THAT LIGHT, GONE

Teddy Roosevelt's diary entry from the day his wife died:

He never spoke of her death again. 

Earlier that day, his mother had died also. 

Can't even imagine... m

THE MOUNTAIN OF HIS MIRTH

"And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."

G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Where is your mountain? m

DEAR READER

Wednesday, it rained and the short hair pinned to my head with 37 bobby pins turned into jubilant curls. It was a rainy day that held back, waiting in clouds, but everyone knew that on a whim, her mood could swing from silvered mysterious glaze to a cold rage. 

Hanging on a thrift store rack was a pair of wired frames with a 1.25 reading prescription--it was love at first sight, which is ironic since they help me see (I'm so sorry, my sense of humor is genetic). Although they are ridiculous and surpass the 'hipster' look to the point of ugliness, being thin silver frames that two Grandpa's ago would have worn plus they rest crookedly on my nose, but I don't care how ugly they are and I'm not a hipster besides. Let me climb onto my soapbox. 'Hipster' is just another label and it's saddening to me to watch as people so easily define themselves and long to box themselves up into the confines of such a limiting category or stereotype. Why can't an appreciation of new music, foods, and cultures and a development of eclectic or eccentric taste simply be understood as growing up--trying new things, becoming more cultured versus becoming an identity? Yes, I adore frequenting mom-and-pop coffee houses on city corners and wandering corridors of three story high book shops (musty attics especially), trying foreign food restaurants, even the sketchy ones, wearing sunhats and Bohemian skirts to free indie concerts, wandering art museums endlessly overwhelmed by the profound in the most unusual places, but no, I do not identify myself as such. 

On the corner of University and 15th, I met Rose with a smile and embrace, and she led me about to capture her world at the U with my long curious eyes. Exhaustively curious, it was wonderful; humans are marvelous and strange creatures to observe, I only wish that staring was not rude. The campus too; the rich lawns and vines climbing to spill around 1800's pillars and marble arches were admirable. Although my friend has had merely two weeks of Swedish class, when she reads simple sentences she sounds delightfully Swedish--those lovely diphthongs! (One of my simplest joys is when I am read to, especially by a friend and especially when their language is masked with foreign words like cursive to a child. Perhaps I could live without eyes or a voice, but without hearing, no, certainly not!) As she showed me the cityscape and we walked on the bustling pathways, I asked, "Isn't the Weisman Art Musuem near here?" Rose laughed (her laugh sounds like a handful of soft gems falling into a woolen pocket) and exclaimed pointing, "The Weisman Art Musuem is next to Moriah!" When Rose and I departed, a gold flower loosely pinned to my ear jumped into her hair in a triumphant tangling mess. It was awkwardly hysterical. I still laugh about it.

My favorite coffee mug has paintbrushes in it, so I dug through the dangerous-because-everything-falls-out-on-you cabinet to find my polka-dot Christmas mug. But no Christmas music for me yet. I'm practicing self-discipline this year to see if I can hold off until Thanksgiving (have never done this before, wish me luck). 

I forgot to tell a story, it takes place before the cold front swept across this great Midwestern state. I was smitten by a lazy morning, home alone with Narnia, the dog. We were laying side by side on the wood-flooring, the fan directly blowing on us, her tongue hanging out, the humidity suffocating and dissolving my bob into a mass of frizz, both of us eating dry Chex from the box. I wore my Green Bay Packer's #30 Ahman Green jersey, the one I earned for Easter when I was 12 (Mom had bribed me into wearing an Easter dress by waving it as a trophy in my face). I was supposed to work in two hours, but was expecting my friend Holly to pop by for a bit beforehand. When the doorbell rang, I rushed to the front door and swung it open, Narnia yipping at my feet too high pitched, on the verge of flinging myself into my friend's arms, only it was a young man whom I did not recognize.
"Hey..."
"Hey, I'm J's son. I'm here to get her keys, she'll need them." 
Her keys? I didn't follow, it felt like a scam--paranoia? Wait, O yes, that's right, Rebekah's been dog-sitting. "O sure." With Narnia in one arm, the other hand cracking the screen door open, I began to pull away to fetch them in the drawer above the Chex boxes.
"And--" He stalled me, his face clenched, becoming serious, "just between you and me," he lowered his voice and ambiguously explained a concern, then asked, "Could I get ya my number?" 
"Yeah, let me grab the keys, one moment," As I set Narn down on the other side of the glass door, snout against the smeared window, grabbed the key's from the squeaky drawer stuffed with old phone books, snatched a slip off the fridge's grocery list and a hardcover kid's edition of Sherlock Holmes, he observed the fan's low rumble and asked about our electricity through the screen, apparently his mom's was out and they live just one house down. Odd. I returned and in a juggling toss handed the keys and paper on hardcover, popped the cap off the pen, which flew into the air, but with weird unnatural Spidey senses, quickhandedly caught it. 
"Thanks," he laughed. "Yeah, she's just real sad and stuff. And it just makes me feel better to know you can give a call," Explaining as he handed me the ten digits, his name scrawled above them. 
"Absolutely--"
"Cause I live pretty far from here." 
"Sure, yeah, I'll let you know." 
"Great. Yeah, see ya!" 

