For the first time, I left nothing by the fireplace for Santa. No birthday cake for Jesus. Morning came, ready or not, and Christmas without them came and went.
Tonight my dreams are dormant. My place is less than whole in each world. My heart is heavy. The world spins on. The stars sparkle. The tree glows.
Some moments are unrecoverable. Since September, that reality is palpable. With heavy eyes, I release today to the past.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
The Snow Glow
The dryer hums. The night sky glows pink in street lights. Steady snowfall quiets the night.
It has been frigid here nearly two weeks.
Things Montana winter teaches me:
What scarves are for.
How to coax a car to work below single digit temperatures.
When it's too cold for dogs to play outside.
How quickly digits can be frost bitten.
When I need "arctic" rated footwear.
The diamond sparkle of frost on a mountainside.
How a lake ices over.
That sometimes it is too cold to snow.
To rest.
I've been doing laundry all evening, in the cozy comfort of my little house. By Friday my plants, bedding, and toiletries will be packed and shuffled into storage. The Road.
Motion.
Wonder. Move. Breathe.
My thru hiking mantra repeats itself again- this time, with many lingering questions marks and many great hopes.
Arabian Dance, and other Nutcracker songs. Soon I will introduce a best friend to one of my favorite Christmas festivities - Nutcracker ballet. I think of the magic of the dance, the music, these moments. I tell her we'll decorate a Christmas tree this weekend.
Home.
The journey to find it deepening at each bend in the river.
I will help her build a new home, as I step away from mine into the unknown. She will welcome me into her home as we both navigate new chapters.
As we pack, unpack, each going through these rapids... snow keeps falling.
Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhh.
Breathing. Sighing. Exhaling.
The panic, anxiety, fear.
Shhhhhhhhh.
Under a blanket of clouds nestled into a Rocky Mountain Valley, all is well with our souls. We are warm, loved, and fed. We have enough. Though we dream. Because we believe in the unbelievable... six impossible things before breakfast.
I tell her everything will get better. I tell her for both of us. As the Nutcracker lures and snow settles us, we both begin to nestle into that.
Some holiday, I will decorate a tree in my home. I will have people I love sit around a table, surrounded by walls I decorated, feasting. The unanswered questions won't feel SO big. Wonder, move, breathe, won't include a storage unit and a dog kennel.
We will be home. Our cups will overflow.
In the mean time, my heart rests in the lovely glow of a snowy night. And heart-pulling piano notes.
It has been frigid here nearly two weeks.
Things Montana winter teaches me:
What scarves are for.
How to coax a car to work below single digit temperatures.
When it's too cold for dogs to play outside.
How quickly digits can be frost bitten.
When I need "arctic" rated footwear.
The diamond sparkle of frost on a mountainside.
How a lake ices over.
That sometimes it is too cold to snow.
To rest.
I've been doing laundry all evening, in the cozy comfort of my little house. By Friday my plants, bedding, and toiletries will be packed and shuffled into storage. The Road.
Motion.
Wonder. Move. Breathe.
My thru hiking mantra repeats itself again- this time, with many lingering questions marks and many great hopes.
Arabian Dance, and other Nutcracker songs. Soon I will introduce a best friend to one of my favorite Christmas festivities - Nutcracker ballet. I think of the magic of the dance, the music, these moments. I tell her we'll decorate a Christmas tree this weekend.
Home.
The journey to find it deepening at each bend in the river.
I will help her build a new home, as I step away from mine into the unknown. She will welcome me into her home as we both navigate new chapters.
As we pack, unpack, each going through these rapids... snow keeps falling.
Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhh.
Breathing. Sighing. Exhaling.
The panic, anxiety, fear.
Shhhhhhhhh.
Under a blanket of clouds nestled into a Rocky Mountain Valley, all is well with our souls. We are warm, loved, and fed. We have enough. Though we dream. Because we believe in the unbelievable... six impossible things before breakfast.
I tell her everything will get better. I tell her for both of us. As the Nutcracker lures and snow settles us, we both begin to nestle into that.
Some holiday, I will decorate a tree in my home. I will have people I love sit around a table, surrounded by walls I decorated, feasting. The unanswered questions won't feel SO big. Wonder, move, breathe, won't include a storage unit and a dog kennel.
We will be home. Our cups will overflow.
In the mean time, my heart rests in the lovely glow of a snowy night. And heart-pulling piano notes.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Molding
I'm in my Grandmother's house in West Virginia. A small town on the cumberland river, once hopping with railroad and coal. But my whole life it is a quiet once-was town. That I never hear enough stories of, and can never understand as much as I would like to.
Four hours drive, through winding mountain roads to get there. And each year I start the drive from spacious valleys of southern Appalachia wondering... do I know where to turn?
Instinctually, I do.
As a wanderer, I take comfort and pride in sensing how to get places. Four hours. So many drives to this tiny, mountain town that grew my parents and their families.
It's November. The air is damp and cold. The house is warm. Hot with cooking. Cozy in a way that only a Grandmother's house can be. I score the end bedroom, with the floor vent over the kitchen. Smells. Conversations. I don't miss a thing. Crawling in bed I peek through a barely pulled curtain... snow. I sleep.
