IN HIM IS NO DARKNESS AT ALL

that which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life--the life was made manifest, & we have seen it, & testify to it & proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father & was made manifest to us--that which we have seen & heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; & indeed our fellowship is with the Father & with his Son Jesus Christ. & we are writing these things so that our joy may be complete.
this is the message we have heard from him & proclaim to you, that God is light, & in him is no darkness at all. if we say we have fellowship with him while we walk in darkness, we lie & do not practice the truth. but if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, & the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, & the truth is not in us. if we confess our sins, he is faithful & just to forgive us our sins & to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. if we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, & his word is not in us. (i john 1:1+) 

dear friends, be in the Light, 
m

PLEASE, STOP BEING LAZY

I have a strong distaste toward when people cut down trees in their backyards because they do not like to rake the leaves in fall. 

The trees in my neighborhood are falling. 

P.S. Dear neighbors, I will rake your yards. 

HEARTLINES

Before I let these words out, let me light this candle: honeycomb stripes along the matchbox side, the moment of silence before an abrupt sizzling from the tip catching, the wax-tears collecting around the braided wick until they form a pool clearer even than ice, heat radiating, my breath that interrupts and smothers the flame, and the dance of smoke as it curls up. 

If only there were two Mondays a week...

Morning usually catches me off guard. I awake in confusion, uncertain, my dreams playing tricks on my memories. I often have to ride my tongue over my teeth to check if they are still there, because in sleep, I loose them in the oddest ways. 

This sweater is a gift, and itchy, but I am too fond of patched elbows and wooden buttons. Today, I have no plans, but will choose to savor. Let me think back to the week behind. Not in order, but as it comes. 

Yesterday, the sidewalks and streets were gold. I thought of heaven.

There is a quaint place between Thomas and Hamline where I sit and absorb. There, I had the fiercest longing to be a feather and an espresso that tasted of troll breath. There, the people that came and went, the calm bustle, the leaves that blew in when the door opened, the old man who returned after forgetting his jacket. I chose to walk the eleven blocks without a jacket: I wanted to feel alive and fill my lungs with approaching winter. My fingers numbed, too numb to write while I sat at the bleachers beside the vacant baseball field. The fence surrounding the field was turning to rust. When man-made things erode, I tend to believe God takes over, making elegance in the erosion. Rust is like that.

Saturday morning, I met with friends and met with strangers who became friends at a coffeehouse where we wrote and talked and grew. It was encouraging, a time to release, and be honest. How lovely it is to create and share: my heart was full, is full. People are beautiful, how much more beautiful God; us, in His image... each their own voice and way of seeing. 

My friend Holly moved this week, she painted her walls a purple-y shade of brown: like winter on a horse's dusty back. For breakfast, she brewed up a delicious mug of coffee and as I cheered for the snow from the kitchen floor, the first snow of the year, I broke my resolution to not listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. Cocoa, her step-mom's dog, and I danced to Bing Crosby after he slobbered on my pants, the pants I had worn the day before and slept in, so I didn't care one bit. I'm still wearing them, in fact. They are covered in husky hair. 

I am thankful for phones: an unexpected phone call from a good friend last night and a three hour phone conversation with my childhood favorite pieced my week like glue. I cannot speak of how much they meant to me. These people, whose faces I miss, but whose voices will have to do: to listen and remain dear. 

I am thankful for Sunday mornings when I strip away from my warm bed, nestled close beside my sister, and drive to the Wellstone Center early with my brother, because precious cuddles and talks and dance offs with Ayla and Micah are medicine to my soul. We are silly together, and honest. 

Monday, two friends and I drove over a resurrected bridge to the other-side of the Mississippi, where we visited a little shop brimming with history that could be traded for dollars, and followed the river, where I collected driftwood until we decided, half-frozen, to try the Onion Grille. Coffee and soup and a toy train that circled the room below the ceiling.
The man at the Antique Mall looked like a character from a book. He wore a white beard and had a flashlight strapped to his forehead. When he handed me back my change, I noticed his right hand was missing a finger below the nail. His opinions were honest and exuberant. 

"Do you know a good coffee shop near here?" I asked. 
"No, wanna open one? The one down the street doesn't know how to brew coffee, it'll be another four years before I go back. Another was opened up but it didn't make it because vegetarians shouldn't cook meat. Nothing wrong with being a vegetarian, but if you're going to sell meat, you should know what you're doing." He packaged up my small purchases in newspapers. 
"Someday, I'd love to open a book-store and have a coffee-shop with it." I told, "Like Nina's Cafe, have you heard of that place?" 
"I have. There's a new book-shop just down the street. A lot of people say he's an odd fellow, but the truth is, if you own a book store, you're not going to be normal." 

Wednesday evening was unexpected, but I love when life is interrupted with the spontaneous. Besides, I am not good at planning. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents and an alleyway to catch an echo. To be surrounded by life and swallowed by the alive not only felt in ears, but sometimes beaten into flesh, the pounding of drums, the whimsical moan of water in glass. To share music with a good friend too, that is precious. I'm thankful for him, we can talk about anything and nothing and for hours. 

After a day spent in moccasins that once were splattered in Bleu cheese, but now in blue paint; moving, constant, feverish, I was made well to snuggle with cousins and sister. We laughed late into the night, keeping Grandpa awake, I'm sure: I'm sorry, Grandpa.

A week between the seasons. Autumn is too short. The colors fade too quickly. I am still in July. I think perhaps, I will be in July for a long while, until... but I belong here. 
On my bike, I chased a flock of geese into the sky. I wish I could have tied strings to their feet and been carried South. Surely, if I could change the sound of my heartbeat, it would be to the honk of a Canada goose.

This day is escaping me. 

My paintbrushes, they demand to be used. All the Pretty Horses demands to be read. French demands to be learned. Beatrix Potter demands to be heard. Kaiser's articles demand to be studied. The Highlands demand to be walked. The dishes demand to be washed. The names of the wildflowers demand to be learned. Shelby's lines demand to be memorized. The 1,000's of unfinished projects demand to be finished. The laundry demands to be dumped in the machine. The scripts demand to be written. Songs demand to be sung. The guitar to be practiced. 

Demands. Demands of time. All good things, but first, let me choose Jesus. I am weak. I am distracted, easily distracted by a hundred ideas. The decision to choose Jesus first, that is what I am faced with. We are.

My heart is weak. Savior, help me to savor and accept what I am given. 

God bless your Monday,
m

DO YOU HEAR THIS?

We've used our hearts in the ways they've not been meant to be used. 

CONTENTED

These days, the Canada geese perform at the orchestra. At dusk, the pond is flocked as they tarry before taking off under the moon, their honking imitating Hong Kong traffic. 

Between work and the de-magicaling Cinderella hour, I paint and draw, read articles for my Saturday morning class, walk under the changing leaves, sit in splotches of sunlight at coffee shop patios, sing Jazz and hymns in the paintbrush closet, sip imaginary tea with Nora, fold the red clay into shapes to be worn, tickle and talk with the little ones after supper and coo at the squiggly babe who is learning to use his feet. I am content. There is so much joy in this life. 

Two Mondays ago, Kat, my sister Bekah, and I became wanderers along the St. Croix River, exploring below the bridge, crossing a shallow parting beside the river over a hollow log, climbing treetops, wading barefoot along the sand-shore and in between the golden grasses. Our souls raged in us and the beauty surrounding and in the September winds filled us. God, you are beautiful. 

Just a peek into our afternoon (now the park is closed due to the government shutdown). 

Off to climb the roads, m