Where it Falls

Virginia writes about it in her diary, and so too does Rilke, and countless others, I suppose - this fickle life we shun at times for its unpredictability.  They don't linger though, as I do these days, fretting about how to "fix" it before it happens (control is more directly the word I'm meaning, though); their words are more focused on the regrouping and gathering of the bits left over when what we wanted and expected is instead a naive memory of an unmeasured wish.

There's been a great deal of change lately, some large and some small - a new job for one of us, new responsibilities and shifting priorities for both of us, and most days we're just happy to sink into the one unwavering foundation - the base of "us".

We're making it through though - hopeful of what's just on the other side of this and thankful to have the option for something different, for the possibility of better.  In the glimmer and worry involved in the anticipation of better, I'm taking the words above to heart and taking more time in this act of living that includes the curation of days and the arrangement of the pieces (an act I adore), but more so, remembering to take them as they come, not simply as I want them or need them, but all of them like a mother who loves without bounds, these pieces of life.

So we went blueberry picking and I mastered the grasses and needy branches with red ballet flats and felt warm and silly and happy.  My sister, a mouth full of blueberries and a bucket rattling with the few that made it in, laughed and took photographs.  Andrew washed dishes and I dried, and the record played the soundtrack to The Big Chill and we sang every lyric - most of them correctly.

In a few hours we'll walk a block over to the local theater to catch a documentary I've been waiting months to see, and then tomorrow we'll return to work once more and just maybe I'll be a touch better about the pieces...as they come our way.

An Open Letter to Lauren, on Her Birthday

Dear Lauren,

This was the sun waking up this morning, rising, coming  'round. Just before I snapped this picture, there was a bird, let's say black for the sake of my sleep filled eyes, and just below what you can see here is a small, older woman, clad in her brightest white walking shoes, shuffling her way down the street.  I tell you all of this because I like to think they're all up, all taking part in life the best they can in celebration of you.  It's maybe the best celebration I can think of for this day of yours - that the world, in all its fractured beauty, puts itself out there just a little bit more, gives itself to you just a little bit more.

In a few hours you'll be sitting, coffee in hand, making a list for your year ahead - adding, editing, and possibly re-imagining the days barreling forth. I am reminded of your love for lists - a way of making sense of what resists, of capturing the lofty and unfettered, of organizing the rebellious and unwitting tasks, of addressing the neglected, and it reminds me why you make so much sense to me, which seems funny to say, I know.

Making sense to someone when you are little and both you and the friend from school love Mr. Rogers, well, that's not so hard, and making sense to someone when you're slightly older and carrying around a marbled black and white composition book because you are going to be Harriet (the Spy), well that's a bit tougher though not uncommon, but making sense to someone as an adult when you are all of those things and more and really, still want to be Harriet, well, that's a different thing altogether.  It isn't about just liking or loving someone for who they are, or really, in spite of it.  If we're being honest, it's about no questions asked, hands down, in the center of your heart responses to the other person that always say "Yes, of course".

Friend, today and in the year ahead, I am wishing for you everything your list will hold and more.  I am wishing for you what you do not yet know you wish for yourself.  I am wishing for you the superbly unexpected - the kind of happenstance that will change all of those wishes in the best and most unexpected way.  I am wishing for you days that remind you, even when it feels impossible, that you are part of something bigger and smaller simultaneously and that your contribution, even when you're sure you haven't made one, keeps it all in motion.

I am wishing you a year when the world says to you "Yes, of course".

Tuesday Manifesto

I thought about my Spring Manifesto off and on all day yesterday. I mentally added to the list, reflected on how I might accomplish some of the items, and then unfortunately, as the day picked up, I caught myself trying to apply too many of my spring-wide wishes to the limitations of one basic weekday. In a matter of minutes I was both overwhelmed and disappointed, wanting to make 2pm on a Monday as magical as the manifesto's call.

This morning, after a bit of sleep, I awoke with this thought: a Tuesday Manifesto! Though really any day of the week would do. Instead of trying to fit a season's worth of good intentions into one day, I'm offering myself and my 2pm sanity, something smaller; I'm giving my heart something a bit more manageable.

Tuesday Manifesto:

This Tuesday, I will use the early morning hours to enjoy coffee in my office, while writing a new post.

I will pack the yogurt and strawberries I forgot yesterday for a snack today.

I will read my new book on the bus ride to work and then home.

I will listen to my current favorite band while working on Visual Management.

I will take more deep breaths, and I will go outside for a break when I think I don't need it.

I will wear a favorite sweater and bury myself in it when necessary.

I will remind myself that home promises breakfast for dinner, strawberry mango smoothies, and a husband who will remind me I'm doing a great job, regardless of failures I list to him from my day.

I will trust in my voice, even when it is weak, and I will share it, even when it's easier not to.

I will allow the day to be good.

Spring Manifesto

I love the promise implied in a good manifesto. I love the way that, even when the most cynical parts of me urge resistance to possibility in what feels like futile times, the declaration of "wills" outweighs "wont's". I love that a title so seemingly rigid (Manifesto!) could contain such whimsical assertions.

A favorite artist/writer of mine, Shari, has featured her seasonal manifestos on her blog for as long as I can remember - spanning years, and cities, and sites. This past month she featured a selection of people on her page, all sharing their own Spring Manifestos, and it had my mind racing. What would I write? What do I want to see/do/make this season? And finally, what's holding me back from writing my own? The answer: nothing. So, in fine (albeit tardy) fashion, below is my own manifesto. If you'd like to read more, you can find Shari's gathering here: http://theartofseeingthings.wordpress.com/

Spring Manifesto:

This spring I will take a drive through the farm roads of Western Washington and stop at all the tiny stands for bits of fruit and vegetables harvested from the ground I stand on to purchase it.

