nouns make verbs

different kites.

2012-01-18T14:16:00.001-08:00

Image by Photodisc.

Collin asked me if I had any good memories of Mac. The question took me by surprise. Did I?

Actually, I did. One time, he took me outside to fly a kite. The kite string snapped and we jumped in his rattle-trap Chevy with the bulldog sticker on the steering wheel and we drove over by the lake, where the sailboats are docked, laughing as we followed its deliriously free twists and turns. Laughing! Oh, how quickly little girls forgive so they can laugh. Sure enough, we found the kite. It was lodged in a tree, too high to retrieve. The fun was over, but I had seen in those quick moments, deep inside of him, the man God had meant for him to be.

The kite stayed there in that tree for a long time, and I often craned my neck to see it as we drove by with the other Mac.

thanksgiving morning.

2011-11-24T20:02:00.000-08:00

2 Corinthians 7:10

2011-09-29T07:58:00.000-07:00

Photo by Joanot.

The places that used to fit me
cannot hold the things I've learned.

My idols are tombs
and sepulchres
filled with the dust of
powerful men.

This is all
curious to me.

Sorrow from the Lord,
repentance
without regret

what He is showing me.

2011-09-28T20:58:00.001-07:00

Photo by Teri Dixon.

The problem is, I actually enjoy sinning.
(enjoy?)

P.S.
One time I went to a conference for people working in ministry and the speaker asked us all to stand when he mentioned the area we suffer temptation. I stood when he said "approval worship." Then in order to be funny he said, "Let's all give these folks a round of applause because it took them so much courage to stand up, considering their struggle." Everyone laughed, including me. But secretly I worshiped the approval of that moment and Oh, God of Jacob, that is what we are dealing with.

the barrenness of Your mercy and a fast.

2011-09-27T14:07:00.000-07:00

Photo by Micael Carlsson.

My will is the dove

finding no rest for the sole of its foot;

it must return to the Ark.

a very long stream of consciousness poem.

2011-09-26T21:02:00.001-07:00

Hidden inside me is a secret.
I look straight
But I'm broken-
At least
I'm
Crooked.
And I might be taller if it weren't for my secret
By maybe two whole inches.
I want everything to be just so.
I want everything to be clean from the inside out.
I don't want to be a whitewashed tomb.
I want God to straighten everything out,
Now.
I don't want steel rods
I want to go back in time
And find that stray gene
And make it never happen.
Just so.
Just
So
I
Can what?
Be perfect?
Be a god?
My face is aging.
My body is aging.
Despite the rolled eyes of people older than me
The signs are there and death creeps in.
Death shows me my idols.
My idols have rust and decay.
I am a poor god.
I am not worth worshiping.
I am seeing my heart and seeing that indeed
It is desperately wicked
And faded like a carnival in the early morning light.
Carnivals and prostitutes need rouge to cover their ashen
Faces.
Oh Lord
Who have I in heaven but you?
Who do I desire above you?
I look in the mirror and see a crown.
It is a caricature of what should be
Bloated and mocking, exaggerated, empty.
My enemy whispered take it-
I took it.
Its yours
Actually

riddle.

2011-09-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

hides behind me from the sun

waxes long when work is done

in twilight hours grows quite free

at morning must come back to me

insomnia pops.

2011-08-31T13:31:00.000-07:00

Photo by Stanislav Solntsev

Late summer moon peeks

at music playing, and light

It is still August

methinks.

2011-08-29T13:41:00.001-07:00

I am a writer's cat
I sit
Amongst the flotsam and jetsam of her mind
And strain to catch a little bit
Of what she leaves behind

Her words are prey and I a beast
Agile
Lithe
Fiercely
Orange
(With stripes)

Stalk the endings of her sentences
and
also

Mice

a (wo)man without a country.

2011-08-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

In this piebald world

I grievously find myself

Quite without coffee

for this day.

2011-08-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

What an oversight!
No one told me, when you're old,
That you like yourself.

one thing all photographs have in common.

2011-08-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

This is a photo of Olivia

Who is looking at the channel

And a ship

And (you don't know this but I do)

A jellyfish

This is also a picture of me

Seeing Olivia

Seeing what I wanted

You to see

in focus, vertical.

2011-08-16T21:43:00.000-07:00

This morning I think

God told me in His soft way

That I talk too much

for yesterday.

2011-08-16T21:40:00.000-07:00

Kristen told me I should write every day.
So,
Well then-
Okay.

wills point.

2011-08-14T15:17:00.000-07:00

Photo by Richard Nowitz.

Rainy August day

While mowing the median

Lawn guy is smoking

why I like Galveston.

2011-08-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I don't know how to explain my feelings for Galveston. Every single time I go to the beach I face some kind of impalement threat from a rusty hook or fish bone (and once a hypodermic syringe); there are no seashells; gazing off into the distant horizon rewards you with oil rigs and ugly steamers and big albatross cruise liners.

The water is brown and sandy and filled with stinky co-dependent seaweed.

The houses are largely worn out. Everything in Galveston just seems faded and exhausted, like an old diner waitress on her cigarette break. People push and shove and laugh at things that aren't funny and chew gum and walk barefoot in public places. Beauty mixes with graffiti and candy bar wrappers and it makes you sad in an offhand distracted way, kind of like the cheap souvenirs make you sad even though you buy them.

But

maybe it's a sense of ownership?
or belonging?
or maybe it's just a strange fraternity that has grown up between myself and this island.

Anyway I get a strange electric thrill when I see the signs: Woodys, Houston, Galveston in green highway markers.
Omega Bay and the Causeway.
Seawall Boulevard and streets named peculiar things like Mechanic and P1/2.
The cemeteries great with age and heavy with history, and marble.
The seagulls calling for something, empty and needful.

I like the refinery glittering at night in Texas City. I like the dolphins jumping merrily beside the Bolivar Ferry, piloted by men who never make eye contact because they're thinking how bored they are of going back and forth, back and forth. I like how I-45 tapers and changes, as it rolls toward the end of the land. It becomes Broadway, where the houses stand like turn-of-the-century matrons, a little worse for the wear but still stately in their genteel hubris. They have lived through hurricanes and just maybe you have not, they say as they stare at you over pince-nez.

I also like stealing a few moments to sit respectfully in the dunes and close my eyes and be there, just there, next to the sea but not in it.

And sitting in the turf (my second favorite place to be), digging my hands into the wet sand, pulling up little clams and watching them dig anxiously back where they once were.

ways running is like life.

2011-07-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you see things that are really cool when you least expect it and then they are gone, so you have to always be watching.

When the new wears off your new shoes, it's kind of sad.

When the new wears off your new shoes, they become real.

Uphill doesn't last forever.

for when I prosecute myself later.

2011-05-20T09:12:00.001-07:00

Rain is better with galoshes and a rainbow umbrella.

This morning I paused to take in the sounds:

Will and Norah splashing
laughing
saying things only preschoolers can say with serious expressions
the sounds of a nearby bubblebath in progress;

the ticking and whooshing white noises from
dishwashers
washing machines and dryers;

the patter and method of late spring rain;

the soft movements and sighs of a content puppy
upside down and all four paws in the air
balanced just-so against the couch;

and finally, mothers' hands
(almost)
silently folding towels still warm for babies to use.

in love and maybe forgot I was there.

2011-04-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

Ralph: You know what? I love you, Momma.

Mollie: I love you too, RL. Forever.

Ralph: What?

Mollie, louder: I said I love you forever!

Ralph: I know. We love each other forever.

words.

2011-03-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

Morning mends pettiness.

Thank you opens doors.

Please picks up toys and cleans floors.

Love you breaks down walls.

Forgive me helps you see.

Help me yokes and sets you free.

2011-03-24T21:41:00.000-07:00

Our Father in Heaven,
Thank you for six
And provision for seven.

apologist

2011-03-22T19:56:00.000-07:00

star and moon in velvet height
shine because the Sun has light

in the case of unsuccessful potty training, there are basically two types of kids.

2011-01-12T15:12:00.000-08:00

The First Type of Kid, once the mother has tried everything else and feels quite desperate enough to attempt the "completely naked from the waist down" method, will notice the pressure of an impending bowel movement, realize he has no pants to poop in, and run to the toilet as a last resort. After several of these moments, this kid will have a paradigm shift, finally understanding that nothing bad will happen if he poops on the potty. He will be successful and marry into money.

The Second Type of Kid will poop right on the floor and keep playing with his trains. He will always wear a diaper. Always.

We're about to find out which type of kid Will is...

i dunno.

2011-01-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

Photo by Ekaterina Nosenko.

It doesn't snow often in Texas

But when it does

People freak out.

