One of these things is not like the others

I wonder if he notices or even cares. (And I wonder why I automatically assume it's a he.)

My week has been unusual. The rhythm of the house is changing. Karis is entering the "terrible two's." While I don't actually find it to be "terrible," I do understand the sentiment behind the phrase. She's into everything. Climbing everything. Resisting everything I say. It's all curiosity and independence and stubbornness (and never leaving her alone in a room for more than two seconds.) All that to say, I'm tired.

I really long to sit down and write and take more photos, but those things are back burner items on weeks such as this. I feel behind in most areas right now. I finally had a massive cleaning spree the last few days, and I'm feeling more caught up. There are still phone calls to tend to and unanswered emails I must reply to lest my friends all stage a "what happened to you?" intervention in the near future.

So how does one cap off a week of feeling out of sorts? I think a trip to Charleston with some friends is in order. Yes, I hit the road tomorrow with 7 friends for a weekend of site seeing, eating, laughing, and general relaxing. No husbands. No children. That will do just fine, I believe.

Somebody

Somebody I know said 'hi' to everybody she saw in the grocery store today. And by everybody I mean every.single.human.being.she.saw. Not only did she say this, but she repeated it over and over until each person either said 'hi' back or ignored her long enough to overcome her persistence. Let's see...approximately 25 people, 5 hi's each...according to my 'hi'-o-meter, I estimate she said it at least 125 times.

Consequently, somebody else I know has a splitting headache and is going to take some Tylenol PM, watch the latest 24, and head to bed early.

FYI--The first picture is up over at The Carey Adventures along with a brief bio on me. Check it out here and here. One picture will be posted each day this week. So fun!

Growth

Growing :: Cupid's Dart and Black-Eyed Susan
Monday morning Matt and I woke up to some tiny sprouts peeking through the soil. Matt was thrilled, explaining that he has never done this before. I'd forgotten how magical it is when seeds, dirt, water, and sunlight combine to produce life in just a few days.

Growing :: Strawberry affection
Yesterday I asked Karis if she wanted strawberries during breakfast. She nodded yes, and as I disappeared into the kitchen I heard her catch her breath in excitement and begin giggling uncontrollably. I looked back around and she was smiling in anticipation like she does during tickle time with Daddy.

Side note--Karis' appreciation for Mom's photography is NOT growing. Once I washed and dried the beloved strawberries, with Karis looking on intently, I took a quick detour to the window to photograph the ruby red fruit. Her curiosity quickly turned into pleading which immediately escalated into all out sobbing. Bad, Mommy. Bad.

Growing :: Contentment in my city
I didn't want to live in Florida when we first moved here. It simply wasn't a part of my "master plan." But the balmy weather, big city amenities, and nearby relatives are really growing on me. A trip to Angie's Subs and the beach with dear friends yesterday certainly helps.

Jewel

I met a woman named Jewel today.

I attend a weekly group at my church. It is filled with young moms all in the same stage of life, and we talk about our lives, families, and our faith. We are a young, talkative group. And then there is Jewel. She is 82.

I arrived a little bit early today, and I went in and sat next to her. I introduced myself, and we began talking. To be more accurate, she began talking. She was a woman who wanted to share, and apparently I pulled the trigger.

I learned her husband built them a log cabin in the mountains many years ago. It was a beautiful specimen of architecture, and people "came from miles away to see it." There was a skylight in the attic and a tiny little space that she could crawl into and take a cozy nap whenever she wanted. That sounded really good to me, and it reminded me of my friend Jessica's secret room above her bedroom where she too could crawl up and take a cozy nap under a skylight.

Jewel told me her husband died in '98. In fact, I think she mentioned it twice. I've often wondered how people survive the loss of a longtime spouse. I asked her, if it wasn't too personal, how she survived his death. Her face immediately softened. She told me how it happened, and the pain was obviously still fresh as she choked back tears. I was surprised by the disbelief in her voice, as if she was still shocked he was gone. I asked his name. It was Joel. Joel and Jewel--in a cabin in the mountains that people came from miles away to admire.

I love meeting people like Jewel. She is a woman who has weathered many storms that life can throw in 82 vibrant years. And she is proud of her age, mentioning it 3 times in our conversation. "I've lived a blessed life," she said with her hands folded in her lap, a genuinely satisfied smile on her face, and a curious application of white-out on her eye glasses. Her story gives me hope and perspective. I look forward to seeing her next week.