(On the whole, I wish I hadn't been acting French and had been wearing the proper attire.)

Seated at a bench in the meek silver drizzle outside the library (where finally I paid off my daunting fine--I could have bought 52 books from the library's book sale with the amount I owed!), I met G. K. Chesterton--he is a lovely man with an endlessly fascinating mind. I wish he were alive, what I would give to chat with him or people watch together! I am thankful he is still alive through his words: I laughed an awful lot on that bench in the silver drizzle with my wire rimmed glasses and would peek up from my book at the people coming and going; we'd laugh together at nothing, just seeing one another and smiling made us laugh: I wish I had a home of my own, I'd have invited them all over for tea by the woodstove and a supper of fresh rye bread and ginger carrot soup. 

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face--that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat--that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher  but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

(Chapter one: The Two Poets of Saffron Park, from The Man Who Was Thursday)

Going to get started on lunch, m 

P.S. I am learning about Pablo Picasso, according to his granddaughter Marina, he was a spiteful man. 

P.P.S. Finally watched Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby--and being a lover of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his grasp of humanity and consequences, and though I found it at times superfluous and the music distracting, it did render such a powerful capturing of the story that I was moved tremendously and look forward again to reading the book.  

P.P.P.S. One last thing--! you must let me prompt you to look up Ólafur Arnalds, an Icelandic musician, whose music is fitting for days like these. I discovered him today and am smitten. 

JOH'S ART FOR BLOOD:WATER MISSION

Between work at the quaint Greek kitchen and her song-weaving, my friend Johanna escapes to her carpenter's bench to create. 

After a refreshing swim in the community pool last I visited, she showed me the step-by-step process involved in sawing, burning designs and gluing or painting wood into a marvelous little memento to be worn on beaded or threaded leather.

Take a peek at some of her work here.

Johanna is selling her delightful hand-made necklaces and bracelets. Her beautiful spirit is giving all of the proceeds to blood:water mission (read about 'blood:water mission' here). 

The cost is whatever you desire to give or a minimum of $5.

Message me if you or someone you know would be interested (and I will get you in contact with Johanna). Also, she is open to your suggestions in the design! 

I adore mine, m

BEFORE ONCE UPON A TIME

She: A woman who is living out her true design will be valiant, vulnerable, and scandalous.

He: Yes, valiant in keeping God her first love, vulnerable to do and go where the Spirit leads, scandalous in living a life in full freedom. 

I DIDN'T REALIZE

How much suffering. How much blood. Syria's.

Here, a firsthand account from inside Syria's humanitarian disaster (the Doctor's courage and faith is encouraging).

Keep praying. 

2:19

Sun softly tucked behind clouds like golden locks behind ears. 

A year since, catching between around the lake and stairs leading to blue doors. 

Morning coffee at Brix to learn of heights and tomorrows.

Silvery breeze like the hand of ghost pulling at sea-blue curtains. 

Quiet streets, library on the curb, lingering stories. 

Warmth and gentleness of Rose and Maria's apartment. 

Earned carrots, Maria's pasta and Rose's tea. 

Anthropologie tapestry, transparency, deepened friendship. 
Glare of heaven on windshield to blind wide, sleepy eyes, and a fog to drown in.

Luke 2:19 

But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart. 

WHEN OARS MOVE RIVERS

Three bald eagles

swarm

Impassable marsh,

rounds of song

The cave between the barges 

the rust covered towboat with strung faded flag and the words 'america' making me proud to be here

Painted waters and skies moving reflections above

Oar between golden and shadow

Rust on the water, blues, purples, orange, the moon off the dock

Storing this up, m

A LOVE TOO STRONG TO FAKE IT

LISTEN / PEACE SONG
After groggy goodbyes, piling into Zeke's two door Toyota at dawn and driving till dark, with a few stops between, including one in Racine where we picked up Jamie, we drove. Drove until Missouri enveloped us. Once passed St. Louis, we stopped at Sonic and felt the eras pull and clash in the lot from the car show. The guys were an inch close to backing up the bug-spattered five-seater and popping the hood to join in (almost wish they had). 

We stayed with my cousin--he has a beautiful family and home with gorgeous photos captured of travels and beloved one's portraits, decking the walls. His year-old son was a blue-eyed doll the way he toddled to bring his parents their shoes "to say that he wanted to go for a walk" first thing after being fed breakfast. They were loving to watch.  