I didn't have my camera

So instead I'll paint a picture for you

Of the woman I want to be when I am much older-

A woman who would probably stand in a field looking dreamy

Like the one above:

She was walking across a parking lot

In the snow

Not freaking out

Pushing a cart filled with groceries

In a snappy houndstooth coat

With a matching tam o'shanter, and

An expression of ambivalence, despite the weather, on her face

And a bouquet of bright yellow flowers, wrapped in green paper

And tied with a ribbon, by her purse.

I dunno. I just liked her.

thinker.

2011-01-03T21:36:00.001-08:00

Photo by Alexa Lambros.

Little girls who stare
Out of windows see a lot
Of life going by

a step behind.

2010-12-29T20:15:00.000-08:00

I only moderately like being a step behind clients. This little gal had very little use for me, as she is communicating here. However,

I like being a step behind God. (For some reason it doesn't bother me that I don't understand him fully. I would be much more worried if I did.)

Two things have been on my mind lately: a baby and a plane. First the baby. A loved one several years back wound up pregnant and gave the baby up for adoption, tough and wrenching for everyone involved. I had personal feelings about it that remained unspoken; a trusting soulish sadness maybe, a longing or some other achy thing; anyway it was not my decision to make and so there was some peace in that.

Someone said something about the adoptive parents like, "...and they had been praying for years and years for this baby." Just a tail end of a conversation not even meant for me.

But they had been praying.

For years and years.

And since it came to pass that this baby was their child now, it was obviously God's will that this child was the answer to their prayer (the one they had been praying years and years).

But this baby wasn't even dreamt of when they started praying.

In fact the biological parents were just little kids when they started praying.

***

The other thing is a plane. Isn't it weird, really? You sit there, still, and a bit uncomfortable, feeling like nothing is happening. And yet you are moving hundreds of miles an hour and your landscape is new beneath you, rushing and exciting and alien, only waiting to be discovered at a time and altitude when it is no longer unsafe. (Sometimes you can glimpse a bit of it through the window.)

daily, I do.

2010-12-27T21:09:00.000-08:00

On one hand, there's Leah, whose beautiful soft eyes were full of hope and plans

They sparkled, and her shoes did

And it was true even though it was trite,

That everything was perfect on that day.

Then there was Bronghia who wasn't even there

When I packed her dishes into sad little boxes,

Those dishes that should have been part of

The sharing and clinking of forks and laughing of their dinners.

Then there is me, and my thinking and sweeping and folding and dreaming and early morning trees, and loving each of the five

and daily I do.

howard's end.

2010-10-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

Photo by Irene Lamprakou

He's gone, but where to?
We accept that line too well--
Really now, we do.

hi. oh, and also recent anecdotes.

2010-10-08T07:20:00.000-07:00

First of all, do you forgive me for being gone so much? I don't even have a good excuse. I guess I just go through longish periods where I don't have anything to say. And I think if you don't have anything to say, you should shut up.

This little guy is my cousin. Isn't he yummy? This is my favorite picture of him ever.

The other day I was walking down the street and this parking lot bird was dragging a piece of bread he had found. So we were walking the same direction out of pure coincidence, but he was pretty sure (I judged from his body language) that it was not coincidental; in fact I got the impression that he thought I wanted his piece of bread. His handling of the bread became panicked and jerky. He tried (I think) to give me dirty looks. I tried to explain that I was actually about to go get some Subway, but he didn't understand. It was weird.

That isn't the only time I've had a weird moment with a bird. Years ago I was driving at the exact same speed as a bird was flying, and at one point we made eye contact. It was super awkward.

I shoot weddings a lot now and I put my brides' cell numbers in my phone. One of the bride's initials are MOD so I put her in there that way. So when I called my mom at 8am on a Sunday morning to ask her a lot of questions about crock-potting a pot roast, I may have accidentally hit MOD instead of MOM. I may have done that. Just saying it's a possibility.

Okay, here is the last thing. I was working in a little cafe on my laptop with my external hard drive out and connected and all my papers everywhere. I had to go the restroom, but I didn't like the thought of leaving all my stuff, even for a second. So I thought about it and realized there was a family restroom close by with a big long counter I could set my stuff on and it would be safe. I grabbed my computer and brought it in there with me. Turns out someone had gone in there ahead of me and tore the place up...it was heinous, maybe a dirty diaper in the trashcan, I don't know. It was really bad. As I emerged from the restroom I ran into my spin instructor, who looked at me standing there, holding my open laptop and coming out of a bathroom that smelled like a highway port-a-potty. Not good.

Well, that about catches you up.

unseen part two.

2010-09-15T19:15:00.000-07:00

My brother-in-law, who looks a lot like van Gogh in my opinion...what say you?

Vincent wrote to Theo, "Feast your eyes to the utmost on beautiful things, most people pay scarcely any attention to them. Try to walk as much as you can and keep your love for nature, for that is the true way to learn to understand art more and more. Painters understand nature and love her and teach us to see her."

Vincent was one to notice things considered unremarkable, and in fact received much criticism for this fact. He chose models amongst common people; miners and weavers and prostitutes worn with work and drudgery, so that "those types unknown or so little known, would be brought before the eyes of the people."

When he was offered mere change for a drawing, Vincent resisted the urge to fling it at he man's head. Instead, he gave it to his model, a "poor, sick woman." Wonderous how in this life, true value is unseen.

unseen part one.

2010-09-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

Taken by little ole me at the Chicago Museum of Art. It was really weird photoshopping a van Gogh. Felt wrong. Did it anyway. Chalked it up to 'correcting my errors as a photographer.'

One of the many things that fascinates me about the life of Vincent van Gogh is his philanthropic relationship with his little brother Theo.

The life of van Gogh is your quintessential tortured-artist-imploding, from a family system ill-fitting to his mind and gifts to a life of being continuously misunderstood and unappreciated. His relationship with Theo is set part in striking difference; Theo, quite a bit younger, seeming to walk the line, doing all the right things, playing the part, all while slipping his brother alarming amounts of money for his art and self-discovery.

As we look at van Gogh's paintings and sketches now, we don't see Theo. But he is in every line, every dab of paint. Vincent could not have created most of his works without Theo, and in fact, he began to give everything to his brother after several years as a way of assuaging his guilt at his indebtedness. The paintings piled up, stacked in the straight-laced Theo's Paris apartment.

2010-09-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

Another case of "forced surname marketing."

2010-09-13T11:02:00.000-07:00

Who says you can't use shame as therapy?

2010-09-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

The traditional onions are always getting annoyed by the antics of the progressive onions.

so had to pull over for this.

2010-09-13T10:37:00.000-07:00

The thought that someone actually took the time to make this and post it makes me so happy. I love you, whoever you are. Or at least I love your wit...yes...that's all I'm committing to love.

oh how I've missed you.

2010-09-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

I've been so busy launching my sweet little business...

I've learned how to do things like mediocre websites and then a little better looking websites and then pretty decent looking flash sites...

I've learned how to get legal in various ways...

I've learned how to find time to edit...

And I learned how to make my own logo in photoshop.

Do you like it?

P.S. Oh, and apparently in my absence a few new people joined my blog...hi, hi, hi! How are you and who are you? :)

the genius of little guys.

2010-08-14T14:53:00.000-07:00

Will: Mommy, I poop in my pants.

Me, gathering supplies: Okay Willy. Let's change you. You want to be a big boy, right?

Will, excited: Yes!

Me: And you know that big boys use the toilet, right?

Will: Yes. The toilet.

Me: And you want to wear your big boy pants too, with Spider Man, and you know he doesn't like it when he gets icky!

Will: Uh huh. I wear big boy pants.

Me, feeling like a fine parent, finishing the job: Great! So now where do you go poopy?

Will, enthusiastic: In my pants!

*Well, it's technically accurate.

sunlight as the muse and what erin said.

2010-07-19T18:53:00.000-07:00

He is not a God of mediocrity and He knows that in my haste to find some sort of peace I will settle.

~Erin, aptly

this too shall pass.

2010-07-12T10:29:00.001-07:00

dear iced green tea latte,

2010-07-11T23:48:00.000-07:00

are you the most amazing drink ever

or are you just gross?

is your powdered green matcha

nasty

or is it liquid poetry in the making?

what is that inner rumble?

is it my soul stirring, or

is it some gastro-intestinal backlash

against your curious marriage of flavors?

are you refined and polished

quirky and different

or did i just pay four dollars

to drink water strained through common grass clippings?

either way

i'm unable to fall asleep thinking about you.

also because of the caffeine.

p.s. plus the starbucks guy gave me two slices of pumpkin bread because it was towards the end of the night and one of the pieces got broken earlier and no one wanted it but i did.

lately, caught my eye.

2010-07-11T10:20:00.000-07:00

maybe He's right.

2010-07-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

My sister just landed in Uganda. At least that's what my text message just told me, from my brother in law, who is the latest subject of my mind's habit of obsessive mulling.