[Photo: Karis spent the morning with her great grandmother, another vibrant woman who has lived such a rich life. She has survived the loss of two husbands and a son, and still remains joyful, grateful, and delightfully quick-witted. We love spending time with her.]

Correction

Scheduling change: To clarify from my last post, The Carey Adventures will feature my photography next week. So stay tuned!

Hello blog, hello camera

There is nothing like using the word "fart" in your last post to motivate you to post something new. (Ahem) My apologies for that...not my finest work.

Last week was a good week. Long but good. The blog was one of those things to fall by the wayside. I think that the internet being down for 3 days didn't help. Oh and my blog address being inaccessible for 2 other days also wasn't helpful. Needless to say, we've been somewhat technologically challenged around here lately. Five days of forced non-blogging was a good break, and I am ready to get back on it.

There have been a few subtle changes around here. For one, my blog now has a new address. You can still type in the old address and be redirected here. The new address is 'coasttocoastblog.com'. Type in the old address or the new and you'll end up here. I hope to improve a few more things as I have time and inspiration. This is a fun, creative place to play, and I enjoy the occasional face lift.

Starting tomorrow, one photo a day for seven straight days will be posted over at The Carey Adventures. I mentioned this opportunity over here, and I am excited my week has arrived. My camera has lived in the darkened confines of the camera bag far too much in the last few weeks, and I am hoping this project will inspire me to dust it off and start taking pictures again.

How was your Monday?

A friend invited me to a free yoga class last night. Knowing full well that a little bit of exercise is better than my current heart-strengthening diet of no exercise, I said yes.

Prior to going, I needed to cook dinner, feed Karis and myself, and drop her off at Matt's work. I fed myself some leftover tuna pasta. I warmed up some edamame in the microwave and tossed it in soy sauce for the now very hungry Karis. I ran off to my room to throw on my most presentable exercise clothes, a pair of black exercise pants that I foolishly painted my white china cabinet in thereby getting white paint all over them. Oh well, I thought and checked myself out in the mirror in the hopes that my outfit wouldn't give away my secret that I rarely do this sort of thing.

I headed back in the dining room only to find Karis had dumped all the edamame onto the table and had soy sauce all over her and said tabletop. I quickly cleaned her up, made her a peanut butter sandwich for her to eat while I was driving (at this point I didn't care how messy it would be in the car), and then made a quick peanut butter sandwich for myself (tuna pasta, while tasty, isn't filling).

I hastily put her in her car seat and realized I never got around to buying a yoga mat. Curses! I made a dash into the laundry room and grabbed a towel out of the dryer. It will have to do, I thought. I drove to Matt's work, dropped off Karis, and headed on to class.

When I arrived, I walked into the room and was met with a sea of infinitely cool yoga mats. I slumped down and wanted to hide in the back but my friends, with big beaming smiles and yoga mats, beckoned me join them up front.

Seeing little other option, I stretched out my gleaming white towel on the stark black carpet and sighed. My breath smelled like tuna fish and peanut butter, my hands reeked of soy sauce. My pants had big paint stains, and I was sitting on a big white bath towel.

At least I didn't fart during the 'downward dog' stretch. That was the lady two mats down. I swear.

Saturday's journal

I finally washed the Italian creamer I got from Goodwill. I knew nothing of its quality as it sat there forlornly on the shelf with all the other unwanted kitchen wares. But with its heavy stainless steel and promising spout, I figured it would be a suitable replacement for the tiny creamer we currently use. In fact, I was confident it would be good; who cares more about their coffee than Italians?

The clean laundry has reached new heights on our bed. The red, white, and both blue laundry baskets have all gone missing from the laundry room, each one used to shuttle more and more clean clothes into our room (command center for folding operations). Even that blue basket, the one I try to avoid because of the mysterious stains all over it, has been used. Desperate times, desperate measures.

On the way to the park we passed an assisted living facility named Almost Home. I pointed it out and we both laughed. While we think it is supposed to be understood that living there is like living in your own home, we read it differently. We felt certain they couldn't have picked a worse name, except perhaps for You are here because you are about to kick the bucket.

