i
n days to come:
such monsters
wild ones
horse and carriage
don't taint it
raw cotton
picking time
oh happy day!
h
ello world!
Yesterday was wonderful.
And happy.
And bright.
And hopeful.
It was also my birthday. I woke up next to my rascally pup and opened the door for her, expecting frolic and mischief. But no: she peed, then pranced back inside and snuggled with me for a glorious half hour. Then we went for a walk, waiting for Aby to come and share in our happiness. It was a walk through the woods in the morning sun, just her and me, hunters to be.
from Davis, but we would have gone here if we were there
Returning an hour later, we found Aby sitting in his gleaming pollen-free not-a-Jeep. We dropped the pup off at home for some more much-needed sleep (she exhausts herself in my house) and went to our favorite Northside Social. We always get the poached Polyface egg and bacon: sometimes it’s a hit, sometimes it’s a miss. Yesterday’s was a Babe Ruth Home Run baby, and man oh man was I a happy chick. We saw the pig smoking outside for goodness’ sake. I also had cream in my coffee (what a treat) and my best friend in the whole wide world and beyond across the table. Lucky indeed.
from long ago, but also every great day.
That alone would have made my birthday (or any day really) but then, then, we went on an adventure. Into DC, that mish-mash-pish-posh of maybe-it’s-cool and oh-my-gosh-it-is-super-busy-get-me-out-of-here. And it was definitely cool. We got street parking (woot woot) for free (woot woot woot) and we wandered to the Newseum. Incredible. I learned about the Berlin Wall, and cried my eyes dry at the September 11 exhibit. Aby quickly rescued me, but geesh I always appreciate a good cry for something that matters, and so it only made the day better. We had a brief glance at the pulitzer-winning photographs, my emotional instability (once the waterworks start I’m prone to sputtering) taking us through more quickly than we’d have liked.
never forget.
Aby walked us to a spanish restaurant (yum) where we had spicy guac (yum) scallops in pumpkin sauce (yum) and flank steak (yum) oh my gosh it was a perfect meal. Portions were right, flavors were delicious, weather was great, company, again, was superb. More surprises to come…Teaism down the road! And what a tea I had! A smoky green (I chose it because the name was Japanese) that was reminiscent of Lap Sang Souchong but undeniably grassy. Punctuated by my predictable mix-up and the fact that we liked the other’s better…fortune you are ever in our favor! Incredible flavor accompanied us on a walk to the Art Galleries. Reluctant to give up our finally-cool-enough teas, we waived our tunnel-walk for a return to our pup to continue my series of favorite Sundays.
Fun in the kitchen and chicken pot pie to show for it. I snuggled with boom as Aby did responsible things. Then we all snuggled before we made our way to my house. House-time was nice, but the best part was sitting with dad at the kitchen table . We did our normal things, and I was again astounded by my best friend’s curiosity, clarity, and though-process, and my pop’s wisdom. Wrapping it all up was ribs by my ma, humour by my sis, awkward awesomeness by my little bro, cake from randolph and cookies by my student. Then glorious sleep.
It’s a good life I lead, with good people and a good pup. I’m a lucky girl.
Praying for all those who are troubled with really troubles–may God comfort you, and may you feel His love everyday. For Mary Senkarik.
a reminder for me...every day can be like yesterday. aim true.
That Thing
I finished the Hunger Games last Saturday. Thursday night to Saturday night, one, two, three books. It’s been long since I devoured books with such relish or such prolonged focus; perhaps such reading requires a certain kind of book. I might say that I love Katniss. Indeed I have a crush on her. I believe my girl crushes occur because I want to be those girls; guy crushes rarely surface anymore. The rare times they do, I crush the crush; I force monogamy even onto my little seedling thoughts.
Aside from him, and perhaps Maddy, I find my best friends in books: a certain kind of book. They generally crop up in adventure stories, fantasy stories, stories set in different worlds. They have a firm sense of what is right and they operate to bring it about. They are brave; they are humorous; they are steady in their approach. They are often pretty to but a few, who are blessed with eyes that see them shine. They don’t often yearn for companionship, indeed they shun it, but they rarely lack it in those rare times of desire. And they often have true loves; it usually takes them time to get together, though. 200 pages is average. Children come in Epilogues, which promise more adventures and continued love as the parents grow old together, happy together, entering peaceful times of less adventure but no less charm.
I used to be jealous of their situations: oh to be a knight! Oh to ride horses, wield swords, weave magic! Oh to hunt, to run, to laugh, to love and be loved and have it be real and sure! But jealousy is an ugly emotion. Each of those girls’ decisions shapes the situations they occupy. Are they born with swords in their hands? Do they pop out with perfect aim? Can they speak to the forest as babes or do they learn its paths, find its secrets, make it their home? Do they choose someone who does not love them, or whom they cannot love?