Sunday, I had the best water-balloon fight of my life--mouthful of swamp, survival dive into the murk, knees caked in muck, mind filled with adrenaline rush--and some of my friends had their feet eaten alive by fire ants.

I learned what "Happy Birthday Melody" means and also learned that Sacajawea is one of the women from the Old Testament, according to Earl.

Monday, a lovely waitress with scandalously honest opinions of the menu served us lunch at Ellie's Kitchen. With evening, on blankets sprawled across the cooled concrete of the garage, we imitated moths and clustered around candles lit in jars. Jesus was there. We strummed and worshiped till our hearts were exhausted.

Slowed breath.

They sang beautiful words.

My skin became goosebumps.

And we laughed still.

Servant heart.

Dared.

Double dog dared.

People watching: a favorite hobby.

This girl. Her soul a river overflowing more and more.

Creating.

Wisely spent quarters.

Forehead shots. Look at that laugh!

This ninja has a tie.

Micah could open an ice cream shop.

When all was spilled of loft-jumping and feet were examined.

When the sun falls on Rebekah Elizabeth, her locks turn to flame.

New proud pet owner.

Jamie's trick was magic to Micah.

Her radiance and wit so brightly. Lovely Veronica.

A Galveston alleyway, an audience of family.

Kye Kye's Peace Song, beautifully captured.

Her warmth in a smile and contagious spirit freely giving.

Ver calls me little bear when I laugh.

Hair spilling over like coils of sea-wave.

O-the stories we've been telling.

Ha!

The song of their laughter.

Nate's giant heart is often selfless and thoughtful.

Beautiful woman.

My dearest Sawyer.

To be thankful: 

Silly faces at highway strangers. Springfield's inner touch with Lincoln. Darth Vader voices. Nacho Libre jokes. Incredible accents. Heart hiccups from Police-mo. Limitless conspiracies. Hillbilly and ghetto hour. The embrace of a friend in the dark after driving lost hours. Batman mockeries. Morning worship. Sleeping in odd places. Kitchen floor talks and late night cooking. A taco salad much like vomit. Mumbling stories with jawbreakers in our mouths. First four seconds of Sweeney Todd under the dining room table. H&M's models to hug and kiss from a dare. Too many yellow ones for Bekah. People to watch slowly. Rollerblading children in the mall corridors. Breakfast made for others. The gypsy from Israel named Sapir who conned me out of $30 for dead sea mud. The black shoe crusade and settling on Converse. A quarter to buy bubble gum and spilled coins rolled over tile. Lovingkindness to each other. The voice of the Lord in 18:13 and Ezekiel 2. Joh's stool in the pantry where her face is a giant on the doorknob. The art of woodburning shared between us. A butterfly for a pen-pal. 111,111 purple ping pong balls. Runny chocolate oatmeal cookies with sprinkles. Us giggling three clothed in the tub anticipating. Forehead and armpit photos. Trunk talks. Sleepy visit to World Market full of scents. Barnes & Noble readings. Chasing the fire before dusk. Balcony jumps. Like three children in trouble. Doctor visits and the little boy with the robot. Slow spin on the wheelchair. A Betta fish named Iceling. Nerf gun wars and pretending to be zombies. Garageband lessons. Nate's ninja costume made classy with a Dad-tied tie. Laughing till tears. Frog catching after dusk. Micah's homemade chocolate ice cream. An era to walk through where ice cream and brain freezes occur. Jesus at the end of the rocky pier. The salt making wounds sting and bleed. Endlessly beyond the blue His love outstretches. Spicy jambalaya. Fuddruckers and Ellie's with some NASA spacecrafts between and jokes about watermelons. Little diddies thought on the spot to strum. Honesty and sincerity. Deepened friendships. Time soft and free to breathe slowly. Nathan the neighbor's zestful mischief like a little rascal. Veronica's haircuts. Shell collecting or jelly-fish crushing; choose one. Fire in their hair when the Texan sun fell. The green moss hugging the rocks. Stillness of joy. The souls singing beside the crash of ocean. Hands in hands-God on our lips before our hearts. Carrying Joh up. The Missouri trees wrapped down by vines to look like beasts against the horizon. Cheating out the Twilight Zone. Blue trees and palm ones. An alleyway for Peace Song. A car of air, fire and earth types. Boneless banana from a sweetie. Jamie's imitation of Louis Armstrong. Myca's soft twang at Food Giant. Soup to heal. Panera patio where I met Wendy. Developing Sunset Chasers. Good talks with our brother. Home again, safely. 

Mr. Pratt, Mrs. Pratt, Zeke, Joh, Seth, Veronica, Jessica, Nate, Micah, Jamie, Bekah, my heart pours out thankfulness to God for you all. A love that never fails, m