The leather ottoman lost its luster a long time ago. On my list of things to do was to clean and condition it. As I sat there cleaning its dark skin, I realize all that it has been through. It has served as a table, extra seating, and most often a resting place for our dirty shoes in Missouri, California, and now here. There are a few cracks and perhaps more permanent stains, but as the conditioned cloth smoothed over the rough and dry surface, I was thankful that leather is resilient. The sheen is restored and the surface supple.

Our weekends, like leather conditioner, are a time of restoration. Long talks, tending to our lists, cleaning and laundering, outdoor eating, and visits to the park...all to get ready for the race of the week to come.

The little chef

Karis has discovered the joy of imaginary play, and she loves to cook in her toy kitchen with her fake food. Cooking and imagination? Well now there is a kid's game I can get into! I've been trying to incorporate her into more of my own cooking practices recently. Realizing that what I do in the kitchen is often way above her eye level, I've been holding her and showing her how to do the various kitchen tasks so that she has an idea of how cooking works. On Tuesday, while making her peanut butter and jelly sandwhich, we pulled out her fake piece of bread with her toy plate and knife, and she mimicked my preparation. Yesterday it was a fried egg. Now if only I had a hot pink frying pan, we'd be in business.


***Update-I realized today that I usually sing this song to Karis whenever I hand her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which is every day. Warning, it is perhaps annoying at first but then ends up being very addictive. Don't watch this if you don't want to sing it every time you make a pb & j sandwich.***

On clay pots and community

Our clay pot collection is growing. They sit on our back porch collecting water...and sticks and a ball (the latter two being the handiwork of our daughter). While the temperature has been brisk outside, we've sat in our warm house and discussed what we'd like to plant in these pots. I think herbs have won the argument for the little ones and tomato plants for the larger ones. Now we need to do some reading and find out when to start tending to the seeds. We've not done this before, and I think we're both a little gun shy.

On Sunday I realized that I have some misconceptions about community. Throughout our marriage we have often discussed the benefits of being a part of a community of people. People who intentionally walk along side of each other through the hills and valleys of life. In the last seven years, we've been a part of various groups but rarely for a prolonged time period. I am questioning some of my previous assumptions about being "in community," and I am realizing that what I envision is something straight out of the 70's: a virtual Utopian society of sorts, where we eat multiple meals a week together, do many activities together, and perhaps live very near each other. I believe it is time for a reality check.

This week we are embarking on an intentional commitment to a group of people. Eight adults who are looking for a group of committed people to walk through life with. Individuals who will ask the tough questions of each other. Ambassadors of hope, trust, hospitality, and honesty. People who will also get in your face and challenge you when you need it. That is a whole lot more gritty than my former vision of community.

Signs of life

1. A dear friend is expecting her first child, a long anticipated gift.

2. The azaleas are blooming in the backyard. The blossoms are a pretty pink with a hint of blue. I'm sure the creative team at Crayola would call it something like rosy kisses or blushing mermaid. "Blue-ish pink" suits me fine.

3. Karis has been slow to say the word "Mama." In the last few months she has finally mastered the "m" sound. Now, as if it were the only word worth saying, she says it all the time. With a smile from ear to ear, her whole mouth engaged, and a decided nod of the head, she says slowly and deliberately, "Ma-Ma." Every time I hear it I feel parts of my heart melt that I didn't know needed melting.

When we first moved into our house last year I wasn't crazy about the paint color on the outside. A drab, washed out blue-gray. I am quickly learning that those neutral colors on the interior and exterior walls make pleasing backgrounds for photos.

Some friends joined Karis and I for lunch at Whole Foods today. Christa says going there is like having a religious experience. The comparison proved true for my other friend Nikki who, as if in a trance, frantically sniffed through the Indian section of the buffet. There was a certain aroma that caught her attention, and she was dead set on eating whatever it was that smelled so good. She settled on the Dal Saag, a lentil paste, only to discover she had chosen incorrectly. We still don't which dish it was.

From where I sit

Last week I took a real break from this virtual world. Karis and I flew up the coast a few hundred miles to a region that feels like the center of the United States right now, the beltway. We spent the weekend with the "cousins in the north." It was a great adventure, and I was glad for the break from my daily routines and habits.

In the time away, I spent some time reflecting on this little corner of the cyber world that I inhabit. I like blogging, and I hope people feel welcomed to sit back and enjoy the stories and pictures. I guess it's kind of like story time, but instead of a rocking chair and a persnickety librarian, you have me, in my pajamas, wielding my mouse and keyboard.