Each year, for the past 6, Thanksgiving dinner grows to include more and more sides. Sure, these "non-meat" items have been cooked with meat... it's my Grandma for land's sake! But they aren't "meat". A small attempt, what feels like a huge gesture to keep me eating delicious things on my favorite holiday. Aunts sneak me birthday cards. Geronimo steals homemade bread off the kitchen table. The McDonalds talk. And talk. And Talk.
My Grandma cooks, cleans, cuts into all of the pies lining the piano top, countertops, and most other surface space around the 4 story duplex. She's cooked every persons' favorite pie. Homemade meringue. She bakes multiples of chocolate, cherry, whatever she thinks people will want to take home. She takes extra pie crust and bakes pinwheels. Sometimes there is homemade "hard tac". Always there is a box of Russell Stover's chocolates.
Grandma's bedroom is painted a minty green. She has gauzy, sheer curtains; in the day light the whole room... glows. Her nightstand has a very large study bible, and lots of devotionals. And a pen. And notes. And glasses. In the night she will get up to use the bathroom... I always hope I don't run into her, she probably won't have the door shut.
I used to stay with different relatives. Aunts, cousins, different grandparents. But the more I understood who I am... the more I wanted to stay here. With Grandma. Someone who welcomes me any time I can make it to her world. Someone who supports me in love no matter what crazy idea I have- college in Montana? She'll send me a card every holiday. She'll cross the country, using a walker in airports, to see me graduate a Grizzly... three times. She was bored, sure, but she was there.
To know, understand, and love someone despite their quirks is one of life's greatest miracles. And for ME to feel that way... at home and loved... I only wanted to sleep there.
The morning after the feast - we wake early. This year my sister and I setting alarm clocks, seeing Grandma in the kitchen, rather than being shook awake by matriarchs in the family. We dress, she drives, and we're at Chik fil a. Like so many other Fridays after Thanksgiving the past two decades. Sarah and I scrounge the doorbusters and sale racks. Grandma sits on the bench. She isn't barging into the dressing room to test our 12 year old bra size, but still offers opinions on fashions she finds... "drab". She is tired. This year is different. But she watches us, and is happy.
We share our treasures over pizza lunch. And we go back to her home. I heat up egg noodles she's made extra of, so I can gorge myself on a favorite thanksgiving side. When we eventually leave her town, I tell her how much I love her. She tells me the same. And we hug. Finally I thank her so much for all the food. For everything "You didn't even eat any turkey!" she scolds me. "Shame on you."
...
A year later is different. There is no small town teeming with stories of family childhood. There is no Chik fil a. The pies come from a box. My mom presents a beautiful table of food in my childhood hometown... vegetables, bread, meat, and I eat fish at this point, so she even makes fish.
A small collective of immediate family sit down, all I feel is tears.
...
It has taken over five years to figure out how to navigate my favorite holiday without my favorite person. I have hiked over 2,000 miles with our November birthstone, and slept hundreds of nights with the quilt her mother made... final gifts she left to me.
...
The first November after her death, I returned to her house. After a season in the market it had sold, was closing soon. I packed my car, and Geronimo, and stumbled through each instinctual turn of the drive, 4 hours.
We opened the door to a dark house. Furniture, gone. People, elsewhere. Refrigerator, empty. I poured my four-legged child a bowl of food. I set up my backpacking bed in the middle of the floor. On the carpet. In the middle room. Where so many of us sat around a Thanksgiving table, together, for so many years.
With morning light, I walked. Ran my hands of the molding of the doorways. The carvings in the stair banister. The steepness of 4 flights of stairs no lady with crumbling vertebrae should have walked. The glow of a mint green walls. A very quiet walk. Anything but empty.
...
To know true love, is to overflow. It is a feeling not from this confusing broken world we reside in. It is safety, understanding, honesty, dreaming, nurturing. Love- remains.
Others have left this world. Others have entered it. Others have moved, married, separated. Families and the people in them are but one constant - dynamic.
...
Seven years after that snowy Thanksgiving trip, I am a world away. I dine with the extended family of my Montana travels. There are teenagers, babies, siblings, dogs, food. I am NOT in Keyser, West Virginia.
Quietly, that feeling surfaces.
A warm home. A heart that knows, understands and supports me through the years. A full belly. A heartfelt goodbye hug. Love.
I drive across my Montana hometown, eventually settling into a mattress on the floor of a basement bedroom. Geronimo puts his weight against me, paws the wall with dream running, and snores. I look at the molding around the windows and door frames; realizing, it's all still there.
The woman. The haven. The smells. That love now lives in me, because of her. Even if it is a memory, it is one embedded into my being.
I miss my Grandmother. There are so many times I need the grounded roots she brought to my life. Tears come, memories flood faster, but ultimately I know... she gave me everything I needed for as long as she possibly could. She grew in me a legacy of love.
And I am forever Thankful.
Instinctually, I do.
As a wanderer, I take comfort and pride in sensing how to get places. Four hours. So many drives to this tiny, mountain town that grew my parents and their families.