If I know you, look out. Chances are, I'm sweeping and thinking about something you said. Also mowing and thinking. Personally, I would be totally annoyed by this. I also do this with my camera. Pointed at you, never at me, thank you.

Anyway, my bil served in the Navy and knows a lot about a lot, and I know he knows, because he knows. You know? I surely don't know, safely tucked away here in a soft and quiet suburb filled with parks and grocery stores.

So my sister is in Africa doing her part to be a light in the darkness. My bil is kind and also hard, hard from the things he's seen and also by the things he said he has done for the Navy. He said life in Africa is cheap. He said, "You can't help them." Not in an arrogant way, but in a sad way, in the way of a person who has been there, and who has tried for himself, and who has seen that it didn't work.

I felt discouraged, panicked even. It suddenly seemed like sending her there was like throwing her life away. It wasn't noble, it was stupid! She couldn't go!

For two days this sentence has been playing in my mind: You can't help them.

Maybe he's right.

But,

Maybe he's not.

Maybe she can go over there,

With her tenderness and hospitality,

With her stories of a bold Galilean,

With her sharing like a tea party

The softness of that,

And maybe,

something

Will happen.

more about Megan and some photos.

2010-07-02T22:10:00.001-07:00

Hard working

Peacefulness and Da

July 3

Late night chef

Thinking

Stay

Love and letters

Hot in Texas

Roots

Forgotten

Precious one

Surprising find

Soft blue

Pleased and pleasing

And as for Megan,

One time we were working a parade, and it began to rain. Through a series of only minorly interesting and random events, I had to use Irish Spring soap in my shower that morning, which seems unrelated, but once the rain hit my skin it released the strong scent (somehow). Megan began sniffing the air and said to the group, "Okay, who used Irish Spring in the shower this morning?"

I told you she knew everything...

exodus 3:10-11.

2010-07-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

The days of the Dallas Observer now seem surreal. It was that paper for our city, you know; a powerful and influential lib rag, the kind with shock-value journalism, a palpable disdain for the Suburbs and advertising that fell into the foodie/nudie categories in most cases. That's what I did. I sold ads. Well, I tried to sell ads. Restaurants and bars. Bars and restaurants. I was horrible at sales but I loved my co-workers.

The Publisher, though I can't remember his name, was a nice but intimidating fellow. He was almost more intimidating because he was nice, like a mob guy who breaks into your home to kill you but makes you an omelet first. Most people just went through Megan. She knew everything and she wasn't scared of The Publisher.

We were hosting some kind of huge party downtown and The Publisher's wife began to feel nauseated by the lights strobing and flashing on the dance floor. The Publisher went to the minimum wage venue guy on hand to solve any issues.

The Publisher: My wife is feeling ill from the lights. Can you turn off the strobe?

Minimum Wage Guy: Umm, I'm gonna have to ask Megan first.

The Publisher: I totally understand. (Smiles his omelet smile.)

Then Minimum Wage Guy leaves The Publisher waiting while he finishes his tasks, finally looking around half-heartedly for Megan, who informs him calmly that the person he has kept waiting is the one paying for the entire function.

north on 37 through Mineola

2010-06-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

why I like my bowl.

2010-06-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

The artist was long and lean, smelling of patchouli and well, okay, sweat;

He raised dull eyes that gave away

His preference to be thinking about Colorado and June

And greeted me himself

since his assistant had stepped away for funnel cake.

What do you do was rhetorical until I mentioned photography-

A word which raised an eyebrow and drew out a hint of touche.

I ran my hands over the pottery and remembered being younger and free

And touched the way it moved on the wheel, once.

This bowl is beautiful, he admitted

But the bowl had broken his heart.

He had particularly anticipated it, lovingly choosing the colors

And fashioning its shape

And waiting by the kiln and waiting.

It broke his heart because another, lesser, bowl broke while they baked

Casting shards into the cherished and anticipated glorious bowl

Which was then rendered

(In his artistic opinion)

Disasterously ruined

And I could have it for twenty dollars instead of one hundred.

I like the shards.

They make the bowl like me.

And you can hardly notice the flaws

When it is full of fruit.

two homes and also two of me.

2010-06-17T22:40:00.000-07:00

Photo by Chase Jarvis.

You know, I know you do, that volume when you listen to your song and it fills your ears and soul. When you are alone in your car and your thoughts rush in like water into a capsizing boat. The music is good music. It deserves to be loud enough, not too loud, but enough.

You know, I know you do, what it is to hear the words of a song twirl around your mind like the ribbons of a Maypole, ribbons dancing in and out in the hands of smiling girls in new dresses. Words that know you and were there I guess, in those smallish moments. Those soulish moments.

Such it was as I pulled up to the first home. The song was loud enough and the words were trying to fix me: the tears roll down your face when you lose something that you cannot replace.

In a smallish way, the best of ways, loud enough, not too loud, but enough, God showed me as I pulled up to the last: lights will guide you home.

at times unexpected

2010-05-14T12:19:00.000-07:00

Photo by Akira Kaede.

watchfulness
catches a sunbeam
illumintating particles of dust in a quiet house
in a quiet moment
perhaps quiet laced with faraway sounds of family
or cars
or grown up talk and cigarettes
the moments best caught in the humid long lazy Texas afternoons
and best then in DeKalb
and best when you're young
and finally peaceful enough
to be watchful

why I'm mean.

2010-05-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

I know Collin doesn't like repeating himself.

When I heard him offer to read Will his bedtime book, I handed him Green Eggs and Ham.

Heh.

Heh heh heh.

About halfway through, I heard him say, "Would you, could you with all that stuff I said before?"

highly inconvenienced.

2010-05-11T20:18:00.000-07:00

Photo by Adam Gault.

Right now I'm highly inconvenienced by the fact that I can't move my muscles (any of them) without large amounts of good old fashioned pain. I know you didn't ask why but I'm going to pretend you did; mostly because I enjoy laughing at myself, but also a little bit because I promised myself while I was being tortured that I would tell you about it.

So I went to a strength class at my gym, which I had been to several times but never with this particular instructor. She was really, really happy about her job. She was also into sadism and bad pop music (redundant?).

Well, this instructor sent me hurtling back in time to fourth grade, on the softball field of Blanton Elementary, little 10 year old kinesthetically unaware Sabrina, not getting picked for teams. Yes. She made us pick partners. Everyone paired off and left me alone, holding my stability ball and little tubing thingy. One lady near me actually walked across the room to pair off. The Sadist noticed and told me to:

Get up to the front of the class,
and,
Be her partner.

Be her partner=bad.
Be her partner, in front of everyone else, i.e. being held accountable by an entire room and someone who is professionally required to be in shape=unusually bad.

Throughout the ordeal, she kept telling me I could do it!! I kept telling her all I would be capable of doing after this was roll around in a wheelchair. She laughed and asked me if this didn't feel good, kind of? In a sick way, ha ha? I said something hurtful. No, I told her, it didn't feel good, even in a sick way; however, if it had any chance of feeling good, it would definitely fall into the "in a sick way" category.

I kept watching the clock, but she kept going and going. Then I realized that this was a 75 minute class. I was trapped like a rat. A rat with muscle failure whose rubbery little legs couldn't support it in its attempt to escape. But, even classes like this have to end, and it did, and I somehow got to my car, and hobbled to my computer, and wrote this. You're welcome.

so shall I begin afresh with a memory told in an approximation of the Olde English Stile.

2010-05-04T11:16:00.000-07:00

Photo by Scott Heiner.

Those gentle readers who are weak of constitution, or easily offended, may choose to go no further,

In this tale recalling an encounter of the amorous kind,

Between our two long lost schnauzers, named Bubba Leo and Snoozie Pepper,

Who,

Being young and unconcerned with the familial ramifications, frequently engaged each other's attentions,

Upon occasion of which contained an element of misadventure

Leaving them still firmly attached to each other's company,

While sadly facing opposite directions,

Much like the famed Janus of lore,

Only tragically different, and, one would guess, quite uncomfortable,

Each fighting desperately to be free of the other

Which only resulted in some odd kind of see-sawing back and forth,

Because, you see, the good lady dog was larger while her lover was stronger,

Which rendered them evenly matched,

And therefore unable either of them to gain ground in the departure,

And from this arose such heartbreaking sights and sounds

Requiring that my good mother procure the use of a water hose,

Which mysteriously contributed to their subsequent separation

Which lasted several days at least.

there's something about three

2010-04-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

ballet slippers go with everything

tutus do as well

and goldfish crackers, juice boxes

raisins and the park

long days laughing at cartoons

and the smell of new crayons

mix together in the adult mind

creating a sweet and painful vacuum

when the year goes by and brings

four.

why I like Nana.

2010-04-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

Somehow it escaped my attention throughout my childhood that I had a grandmother worthy of children's literature.