Well, there is also this other little goal. It's personal, but I'll share. In fact, I already have shared a little bit here. I want to improve my writing and photography skills. Eventually I would love for these homegrown passions to flourish into a financially satisfying gig.

Photographer and blogger Peter Carey is passionate about traveling and capturing the beauty he sees around the world through photography. I've been checking in on his travels for some time now. He is generous with his advice (having left a few kind and helpful comments on my blog). He is also a photographer's photographer--he is really out to help other photographers reach their highest potential. A few weeks ago he offered to feature one photographer's work for a whole week on his site. Seeing that the risk was minimal (a.k.a. I'd never hear from him), I commented that I'd love the opportunity.

In my inbox last night sat a little email from Peter saying he had decided to feature everyone that left a comment, myself included.

Wow!
Exciting!
What fun!
Really?!

I guess there was a part of me that didn't think my work would appeal to him. After all, his photos are grand, breathtaking views from around the world. I, on the other hand, shoot photos during my daughter's nap time. Truthfully, when she finally stops her incessant squirming and those little eyelids shut, I steal away into my little creative world. I pull out my props and set everything up by the northwest facing window in the home. The light is always gorgeous by that window. I love taking my homespun photos, but these are no panoramic beauties from around the world. They are ordinary glimpses into my ordinary life as a wife, cook, baker, home decorator, and mommy.

I guess that is what has made blogging so wonderful, though. It allows me to find the beauty in my day, no matter how simple and commonplace. If I open my eyes, I can find it...anywhere. Even in my bathroom. Both photos in this post were taken in my bathroom on the day that I commented on Peter's site. I had gone into the tiny, 4x8 'water closet', and as I was in there thinking these thoughts about how my photography wouldn't appeal to a "real" photographer, I noticed the light hitting the shower. The simple, soap scummy, white shower was aglow with the afternoon sun. And then directly across from the shower was the little window from which the sun was beaming in (behind the mouthwash and shower radio!). I ran and got my camera and watched as the sun set...from my bathroom.

I realized that for the time being there will be no South American mountains to scale or European towns to explore. Ancient ruins will go untouched by my feet. Instead, I tread this carpet and tile and capture the beauty in this 1100 sq. foot home. And Peter will share it with you in one of the weeks to come. I'll keep you posted!

On heritage and apple cake

Heritage::
I spent yesterday with the t.v. on all morning and afternoon. It was comforting to have the inaugural events proceeding quietly in the background as we went about our day cooking, playing, and chatting with guests. The volume went up for the bigger moments (introductions, speeches, prayers, etc.), and it went back down to a low drone as I hosted some friends and family. Ordinarily I am not one for background t.v. sounds, the incessant dribble of electronic media beckoning me to buy, want, and be mindlessly entertained. But yesterday was different. The endless word on the mouths of announcers, news commentators, bloggers and friends alike is that we are a part of history. We witnessed it in the making yesterday, and that fact was palpable as I watched the events unfold. Many, many words have been used to describe the significance of it all, and I dare say there is not much more I could add to any of it.

Yesterday had me thinking about the great stories of survival and success in my own family heritage. So much talk of hope and hard work and thriving through adversity had me celebrating my mother's immigration to America. Her grandparents sacrificed luxury and comfort for the uncertainty of a new culture, language, and all of this in their old age. They brought her here for something different. I've been to Cuba, and she HAS something different, that's for sure. Her life is vastly different than her childhood friends now grown up and looking 10-20 years her senior though still contemporaries. And so my life is different as well, because of her sacrifices and those of her grandparents.

I also thought of my grandfather (my father's father) and his family who emigrated from Germany to the US. You want to talk about hard work and a spirit of optimism? My grandfather was endlessly optimistic. Even in the last few years of his life, with his health declining considerably, he still spoke so optimistically about life and passions and work. I LOVED that about him. I admired it in awe and wonder. Even in those self-absorbed years of my adolescence, I understood the power of this hard work he spoke of.

Yesterday I pulled out some photos of these people and showed them to Karis. My mom, her mother (now also in the US), and her grandmother who accompanied my mom and lived with her until my parents married. I also pulled out a picture of my grandfather, that man that taught me how important real estate investment is and how wonderful it is to continually keep your mind active.

The inauguration reminded me that Karis will know a world where an African American can arise to any level of employment. Likewise, I plan on telling her the stories of hard work and endurance in our personal family history. These stories are a part of the national and personal heritage passed down.