It's November. The air is damp and cold. The house is warm. Hot with cooking. Cozy in a way that only a Grandmother's house can be. I score the end bedroom, with the floor vent over the kitchen. Smells. Conversations. I don't miss a thing. Crawling in bed I peek through a barely pulled curtain... snow. I sleep.
Each year, for the past 6, Thanksgiving dinner grows to include more and more sides. Sure, these "non-meat" items have been cooked with meat... it's my Grandma for land's sake! But they aren't "meat". A small attempt, what feels like a huge gesture to keep me eating delicious things on my favorite holiday. Aunts sneak me birthday cards. Geronimo steals homemade bread off the kitchen table. The McDonalds talk. And talk. And Talk.
My Grandma cooks, cleans, cuts into all of the pies lining the piano top, countertops, and most other surface space around the 4 story duplex. She's cooked every persons' favorite pie. Homemade meringue. She bakes multiples of chocolate, cherry, whatever she thinks people will want to take home. She takes extra pie crust and bakes pinwheels. Sometimes there is homemade "hard tac". Always there is a box of Russell Stover's chocolates.
Grandma's bedroom is painted a minty green. She has gauzy, sheer curtains; in the day light the whole room... glows. Her nightstand has a very large study bible, and lots of devotionals. And a pen. And notes. And glasses. In the night she will get up to use the bathroom... I always hope I don't run into her, she probably won't have the door shut.
I used to stay with different relatives. Aunts, cousins, different grandparents. But the more I understood who I am... the more I wanted to stay here. With Grandma. Someone who welcomes me any time I can make it to her world. Someone who supports me in love no matter what crazy idea I have- college in Montana? She'll send me a card every holiday. She'll cross the country, using a walker in airports, to see me graduate a Grizzly... three times. She was bored, sure, but she was there.
To know, understand, and love someone despite their quirks is one of life's greatest miracles. And for ME to feel that way... at home and loved... I only wanted to sleep there.
The morning after the feast - we wake early. This year my sister and I setting alarm clocks, seeing Grandma in the kitchen, rather than being shook awake by matriarchs in the family. We dress, she drives, and we're at Chik fil a. Like so many other Fridays after Thanksgiving the past two decades. Sarah and I scrounge the doorbusters and sale racks. Grandma sits on the bench. She isn't barging into the dressing room to test our 12 year old bra size, but still offers opinions on fashions she finds... "drab". She is tired. This year is different. But she watches us, and is happy.
We share our treasures over pizza lunch. And we go back to her home. I heat up egg noodles she's made extra of, so I can gorge myself on a favorite thanksgiving side. When we eventually leave her town, I tell her how much I love her. She tells me the same. And we hug. Finally I thank her so much for all the food. For everything "You didn't even eat any turkey!" she scolds me. "Shame on you."
...
A year later is different. There is no small town teeming with stories of family childhood. There is no Chik fil a. The pies come from a box. My mom presents a beautiful table of food in my childhood hometown... vegetables, bread, meat, and I eat fish at this point, so she even makes fish.
A small collective of immediate family sit down, all I feel is tears.
...
It has taken over five years to figure out how to navigate my favorite holiday without my favorite person. I have hiked over 2,000 miles with our November birthstone, and slept hundreds of nights with the quilt her mother made... final gifts she left to me.
...
The first November after her death, I returned to her house. After a season in the market it had sold, was closing soon. I packed my car, and Geronimo, and stumbled through each instinctual turn of the drive, 4 hours.
We opened the door to a dark house. Furniture, gone. People, elsewhere. Refrigerator, empty. I poured my four-legged child a bowl of food. I set up my backpacking bed in the middle of the floor. On the carpet. In the middle room. Where so many of us sat around a Thanksgiving table, together, for so many years.
With morning light, I walked. Ran my hands of the molding of the doorways. The carvings in the stair banister. The steepness of 4 flights of stairs no lady with crumbling vertebrae should have walked. The glow of a mint green walls. A very quiet walk. Anything but empty.
...
To know true love, is to overflow. It is a feeling not from this confusing broken world we reside in. It is safety, understanding, honesty, dreaming, nurturing. Love- remains.
Others have left this world. Others have entered it. Others have moved, married, separated. Families and the people in them are but one constant - dynamic.
...
Seven years after that snowy Thanksgiving trip, I am a world away. I dine with the extended family of my Montana travels. There are teenagers, babies, siblings, dogs, food. I am NOT in Keyser, West Virginia.
Quietly, that feeling surfaces.
A warm home. A heart that knows, understands and supports me through the years. A full belly. A heartfelt goodbye hug. Love.
I drive across my Montana hometown, eventually settling into a mattress on the floor of a basement bedroom. Geronimo puts his weight against me, paws the wall with dream running, and snores. I look at the molding around the windows and door frames; realizing, it's all still there.
The woman. The haven. The smells. That love now lives in me, because of her. Even if it is a memory, it is one embedded into my being.
I miss my Grandmother. There are so many times I need the grounded roots she brought to my life. Tears come, memories flood faster, but ultimately I know... she gave me everything I needed for as long as she possibly could. She grew in me a legacy of love.
And I am forever Thankful.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)