But in the end, what is this love thing? How can I be so certain that I love these characters, who do nothing to me, who cannot even speak to me, who live in my heart but are not real for me to live in theirs. Is that love? Is that what I feel for God? I do believe God loves me back. I cannot know it, but I believe it; I am supposed to, for it seems that’s the only way God’s love works. I can point to the world around me as evidence of God’s love; I can make the world around me become evidence. The second seems the better option, for there are things about my world I would like to change. After all, I am selfish. I do wish I was in one of those books. I do wish, perhaps even more, that I could be one of those girls.
Maybe they no longer have to be wishes. Can I make my world into a place of adventure, of laughter, of sure and true love? Can I be a person whom I will admire, whom I will love? All that is left is to try.
eyelashes, why do you go away? to help me have wishes each and every day?
Can I make my eyelashes stop falling out? Probably not.
Called
I’ve been working for days (weeks, months!) on trying to get Boomer to come when I call. She does sometimes. Sometimes she just looks at me and carries on with her patch of grass; sometimes when she knows I don’t really want anything she just walks faster, straining against her harness, little legs pushing against the ground in a furious attempt to break free. Somehow, I know she does not want to break free of me. Free with me, perhaps, but mostly free to chase the birds, free to sniff the ground just out of her reach, free to greet any soul, muddied or spotless, with her kisses and her wagging nub. Free for the sake of joy.
Yet she stays with me; because of the harness, sure, but also she runs when I run, leash loose and waving in the wind. Sometimes she just stops, the good smells and curious sounds erased from her thoughts, and she begs me to come down and give her kisses. And we hug in the middle of the sidewalks, in mulch mounds and against trees, in dappled sunlight and even in that rain that she finds so troublesome. It’s a boundless love, the love she has. It’s a love I strive to give. It’s a love I’m blessed to have
puppy kisses
Love
borrowed from someone who borrowed it
There’s an old couple who goes to mass every week (that up there is not them, but you get the idea.) And stations of the cross too, it seems. I saw them this past Friday as my mom and I were walking to the soup kitchen. They were holding hands, he leaning slightly on her, she supporting him in all her smallness. I’ve never seen them not smiling at one another, except when they bow their heads to reflect on His sacrifice. Even then, when they fold their hands in prayer, it seems like they’re holding the others’ hand. For her hands belong to him and his to her and theirs to God.
He has the shakes…what do they call it? Parkinson’s. Wikipedia says Parkinson called it shaking palsy. It’s severe. Sometimes he rattles the pews. But he always gets up to go to communion. Sometimes she takes it for him in her hand, when he’s shaking too badly. But the priest always blesses him. I know God blesses him, and her, because such love as that can be God’s alone. Watching them walk there, between the cherry blossom trees, he with her and she with him, it was right. It was good.
daddy’s
My dad sang me “Maria” yesterday morning, with “Kristina.” Life is grand in serenade! And like that, I knew the day would be great.
It was, though, threaded with firey moods. At inept waiters, at selfish mothers, at tactless uncles, at dirty brothers, at silly sisters, at trafficced loves, at football teams, and pretty girls and pasta. But that warmth I felt at being loved, at being special…that was the story of the day.
I think this is why I like brushing my teeth so much
little
He drew me aside and told me, twice, that he was so happy I came. I realized how selfish I had been, how ungrateful to be wishing myself away. To be here with them is to be here with them, not with an ideal, a Stepford family. Sure I may wish some could just see the magic and smile, but how can I wish for others what I do not do myself? Enough worrying…
And so I have.
(Also, I bought presents because I like making other people happy :) beer for pops, stuff for mom, and finally I found Japan! Oh Epcot, you’re almost as good as being there.)
isn't he awesome?
girl
As high as he lifts me up, so long is the fall. (oh freshman mechanics…) I was happy and cold so I was skipping, dancing, leaping pirouetting forward and back and around my family, expressing how wonderful life is and this family about which I pranced so joyously.
“Knock it off” he exclaimed. Deflated, I halted in place, coldly trailing behind. And I realized, I cannot live my life for my father’s approval. I cannot hang on his every word. But this does not mean I love him less; no, for it is a mature love which goes beyond fealty, flowering to a fully informed unconditional.
I love you daddy. I’ll always be your little girl.
I’ll just try to be more, too.
and parkour and hunt and be wonderful
We
Woke up clean, woke up happy. Ish. Sad to say goodbye to my turtle and my dog. But we were off and we were giddy with the promise of the trip. Travel wears, but the first leg was good. Pictures, silly faces, camaraderie: we’ll get there again.
Hooray for new days. Dawn points
are
Jack London gave me a story with a happy ending. I thought of Boom with every passage…her story, her thoughts; what does she see?
Reading trash without a book is offputting. But wisdom is wisdom in whatever form; indeed I did not mind the smooth chrome that replaced the swoosh of pages and comfortable weight in the hand. I explored worlds of tea and then lost myself in the story of the wolf-dog.