She was beautiful, exotic and mysterious. She had a laugh that filled a room. She had a freeze-dried mouse on her bookshelf, along with every interesting book ever written (and some of them rather shocking). Her handwriting was long and dramatic and glamorous, looping and trailing over the pages of cards and letters and inscriptions in novels she picked up in some dusty bookshop in a far away place, just for you.

She always bought the gifts you wanted, and rarely delivered them herself, but rather, they arrived, without previous warning, delivered in the mail in brown paper and covered in curious stamps.

Her home was just the sort of place you would find Borrowers, or rabbit holes that led into crazy places or wardrobes that took you to other lands. It was definitely the kind of place you would be allowed to taste wine and taken seriously when you talked about what you wanted to be when you grew up.

One of my favorite memories of Nana is one day that she breezed in between things to do, and was hungry. I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Having kids, I asked her, almost without thinking, "Do you want me to cut it for you?"
Of course she did.
Playing along more, I asked, "Triangles or rectangles?"
She thought about it. "Triangles," she said soberly. We both knew this was a legitimate question.

And so recently, Nana sent me this email, which tells a story of her free spirit that I love so:

I came home last night and replanted 8 shrubs from the front of the house to the side by the garage out front.......should have thought of that years ago.....looks nice. You can laugh.....I began about 6:30 pm when it was just starting to sprinkle rain....well it soon became a hard rain...but warm, not cold water......I decided to continue......so I was digging up and replanting, digging up and replanting, digging up and replanting.....in the hard rain with lightning and thunder cracks......it was okay, not uncomfortable ..... but I was praying, Lord, please don't let me get struck by lightning......hahahahaha....finally got through and went in via the back porch, stripped off my soaking clothes, threw them in the washing machine and threw a couple of individual pizzas in the oven and watched American Idol. I love that Bowersox girl......hope you catch the next show of Idol. She will blow you away.....what a voice! She reminds me of Janice Joplin....love you, Nana

Gardening in the rain. I just love Nana.

the chosen dog.

2010-03-20T19:56:00.000-07:00

Norah: Daddy, what is Clive's last name?

Dad: Harrison, of course.

Norah, looking amused: He can't be a Harrison. He's a dog. His last name is Barkenstein.

Dad: Clive is Jewish?

Norah: Yep.

mr. morriss remembers a time

2010-03-19T13:16:00.000-07:00

when cars were cows
houses were nodding indian blankets

and he was young and so was Walter

and they had parties right there on that spot

where he has, in this time

plowed long, pleasing planting lines

and sowed growing things to share.

stumbling.

2010-03-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

These lights are there because, in the dark, you might trip and hurt yourself while trying to find a seat.

In your seat, should you arrive there safely, you will hear the truth.

After hearing the truth, you have a choice.

And maybe you will choose to be the light that is there, because in the dark, someone might trip and hurt themselves while trying to find a seat.

a thought on aging.

2010-03-07T18:33:00.000-08:00

Photo by Paul Grand Image.

Aging is, to me, a bit like dying slowly through a mirror.

Maybe I shouldn't look into mirrors.

The sunflowers in the photo above aren't pretty. They are dried and some sort of non-descript brown, the color of things you pretend not to see, and their heads are heavy with seed and bent to the earth. Bent over, dried up, their glory gone, falling toward the earth.

Heavy. With seed.

With seed?

Ah...seed.

Is it then, in our brokenness, our glory gone, bent and weak, that we become most fruitful?

romans 7:21-23.

2010-03-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Norah, sighing with frustration: "Ohhh, I wish I could stop eating my donut! I want to eat it later, but I keep eating it now pea-cause it's so yummy."

8:35 am.

2010-03-03T00:28:00.000-08:00

2010-02-28T08:40:00.000-08:00

Everything is out of order in my house.

Our pace has been too much

And I don't want to clean.

But then I saw this sunbeam bathing

A comfortable chair in which a classy lady once sat,

A new blanket that still smells like the store,

A feather from a bluejay,

And a small bottle filled with things from the sea.

Cleaning house is how we resurrect things,

And so we are like the Christ.

dear random dude in the Starbucks parking lot,

2010-02-28T08:29:00.000-08:00

Photo by Seth Joel.

it seemed like you felt kind of embarrassed
when your teenager
who you sent in to get your coffee for you
opened the car door at just the wrong time
and I saw you sitting there in your baggy old pajamas
plaid and yes, okay, kind of ugly
and you had a concert tshirt on
from a dorky 80s band
and it had a big stain on it
and your hair was a bit crazy
but
I think you'd feel better to know
even though, unlike you, I got dressed
ten minutes ago my jeans were crumpled on the floor in my bathroom
and I'm not wearing any socks.

useful.

2010-02-27T16:39:00.000-08:00

Photo by Ann Cutting.

Tumbling with the waves as they rolled foaming, the glass bumped into the gritty sand. Yesterday the waves were angry, crashing on the shore, but today they slid up, non-chalant, rolling. The gulls skipped out of their way. They were bored and fighting over nothing, because there was nothing to eat, and they fought loudly.

The glass was sharp. It was a bottle an hour ago and useful, but now broken; forgotten, unwanted and broken. Its pieces were pretty but missing from each other and less useful, even dangerous. It skipped along in the grit. As the foam cleared with each wave, the glass glimmered soft blue.

Smallish things scurried past it, over it, under it. The sun above it was a strange yellow ball. There was a constant humming, the power of the ocean humming. The waves rolled the glass along the grit. They licked the shore and rolled the glass, whose sides were becoming dull as it tumbled.

The yellow ball of a sun went down and it was dark. Sometimes the glass was on the beach and there was no water, but the gulls were there fighting over what was left to eat, grabbing and fighting. A gull picked the glass up and flew with it for a moment, then dropped it. Forgotten and left, and also broken.

Haunting waves, moody waves, gentle waves, as the yellow sun rose and sank again and again. Time by the ocean. Time, with waves rolling, is all of time and also is no time, because it is the same always, without mercy. The glass was changing. It was cloudy now, its edges quite smooth. It shone soft blue but in a different way.

It had become useful again, no longer dangerous. The yellow sun rose once again and people came to walk in the surf and laugh at the fighting gulls, fighting about the food they brought. Their umbrellas and towels and laughter filled the beach.

The waves were soft today for the people. They rolled onto the sand like a mother rolling a ball to her baby. The glass tumbled with them and landed at the feet of a young girl who saw things. She picked it up and put it in her pocket.

something inside of me wants to remember

2010-02-16T14:02:00.000-08:00

Photo by Christine Balderas.

that Uncle Cleeter had a funny name and I didn't know it,

that he was mischievous and kind,

that his bathroom had tiles of all colors, broken in patterns and pieced together and the room was filled with a feeling of whimsy and happiness,

that he remembered a childhood Christmas where there were no gifts, until a neighbor brought them fruit and walnuts, and the gratitude he felt decades later brought tears to his eyes,

and that he wiped the tears away with the white handkerchief of an East Texas man of his generation,

and that his hands were worn with work.

even if He does not.

2010-02-15T11:36:00.001-08:00

Photo by Chad Baker.

Most people have heard of the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. If you haven't, please stop for a moment, pull up Bible Gateway and read it. If you don't need it now, you will someday, or you did sometime in the past, and maybe someone you know will need you to speak life into their struggles by referencing it in the future. Go ahead and read it. Daniel chapter three. I'll wait.

So now that we've both recently read it...verse 18? Even if He does not? Even if He does not?

Sometimes I wish God made sense to me. But what I think I really wish is that I believed God this much. I mean, I do...and I don't. I do intellectually for sure, but my heart is occasionally hardened in doubt and human reason.

Even if He does not. I'm going to think about that.

made clean.

2010-02-12T23:32:00.001-08:00

Photo by Don Farral.

And so is Jesus like the snow?

Covering all things and making them their most beautiful

And the mind notices,

Thinking,

Ah yes. This is how it was meant to be.

why I like Ernest Hemingway.

2010-02-08T09:56:00.001-08:00

Passport Photo, Public Records

I really like quotes. From the earliest times I can recall, I was trying to figure life out, to communicate with others the things inside of me. I didn't know I was a writer and that was all of the words stirring. When I would hear a quote from some great thinker, I would say, "That's what I've been trying to say!" It was a relief. Yes, this does relate to Hemingway, so stop pressuring me.

What I love about Hemingway. Aside from the fact that he was pretty cute and dangerous and well-traveled, rich and adventurous and had a cool scar on his forehead; aside from the fact that he wrote the best non-Biblical book, The Old Man and the Sea; aside from the fact that he was a master of stream-of-consciousness and playful use of language; aside from all of that, there is something more. But I'm not going to tell you yet.