I will slow down when I can, and remind myself that the intensity of the work season need not necessarily follow me home.

I will continue to perfect my loaves of dutch oven bread.

I will hang curtains in the bay windows in the front room and let the sun shine through sheers midday.

I will continue, even when I think it doesn't matter all that much, to buy small bouquets of inexpensive spring flowers at the market so that home will be dotted with colorful reminders of outdoors.

I will reread, as I do each year, a few Beverly Cleary books, and I will remember what it was like to be young and in love with words, and what it is like to be older and still in love with words.

I will take more walks with my cameras, and try not to only rely on the quick allure of Instagram.

I will sit on the back steps more as the sun goes down and enjoy the sky as it's painted, and I will think of this scene and then run off to read the book again.

I will write more.

I will be kinder to myself when I do not write more.

I will write more.

This spring, I will do the best I can.

For You

One day, you will wake from your covering
and that heart of yours will be totally mended,
and there will be no more burning within.
...
And the rooster will call in the setting sun
and the sun will be beckoned homeward,
hiding behind your one tree that was not felled.
-from "One Day" by Patricia Jabbeh Wesley

Dear You,

You asked for this, though I know I won't give you exactly what you wished for. I know you want answers, and I've none. I know you want soothing, but I fear this may be thin. What I wish, though I'm not sure it matters, is that these words you requested could span the digital page, reach across the physical divide that separates us, and hold you as I would, were we together. What I wish is that this not be a lament for what you're losing, or have already lost, but a cheer for the gain - the upcoming wonders perched and ready to take over your life.

I would like to say, more than ever, that you will not hurt, that you will not cry and regret and second guess and anger, that you will not be overwhelmed with moments and maybe even days of impossibility, but I know it isn't true. I would like to say that you will be okay, and I will, but I won't pretend that finale will come swift, or that you won't choose at a thousand different times, to privy comfort and safety over that future peace.

So, in the absence of all I'd like, and all the clean, neat packaged cheers, I will share a truth you know, but may not, like me, always remember. The sun rises. It comes out, even when we think it won't, in the early hours of the morning when the late hours of the evening have just kept us up, gripped with worry and fear. It comes out, even when the winter's length nudges it into quiet corners, when the gloom of colder months assures us that the warmth of another is more valuable than our own. It comes out, even when we beg it not to, and it sheds light on what we did not wish to see, and casts shadows on what thought we wanted. And then, just when we thought we could not, we see it bring to light what we needed, and we allow it to shadow what we're leaving behind.

The sun comes out and the day goes on. We go on. You, my dear, will go on.

I think it's safe to say that you will need to be brave and courageous, but those are not traits you've ever run short on, anyhow. You'll need to face yourself more than anyone else, and that's probably the biggest battle. You'll need, though knowing you, you won't want to, to let go of the plan - there's a new plan in the works and it can't give any more time to that one.

The sadness is coming, like it hasn't quite yet, but it brings with it the sun, just after the shadow, and I can't wait for you to see it...it's going to be amazing.

Until then, I offer you these humble words from very far away, and I hope I'm smart enough keep it close to heart myself - I think we might all need a reminder of sun at times. It rises, and you will, too.

Hello Monday

This weekend was so slow and puttering and lovely that I'm rough adjustment into Monday. It will officially begin very soon as I slip out the door to the bus, but until then I thought it might be nice to reflect on the glory of the restful days behind me:

-early morning coffee and pancakes
-a walk through town to the antique mall
-the purchase of a box of tiny, plastic Scottie dog charms
-the purchase of a teeny tiny version of my desk chair
-the realization that the price card "Tiny Odd Items" sums up most of my life
-a plate of Spanish cheese, a creamy wadge of brie, olives, pistachios, and dark chocolate
-a shared small bottle of Angry Orchards cider with above mentioned snack
-library trips and book sales
-cleaning the house (including sweeping! and dusting!) in under and hour
-rewarding our quick but thorough clean with another walk through town
-stopping off mid-walk for a strawberry milkshake shared with two red straws
-finishing "An Everlasting Meal" by Tamar Adler - such a good book
-watching the Charles and Ray Eames documentary
-planning my own "uniforms" like Ray Eames (the pockets in her dresses went to the hems!)
-reading this article and thinking- Yes! that's how I'd like to be described

Early On

There, then, is the role of the amateur: to look the world back to grace.
- Robert Farrar Capon

Yesterday, at the end of a long, scampering day, I flipped open the front cover of my new book and read the quote above. I was still at work, still packing up the remainders of the day, but I wanted to pause for a moment to see if there was an epitaph (I distrust many books that begin without one - more on that another time). Then, as I read this brief line, rolling it over and over again in my mind, it was as if everything that buzzed so insistently through my head all day quieted, and for at least a moment I felt a little more in control.

In the very early morning I crawl out of bed, untangling myself from Andrew's long armed grasp, tip-toeing as gently as possible through creaky old doors and over creaky old floors, and I spend the early hours in outward silence and inward chatter (the good kind). Without realizing it, part of why I love this time so much is that I can, in a way, "think the world back to grace." It's all perspective, and though that's really true all day, these early morning hours are more readily in my grasp, calmer and quieter, and easier to notice. What happens, the best part really, is that the more I look the world back to grace during the early hours, the more I see it as the day progresses, the kinder I feel to myself and those around me. It's easier, I guess, to look life back to grace when you've offered it to yourself first - when you've seen the value.