You know how sometimes you're dating someone and they're all but perfect, and it kind of makes you sick? And it definitely makes you want to stop dating them because they just put it all out there and openly submit to you? And you wish so much they would have held something back from you, some edge that they kept that was just theirs, something to intrigue you and keep you hooked? Some part of them they refused to hand over to you?

Hemingway does that to me. He refuses to be quoted. Every time I run into something I think I can write down, a treasure of wit or insight, I just can't. He marries philosophy with hyenas being disemboweled. Where can you go with that? You would need the context of the three chapters before to understand fully. He refuses to be quoted. It's maddening. It makes me respect him even more because he won't do what I want. And because of this, each journey with him is personal.

Blast him and his bourbon.

why I like pi and zero.

2010-02-07T11:48:00.000-08:00

Photo by Shannon M. Lutman.

Pi is mysterious. Pi is present in things like DNA and music and pyramids. Pi keeps going. And going.

One thing about math that I never liked is just how specific it is. There is one answer, whether it is 12 or 2/34(6x). One answer meant I probably was going to miss the entire problem. One answer? Really, just one? Where is the room for creativity, for freedom in expression? Bleh.

In a sea of numerals insisting on primness and propriety, pi surfs by on a killer wave. No one can rein pi in. It represents life's messiness. Things don't always fit perfectly. Things aren't always evenly divisible. Things don't always make sense or stop when it would seem polite. Things sometimes stump smart people. Things sometimes keep being useful even when you don't get how they work.

Can someone give me a clear and compelling reason we keep bumping into this number? Why would such a random thing keep cropping up? Does anyone slightly suspect that, in the end, we will find out pi is the answer that has always been in front of us, or at least a prank God pulled to see what we'd do?

I also think zero is weird. And I like it.

writer will not be held responsible for time lost in reading this blog post.

2010-02-01T21:19:00.000-08:00

Photo by George Marks.

Yesterday a guy and I approached a set of doors at the same time, but he made it clear with the nuances of body language that he was going to grab the door for me. I'm no feminist (sorry, gals) and I love it when guys catch a door for me. I usually need the help. So I hung back a teeny to make my arrival just right.

But then we had entered into a small inner room and a second set of doors immediately before us.

Since he had held the door for me, I was ahead of him. But he had also kind of set the precedent that he was all chivalrous and stuff. I wasn't sure what to do, and then I *thought* I heard him say, "Here," which everyone knows is the abbreviated form of the phrase, "Here, let me get that door for you."

So I kind of stood in front of the door, waiting for him to catch up. I guessed from his facial expression that he had not planned to get the second door for me; perhaps he was one of those "Dutch" types that likes to keep it even, who knows, but he realized what was happening and grabbed the door for me anyway.

I kind of felt that I should offer some explanation since we were walking the same speed down the same hallway and no one else was there, so I began babbling about how my husband tries to get the door for me and I've often already gotten it for myself, and I'm trying to let people do more nice things for me which is hard for me because I normally do things for other people and not the other way around.

I could see the look of hopelessness crawl over his face, but I kept talking because...well, crap, I don't even know why.

It was a train wreck.

It all took about 45 seconds from start to finish.

So, my question is:
How in the name of John Wayne's behind do people ever learn English as a second language? Our communication is so unbelievably complex.

breaking.

2010-02-01T09:06:00.000-08:00

Photo by S. Solum

Before being filled

Before taking inside

All that has, so far, been denied

Pause to sense

Draw near and wait

Hold breath and hesitate.

Hesitate.

randomnicity.

2010-01-26T20:09:00.000-08:00

Photo by Image Source.

It's been a while since I've scattershot.

##We found out we have field mice coming into our kitchen. They are cute, but we're also studying the Black Plague. They have to go. Is there some nice way to get rid of them? Maybe put the milk back empty or not fill the ice trays, or play our music real loud when they're trying to study?

##Yesterday Tamale saw "the" mouse. It ran under the dishwasher. She stared it down. Then Clive came in and stared her down. The mouse stared Clive down. It reminded me of some scene from Lost, or at the very least Tom and Jerry. But they didn't have guns and they weren't sweaty, so it must have been Tom and Jerry.

##There are probably lots and lots of mice by now. Right? Don't tell me. I want to believe there is one mouse.

##I always thought it was sad, and kind of mean, that God made Sarah wait until she was super old to finally have a baby. Then I started to think about how much of a selfish being I was when I first became a mother, and how much more patient I am now. I'm gonna be awesome when I'm ninety. I'll probably have some kids.

##I want to adopt some kids from Haiti. I have no money though. They have less though. That doesn't matter though. They won't let me. I wish I had enough money to go get a whole slew of them. They would be happy here. We laugh a lot.

##I was flipping around in Psalms and I saw this phrase, which was meant to be mocking God, but I took it literally, to the positive. "Can God spread a table in the desert?" (Psalm 78:19.)

##Yes.

##Then that also applies to Haiti?

##Yes.

##Has anyone ever read the story, I Love You Forever? I think it's supposed to fill me with the bittersweet, numinous sense that my children are growing so fast. However, I can't seem to get around the fact that the mother scales her grown son's two-story house with a contractor's ladder in the middle of the night and goes into his room and rocks him while he is sleeping. This is not healthy. If my mother-in-law did that, I would completely freak out.

##She wouldn't though. She sometimes smiles at me and says, "He's your problem now," and walks away laughing.

##Liv is nine now and we are friends and also mother and daughter and we enjoyed the sunny day today, together.

##Erin and I agree that if we cannot remain young epidermically, we will be immature whenever possible. So far it's working.

Finis~

one of those days.

2010-01-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

Photo by John Slater.

overslept.

hair looks bad.
car broke down.
running late.

bugging friends.
hitching rides.
losing keys.
blankie gone.

blankie search.

late again.
hectic pace.
work through break.
no supplies.
splashed with muck.
stain on shirt.

miss my shirt.
bit by ants.

stalked by ants.

bit again.
bad first base.
let team down.

lost the game.

boots messed up.

can't repair.

miss my boots.

hectic pace.

bugging friends.

hitching rides.

pay for car.

lots of dough.

wallet lost.

wallet search.

messy fridge.
found old fish.
dropped on floor.
real bad smell.
miss my bowl.
kitchen stinks.
yukky lunch.
bored of fast.
nine days left.
still, i'm blessed.

when they grow up, I hope they remember parks.

2010-01-20T12:52:00.000-08:00

I hope they remember parks.

inbetween handshakes.

2010-01-19T10:03:00.000-08:00

Photo by Rob Melnychuk.

I can't stop thinking about him.
Forty something and dressed for church
Shiny shoes and cologne
Holding his wife's hand and smiling at his son.

The pastor told us to say hello, so we shook hands.
The pastor then told us about a lot of things
Controversial and true and hard to hear
Words wafting out over heads
Of people half asleep or crying or thinking about football.

Then the pastor told us to jump-
And this guy, he jumped.
And I shook his hand again when he left,
But this time
He was different.

why I like fifths disease.

2010-01-18T17:45:00.001-08:00

See this gorgeous face? This is what Norah looked like yesterday, before Fifth's Disease took its toll.

Today she looks pretty much the same, but her cheeks are red.

Let's see...why I like Fifth's Disease. First off, it's other name is Slapped Cheek Syndrome. I just think that's funny. Basically the entire "disease" is a collective shrug of indifference by the medical community. I kind of rank it with Folliculitis on the give-up scale.

The first time I encountered this illness was with my oldest. She was three and seemed to be feeling kind of yukky, so of course we rushed her to the nearest doctor's office. He walked into the room with a clipboard after being briefed by the nurse and making us wait for 45 minutes. The converstaion went something like this.

Doctor: "I'm afraid she has Fifth's Disease."

Young Me: "Oh my goodness! What?! How did this happen? What is going to happen to her?"

Doctor: "Um, her cheeks will be red for a few days."

Young Me: "Oh my gosh...her skin will all turn red, like a scald?"

Doctor: "No...her cheeks will just be red for a while."

Young Me: "And itch? And spread everywhere, all over her body?"

Doctor: "No, not really."

Young Me: "But she needs to be on some kind of medicine or something?"

Doctor: "No, I don't think that would do much."

Young Me: "Oh. Can I have my $30 back?"

Doctor: "Nope."

So I guess I like it because you can still call in sick to work because technically your child is contagious, they like to snuggle, their cheeks are cute and rosy, and the name is funny. I know I'm sick.

Rachel Ann gets me like Dylan got me.

2010-01-18T09:18:00.000-08:00

Photo by Win Initiative.

And it might have been a comment but it got too long,
And sometimes that happens and you realize there really is a lot to say about something that seemed simple,
Like when you accidentally hit caps lock and you hunt and peck so you don't know for a long time
But everything is now being yelled in type,
So you have to delete everything
And you wish there was some way just to convert it.

But back to Rachel Ann and Dylan,
They both just got it, which by it I mean me, which by me I mean my mind,
And sometimes with each of them,
Rachel Ann now and Dylan back then,
I say something to them, or even to someone else in their hearing,

Kind of a smallish thing I think they will like,
But maybe they won't catch it,
And certainly no one else does, And that makes me kind of lonely,
But I throw it out there anyway just to see,

And they do.

more evidence of latent sorriness, or bad luck.

2010-01-16T07:55:00.000-08:00

Photo by Meredith Winn.

Part Two of the Bathroom Stall Chronicles.

We were at a restaurant and Norah needed to go potty. Once in the bathroom, I scanned the choices. Two stalls. The normal stall was two feet wide at best and Norah was wearing tights and was wiggling, which meant she had about 5 nanoseconds left before full release, and she definitely needed help. Imagining both of us in that stall was unthinkable and would definitely end up with a mop bucket and wet floor sign being posted.

The other stall was the handicapped stall, wide and free and clear and full of promise. The good thing about preschoolers is that they go potty really quickly (because they can't read, of course). So, I knew it would be a quick trip. I went for the handicapped stall.

As soon as we were committed, there was a clacking, clanking sound as a woman and her child struggled their way into the bathroom. All I could see was feet, but even from that I figured out that the child was pretty small, clumsily trying to fit herself into the micro-stall next to us along with her crutches and her mother, who was helping her get settled.

When I strolled out, her mother's look made me think of the Lyle Lovett song:

Look around, and you will see: this world is full of creeps like me. You look surprised. You shouldn't be. This world is full of creeps like me.

creature of habit.

2010-01-13T14:05:00.000-08:00

Photo by Meredith Winn.

Like most people, I'm stuck in my ways. I have a specific thing I order at my favorite Mexican food restaurant. I have a certain drink I like at Sonic. I have my dry-cleaner and my grocery store, and the way I go to church and where I park at the library and what I order on an airplane (ginger ale).

Turns out I also have a particular toilet stall.

At Bible study today, I ducked into the restroom. There is normally no one in there, and I've developed this weird obsessive-compulsion with using the second stall to the left, one of two rows of about 12 toilets total.

Well, this time there was someone in the restroom already.

In the stall right next to me.

It occurred to me that this person was probably extremely weirded out that, out of 11 other options, I chose the toilet right next to hers. I would have apologized but she stayed in the stall until after I left, and I'm pretty sure my talking to her through the door would have just made things worse.

that book.

2010-01-09T06:32:00.000-08:00

Art by Dain Fagerholm.

When I was ten I read a story
I should have never read
Because at ten there were still creeping things under my bed
And in my head,
And I, too easily alarmed
By things once dead,
Should have rather read
A nicer book,
Instead.

baker's secret.

2010-01-06T12:19:00.000-08:00

Photo by George Doyle.

So the theme that keeps occurring to me is this bothersome way God makes us wait. Why do humans think we need to be moving, accomplishing, doing, in order to be on track? Why do I think that? I do, and so do you. And it seems God would pit Himself against that thought taking permanent root in our hearts.

There is purpose in the waiting. The baker sets his delicacy in the oven and he waits. What happens in that oven is chemical and sometimes otherworldly when chocolate is involved, and when it is swirled from within with yummy carby goodness and yes, even pudding sometimes, I don't know how they get it in there, but they do. And we want to eat the batter even though there are raw eggs in it, and we even sometimes look in the oven so many times that the temperature light comes back on, and on the cutting block there are a lot of toothpicks with batter stains and really, we knew before we tried inserting it 1" from the side that the cake wasn't done, it's just so hard to wait. And if the baker catches on to all this, he might slap us on the hand, or at least make us leave the kitchen.

We have to wait for it to cool so we can frost it.

We have to wait, oh sometimes, oh, sometimes we have to wait just to be polite.

Can it be that there is purpose in all of that?

a tribute.

2010-01-04T21:14:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow my son is two,
And in his young eyes I see
Promise and War.

Carrying with him
Mischief and rough embraces
Love raw and real,

Promise of a man to come-
Stewardship and strength;
War in his eyes and in his blood.

Sweet and mine
Still for some time.

travels in waves. a long post but then again it's been a month.

2009-12-21T20:55:00.000-08:00

Photo by Mark Matastic

Grief comes when it wants to come and like so many things God made it to travel in waves. Curiously, you feel okay a lot of times. And then you drop the laundry and the tears come and sometimes, the best times, they turn into a keening: freeing, exhausting, emptying.

This happened to me after my first miscarriage, which I know we shouldn't talk about because it makes people feel weird or judgmental or sad. But it happens, and it did, and what I needed more than anything now that I was no longer having a baby was my mom's chicken soup, and since she wasn't in the vicinity or even the country for that matter, I was going to have to make it myself. I was digging around in the attic for the stock pot when the wave hit.

I've always been suspicious of attics. They seem like a perfect place for a witch or ghost to hang out waiting for the perfect moment to eat your face. I definitely would not have picked my attic as the location for an emotional release. But another thing about grief: you must, you must, grieve when the wave comes. Each wave washes away some of the pain like ocean waves erode the sand right from under your feet, and if you keep standing solid in the sand like that your feet will keep sinking and sinking and then you'll fall. But once you fall you're stable again. If you miss the wave you must wait for the next one, or put on some Coldplay and try to force it. Better to seize the wave as it comes.

If there were any witches or ghosts in the attic I'm certain I scared the crap out of them with the way I cried, an ugly, snotty, mean, loud, yelling-hoarse cry. I'm pretty sure I accused God of lots of things contrary to His actual nature. Shakily I climbed down the wooden ladder with my stock pot. Shakily I started the preparations for my soup.

Mom's soup takes a long time to make but I had time. My thoughts wrapped around the activity and it was comforting, the eating was comforting, and for three days all I ate was soup, my soup, Mom's soup, this soup that was like Mom's and also not like hers because I made it, and God sat there with me in that desert full of waves and we ate soup.

a short tale of two cities and one highway and one little girl and also a boy.

2009-11-30T18:38:00.000-08:00

Highway 259 couldn't get there soon enough for a little girl wanting to see her family, to dig in dirt and hold kittens and run barefoot. There were few rules and fewer expectations. Big Mama was Big Mama to all of us and anyone who walked through the door; the screen door slammed as she came to the porch and told everyone in the car forcefully and good naturedly with her soothing accent to "Get inside this house right now."

Inside the mess collected in the corners and on the couch, letting you know right away that there was nothing to do because there was so much to do. Relax and sit a spell. The window unit was so cold and rattley, dripping water on the old textured green carpet, you knew a nap was on the way. The clock ticked loudly. There was no time in DeKalb, not really. Just sunbeams that slid lower and longer across the room.

Front Street and Runnels, Highway 82 and 990 and the Post Office, Box 243 or 234 or something like that, something like that. Big Mama loved her letters and Poppie loved the Cafe and everybody loved to tell you that Dan Blocker grew up here and that he became a hero in Korea. Everybody knew you and everyone knew those stories about rose bushes and rodeos and dresses you had to have, the stories they knew, and you didn't, about your own self.

Highway 259 meant all these things, as it came into focus on the Interstate. Exit, turn left, under the bridge and through the tunnel of trees.

But,

Had I turned right on 259,

And kept going,

For a long time and through many other small inconsequential Texas towns full of living and family,

Past pink houses and fresh eggs for sale and cars rusting quietly in front yards,

Past dogs on chains and loose dogs and sleeping dogs and children not wearing shoes and basketball hoops with no nets,

If I had gone down that highway long enough,

I would have found my husband as a boy, growing up with his family that I also love. But instead I found him a lot later and a lot of living later, in the big city where we fell in love, far away from Highway 259. He said, and I said, that we used to wonder what was down that road, at the other end.

here i am.

2009-11-22T12:37:00.000-08:00

Photo by Morey Milbradt

The lower case "i" in the title was a typo, but I decided to leave it.

We often want to know where God is. Interestingly, non-believers sometimes shout it the loudest. Where was God when is a popular way to begin a sentence in times of trial. We want to know where we can find Him in order to pepper Him with our accusations and questions.

We want to know where He is to ask Him for the desires of our hearts.

We want to know where He is
(oh grateful for this small sign of righteousness taking root)
just to feel His presence envelop us and
(be still and know)
after everything, to stand.

Once on a run I was so hot. My forehead felt like it was baking and the sun was harshly victorious. The sidewalk narrowed, and quickly became so constricted that I had no choice but to brush up to some towering photinias that were overgrowing the path. As I did, an unexpected meeting between myself and God occurred as each leaf dropped icy cold water onto my skin. For about 20 yards I ran with my shoulder pushed into the long line of shrubs, each leaf releasing a generous amount of cool water, then I turned around and ran up the other direction.

Maybe some people would say it was just blind luck that the sprinklers had hit the leaves in such a way, that the wax of the leaves and the shape of the leaves made them capable of holding the water, that the path narrowed forcing me to find it. I'm just arrogant enough in God's affection to believe He meant for it to happen.

He was there.

Every time I run by that string of hedge I think about that moment. I've even run by a few times with my shoulder jammed into it, but it never happened again. Part of the fun of a relationship with the Living God is that you never know where He will be. And in this way we have so many altars, scattered.

golf balls and entropy.

2009-11-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

For some time now, a hot steaming cup of tea has symbolized freedom to me. My ability to put the water on, to steep it, to prepare it properly, and specifically to drink it has become a gauge to the level of chaos surrounding me.

I remember the days (however empty of things to love and be loved by) when I would sit uninterrupted, sipping espresso and writing bad poems. How wastefully I spent those hours, and how ungratefully.

With William young and the girls in all different stages, there are days I struggle to find a moment to myself. Literally a moment. I don't know exactly what Paul meant when he said he was being poured out like a drink offering, but there are times when I feel as if those words are the expression of my mother's heart, an ache of being emptied completely, a sustaining feeling of love thumping hard in my chest. Being poured out. Beautiful in its humble hollowness; pain and beauty as dancing partners.

I sat praying these thoughts out to God one day, tears welling in my eyes and again disappearing. Strength ebbed and flowed inside of me. I asked him passionately for help. Help me survive. Help me get through this time. But help me cherish it. Help me savor it. Help me. My eyes were screwed tightly shut. I clutched my cup of tea, cold now, as I prayed.

When I opened my eyes, William was standing there smiling at me, his hands clasped behind his back sweetly. Then he threw a golf ball in my tea.

God answers prayers in funny ways sometimes.

why I liked Tuesday.

2009-11-19T16:07:00.000-08:00

Horse Apples were collected, and thrown into the creek.

There was a creek.

And a log to sit and climb on with best friends.

And with sisters.

Mud got inbetween toes, and it was cold and squishy and fun. And minnows watched it all.

Seeds and nuts and leaves and twigs were victoriously found, and referred to as treasures.

Shadows grew long and no one hurried.

Going home was their idea.

sense of accomplishment.

2009-11-13T12:08:00.000-08:00

I had an idea.

About what it is that really stresses me out about the season I'm in.

Maybe it's the same with you.

I often feel stressed and pressured.

Sometimes I even feel depressed.

I want to make it my ambition to lead a quiet life.

But every now and then that quiet life thuds in my ears.

And I realize it's really my own heart I'm hearing in the silence.

So, my idea?

We need to spend more time doing things that last (a bit) longer.

Not that cliche advice, "Go play with your child, they grow so fast and laundry can wait."

No, it doesn't wait.

It piles up to the ceiling and becomes a bio hazard and your family begins to wear mismatched socks that don't even belong to them and eventually OSHA or CPS shows up.

That advice is annoying and makes us feel guilty.

What I'm talking about are chores that last, that give us a sense of having actually accomplished something.

Laundry and dishes do not last.

Clean floors and rugs do not last.

Fingerprint-free mirrors do not last.

Dusted knick-knacks do not last.

Weeding the garden lasts longer.

Repainting the walls lasts longer.

Organizing a drawer lasts longer.

Cleaning the garage lasts longer.

Do one of those things a day.

Leave the tyrannical stuff undone for the moment and do just one lasting little thing.

Not the entire house; just one room, one drawer, one thing.

Every now and then a big thing.

Try it....and let me know what you think.

hills.

2009-11-11T13:42:00.000-08:00

I've run everywhere a person can run beginning from our front doorstep and I'm bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.

I've learned that, for me as a runner, the routes have to keep changing. And it's much better if I don't have to double back, ever. On the White Rock route, you go waaaaaay down this one street (and at mile seven-ish, which is already desperately boring enough), looking at a steady stream of runners facing you on the other side who've already been where you're going. Far from the start and far from the end. Bleh. I'm pretty sure that's why they posted a bunch of Marines on that stretch to bark our heads off.

So I mapped off a fun, new route through a lovely neighborhood near my home, suited up, drove to my starting point, stretched and excitedly set off. The sun was out but not too hot, a nice chilly breeze sometimes, the sounds of kids playing at the park and birds singing.

While I ran, squirrels chased each other around and leaves quietly lost the fight with gravity. Dutiful dads pushed lawnmowers. Moms potted winter annuals in terra cotta pots. Every now and then the sun would filter through the trees in just such a way that the smallish things drifting would be exposed: dust, insects, pollen, seeds from the dandelion I kicked (sorry). Inbetween the fine homes, a glimpse of autumn splashed hills and a grey-cold lake. Ahhh.

I hadn't noticed the hills as much when I was in the car. They definitely made themselves known, and made it hard to concentrate on the beautiful reasons I chose this particular route; however, I prevailed. And the sidewalk smiled at me.

Hills. They aren't much fun when you're going up, but going down is pretty okay. And I hear they make you stronger.

it's deer season.

2009-11-10T05:53:00.000-08:00

Photo by ICHIRO.

Mom: So you think you're going to learn to hunt eventually?

Hanna: Yeah, probably.

Mom: I don't know how you can stand it...looking into their gorgeous eyes, then blowing them away like that.

Hanna: (shrugging) God put them here for us to eat.

Mom: Actually, He put them here for us to love and care for.

Hanna: He said we could eat them.

Mom: Yeah, but that was after we screwed up.

Hanna: Oh well. At least we have permission.

the things is,

2009-11-09T07:21:00.001-08:00

New moon over Namibia, Africa
Photograph by Gianluca Colla.

if we're honest,
we can see that something is going on.

even though the baby is tucked away from sight
we see the belly of the sweet mother slowly rise
and as time wears on,
bringing us closer to the moment where the call is made,
(come forth little one)
we can feel movement like a promise of things to come
growing ever stronger.
and even the pain
the discomfort
the temporary inadequacy
are signs that the time is approaching.

the cocoon trembles if you watch it closely, silent and still, waiting and
watching, watching.

on a clear night, the sliver of the new moon is not all you see, and partially because of the weakness of its light, it exposes the whole.
there, but quiet, quiet.

in winter when all seems dead and death has won, red berries, shockingly red, feed the birds and say, not yet. wait.
something is happening, in all this slumber and stillness.
something is happening.

resurrection.

2009-11-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

Norah rising, 2005

You can't always tell when God is up to something.

Plant the seed in the ground, and it appears that all you did was get your hands dirty. Day after day you check and it's nothing but dirt. Inside the dark womb of the earth, the seed, as it once was, dies. Sounds sad? Maybe. But something is happening.

The caterpillar is beautiful in its own way, its stripes or horns or long hairs rendering it interesting and distinctive. When it curves into its brown cocoon, it looks like a dead leaf. It hangs there motionless and ugly. Kind of a shame that cute little caterpillar had to slip into its womb; I liked it the way it was, and now it is gone. But something is happening.

The moon waxes and wanes.

The seasons tell us the story of new life, young life, aging, dying, new life.

The developing baby quickens.

We put things in the ground, in the dark, on an altar maybe so high that we lose sight of them temporarily. Our enemy rushes to our side to whisper that it is not temporary, it is always and always
(said the serpent to the woman)
and always going to be out of our reach now.

The truth is that we give these things to God in the dark. And He transforms them in the dark, in the womb.

No one sees a butterfly and cries, "But where is the caterpillar?"

(10:02 pm) yes...one grande tea latte, please.

2009-11-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Blog.

I'm glad Caffeine arranged a meeting for us tonight. Things have been...well, awkward. I know I haven't been making time for you. I've been a workaholic. But that's not the only reason we haven't connected.

You see, there is someone else, Blog.

He's really handsome. He has red hair and deep blue eyes that look right into your soul. Sure he only comes up to my knees, and he eats playdoh, and he tends to throw yogurt all over the kitchen, and he shoves inappropriate things into the dvd slot. But I love him.

I know he uses me to reach things that are too high for him and he backwashes into my drinks. It probably isn't a healthy relationship. I'm pretty sure he gave me a stomach virus last month. Nevertheless, we keep hanging out.

The thing is, a relationship like this requires sacrifice. If his love is a volcano, the peace offering I'm throwing in to appease him is my creative energy. He just drains it out of me, Blog. I have all these good intentions about hooking up with you later, but by the time he and I say goodnight, my brain is so atrophied, all I can do is fold laundry and laugh at people falling off of trampolines.

People keep asking what's going on. They know we haven't been seeing each other. I keep making lame excuses, and I have a feeling the Kellies are on to us. Even though they have hundreds of people to keep up with, they somehow just know whenever we hang out...and when we don't. Anyway, it's no secret.

What is happening to us?

I won't let you go. Where else can I be this dramatic? Where else can I self-publish essays about cats? Where else can I display all the pictures of my feet and dishes? Where else can I write with absolutely no accountability or constructive criticism? It has to be you.

It also has to be him. He needs me and he's my guy.

I guess I'm just going to have to find a way to have my cake and eat it too...so hang in there. You're really important to me. Maybe someday you and I can get more serious. I have a feeling this guy will grow up and move on eventually, and then I'm going to need you on an even deeper level.

Love,

Sabrina

check, mate.

2009-10-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

Laurie jokes that the demon who has been assigned to her is some bumbling guy, maybe named Sheldon or something, rather than that sophisticated thing we envision in our enemy: malevolent and steeped in corrupted wisdom; familiarity with our ways that gives him the insight to tempt; claws clicking on the table, biding a terrible patience; taking us down through anfractuousity rather than instant gratification.

Certainly no one I know has been tempted by Satan himself. I'm an easy target not requiring such an opponent. I'm imagining my guy's name is Stan, since that's what I type every time I mean to type Satan. Stan probably wears a bowtie, but he's a jerk.

So Stan knows my ways pretty well. He knows what gets me going. What makes me stop and look again, what makes me question, what makes me lust. He's pretty good overall, especially at making me think I'm being discerning when I'm really being derailed. But he has a fatal flaw (other than the obvious). He gets cocky.

He has been pretty effective lately by trying to encourage me to question a lot of the things I feel God has told me to do. I'm an overthinker, so this is pretty easy; I'm hard on myself also, which makes it even easier. I had just about convinced myself that I was going to pull the plug on about five things I felt led to do a few years back. This morning I had all the accusations in my ear and heavy, heavy.

Yes, you need to drop all of that. You're totally ineffective. You're being selfish, you're being foolish, you're being shortsighted.

Well maybe I am. Maybe I am.

Yes, you are. Too hard on yourself as usual...lighten up...live a little, do some things for yourself. Drop all of this nonsense about God calling you to this or that. Besides....

(Here's the kicker)

Besides...did God really say that you should do these things?

Oops. Stan went and laid an egg with that one. Sounds pretty familiar to me. Sucks for him that I'm studying Genesis right now.

paradigm of choice.

2009-10-27T15:16:00.000-07:00

Nothing which implies contradiction falls under the omnipotence of God.

Thomas Aquinas

Humans will worship and humans will have faith, undeniably, as sure as birds fly and fish swim and grass grows. We are created to worship and believe. What the focus of that worship and belief ends up being is anyone's guess.

So we trust in something. Something becomes our fixed point in a world of movement. If God is not our fixed point, maybe it becomes hard work. Or money. Or science. Maybe our own ability to judge. Mostly in modern America we never consciously choose it, and might even be surprised to discover what it is, which is maybe the saddest thing of all, since it affects everything we do.

I'm a Christian. My dear friend is going through a trial I don't think she deserves. My temptation is to rely on my own wisdom, and immediately pepper God with accusing questions. Since God is my fixed point, I remind myself that I don't know his reason, but there must be one. And it must be a good one.

Whatever you choose as your god will receive your faith.

for james.

2009-10-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

The boatman comes to the shore, the water from the river lapping at the sides of his old craft. Layer after later of paint covers the wood imperfectly, flaking in places to show its depth and beauty. It is old and he is old, and his responsibilities are old and old.

The oars dip with his skill, silently, softly, and he working wordlessly; all that is heard is creaking and singing from a persistent thrush.

The old boatman is a taker. He takes people from the weathered dock where they stand waiting. They step in with trembling, trepidation, joy; their emotions vary with their temperament and experiences. Some know him, and in his presence they relax and sometimes laugh. All of them he knows by name.

The old boatman is a giver. He punts across the distance between shores, kind eyes careful to guide the boat to its destination. The ride is smooth and enjoyable if those inside choose to enjoy it. Happily the rolling meadow receives the passengers.

Taker and Giver: what we see depends so much on which shore we wait.

cat fight.

2009-09-28T09:49:00.000-07:00

Norah: Mommy, I want to marry Daddy. I know who you should marry.

Me: Who?

Norah: Jesus.

Me: Well, I do love Jesus. But I'm married to Daddy.

Norah: (Frowning) But who will dance around with Jesus then? And I want to marry Daddy.

Me: Well, how about you dance around with Jesus. Are you going to ask him into your heart someday?

Norah: I already did. On Saturday.

2009-09-21T08:27:00.001-07:00

I will be taking a blogging vacation for the next week. See you later!
Sabrina

little us.

2009-09-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

Sitting in circle time at the co-op, I watched the sweet little kids squirming, laughing, goof-balling, zoning out, wanting their mothers. Some were shy and some were outrageously not shy. Some sat primly while others scooted outside the circle, not to be forced by "the man" to do anything. One little dude was obsessing about going down the slide. One little dude just sat screaming the entire time.

Aren't they just like us? Except all expression, no repression. Stress just immediately leaks out. Among other things.

The thought occurred to me, "This is how adults really feel in meetings." We have learned all these sophisticated ways to cope, but man, let's face it: some of us would just rather be picking our noses.

two sides of one analogy.

2009-09-16T13:48:00.000-07:00

I'm from Texas and have grown up with lightning bugs as an indelible part of my evenings. A few months ago, as we were driving back from the country, we passed through a long stretch of black scrub, forest and oaks and pines and all the Texas highway paraphernalia, things that loom mysterious and impossible to make out in the evening hours. The scene was laced with lightning bugs.

My suburban kids couldn't spot them, despite unyielding attempts by Collin and me, pointing and insisting they were right there, for pete's sake. They didn't know what to look for because they'd never seen them before.

Turns out lightning bugs are disappearing, and no one knows why. The biggest theory is that the enzyme used to create the bioluminescence, called luciferase, just can't compete with the light pollution. So the bugs are less romantic. So there are fewer bugs.

As usual I began thinking, this time about my chicken $#!+ ways, and how I am a major contributor to North Texas' light pollution, since I sleep with lights on all over the house. No lightning bugs being fruitful in my yard for sure.

One side: My fear is depriving me, and my kids, of the blessing of the lightning bug experience...mason jars and little nets and hide and seek and belly laughs. I am part of the problem, and it's because of fear (Romans 8:31).

Other side: the lucifer-ase is no match for the great light shining from my house (1 John 4:4).

Anyway, either way, I do miss lightning bugs.

Photograph by FIXA.

not a great story.

2009-09-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

People like to show off wounds and compare tales of injury. There's something akin to the thrill of the roller coaster that compels us to ask for more information...Just how did the nail come off? How much blood did you lose? What did the bone look like? Heck yes, I want to see the scar!

Too bad for me that my recent injuries are to my toes. That's just not a good story.

Toes are kind of an awkward body part, aren't they? Everyone has toes (hopefully), but no one really likes referencing them. Right now I have such a noticeable limp and a big boot that I get questions everywhere I go.

Compassionate bystander: What did you do?
Me: I broke something.
Compassionate bystander: What'd you break?
Me: My toe.
((awkward pause/recovery))
Compassionate bystander: Oh. Man, that stinks! I mean, it's unfortunate. Not that your toe stinks. (Walks off thinking about toes, specifically my toes.)

I don't mind it so much with my friends, but causing random strangers to think about my toes is very unpleasant. At Starbucks with the big toe incident a few months ago, the barista asked how my race training was going. I realized he knew too much backstory to get out of telling him something was broken, so I said mysteriously that my "foot" was broken, to which he promptly inquired, "Oh really? What part of your foot?"

Oh well.

cul-de-sac.

2009-09-14T10:38:00.000-07:00

It's really hard to believe, but yes, I have another broken toe. No, it is not the same toe, thank God. It's just the second to last toe, nowhere near as crucial as the mighty balance-affecting biggest of toes. (By the way, it still hurts and looks strange...I'm a broken bone novice...will it ever heal?)

Same foot though. Same nail polish color as last time too (You Don't Know Jacques, OPI, I'm kind of obsessed with it for some reason right now, it goes with everything, but it does cause incorrect usage of punctuation).

Same inconvenient halting of race training. Last time it was The Cowtown. This time it's The White Rock.

So what's going on?!

Laurie made a good point. God says to "run with perseverance the race marked out for us." Maybe the race marked out for me isn't the one wrapping around White Rock Lake in December. Why? Who knows.

As a parent, I often see my kids in situations where they are asked to obey without much information. When their reactions include questioning, excessive commentary, anxiety, hand-wringing and stalling, it frustrates me. Haven't I built up enough trust with them that I can count on their respect?

Putting it in this context helps me see what God likely hopes to see from me: relaxed, trusting obedience.

But I am bummed out.