Apple cake::
On to the lighter side of things: cake. The blogger from whom I got the recipe refers to this as an "Apple Tart Cake". She was given the recipe without a name for the lovely dessert, and appropriately named it both tart and cake because it appears to be a marriage of both. I am going to go a step further and call this the "Pantry Apple Tart Cake." Yes, indeed. I have literally penned it on the actual recipe sheet. (Very bold, no?) I made this cake yesterday to celebrate the inauguration. Well, that is what I told myself as I was preparing it and very sternly telling myself I didn't have the time to bake nor need for the extra sugar in my life. But alas, history-making was far too good of an excuse, and so I baked on.

I loved the expression on my friends' faces as they took their first bite. It manages to be crunchy, buttery, pleasantly sweet, and apple cinnamon-y all at once. It is indeed a true hybrid of a cake and a tart, as Molly said, with a crunchy crust topped by baked apples and thin layer of soft cake-ness. But what really sent me over the moon with excitement was the fact that I had all the ingredients. It was a relatively simple recipe, constructed out of items I almost always have on hand. And that never happens. Hence my addition of "pantry". This recipe is going straight away into my "Favorites" file, to be made on an occasion such as: out of town guests, a dinner party, Sunday supper, weeknight dinner, or any "I need something sweet" craving. I think that just about covers any occasion known to man.

Friday musings

Steak story::
I have done a lot of cooking this week. The aromas drifting in and around the corners of this home have told the story of many a dish and baked good I've created. Free time and boredom equal kitchen experimentation for me. I had a serious craving for steak last night, prompting an evening run to the market and a late night sizzle in my best cast iron pan. I often cook steak indoors following Alton Brown's stove top to oven method. It is usually full proof. Last night was a different story. I managed to put the steak in the oven prior to the oven reaching the proper temperature. The steak was ok, but it hadn't developed the proper crust on it. You know, those delicious little crusty bits around the edges that at first have you thinking you may have burned the poor thing but later realize are the beautiful result of a proper sear? Needless to say, it was a disappointing fate for a pricey craving.

Around the globe::
Cinnamon was the star of the show on Monday, perking up a loaf of pumpkin bread (pictured above) and also Chicken Tagine (click on link, scroll down). This Moroccan stew features chickpeas and chicken in a earthy stew with onions, scallions, and garlic. The first impression this dish makes is clearly ethnic in nature, with a medley of very unAmerican spices for a savory dish. Hints of red pepper, ginger, and a strong presence of cinnamon linger on the palate long after the first bite. It was an easy, one pot dish. I liked the flavors, but my daughter made it clear she wasn't a fan. International cuisine is a guarantee around this house, and she'll develop a taste for it, soon enough.

Cooking in the sky::
I was mid-sentence with my husband last night when I turned and looked out the window to catch this beautiful moment in the sky. With my sentence dangling, I grabbed my camera and ran out to the back patio for an impromptu photo shoot. Setting my camera set on an ottoman (a tripod is at the tippy top of my wish list!), I snapped a few shots of the quickly fading color show. When it was over, I went back in, apologized to my (somewhat amused?) husband, and finished my story. I try not to make a habit of this sort of behavior. It's just plain socially awkward. But she's a pretty sky, isn't she?

Hermit week

This week is going to be remembered as hermit week.

A nasty stomach virus has been slowly creeping up on my child. Just when I think it is just a 'little something' that has her down for the day, this bug kicks it up a notch the next day. Well, whatever ails her bloomed into a full blown fever today topping out around 104 degrees this evening, with vomiting and body shivers. Her poor little body was flipping out but she somehow managed to handle it a lot better than I would have at my grown age of 29. We popped her current obsession in the dvd player (Charlie Brown Christmas...yeah, still), fed her ice chips, pumped her full of medicine, and eventually the fever began to come down.

As hard as it is to watch her be miserable, her sickness is doubly hard on me as it keeps me home during the week and wipes my schedule clear of any social activity. This is a typical part of parenting a sick child, I hear. But it's one part I struggle accepting. I need my friend time. It's my recharge time, and I fervently believe it makes me a better wife, mom, and person. Alas, sometimes the call of mothering necessitates such sacrifices. Making these sacrifices with a good attitude? Now that is the ultimate challenge.

I stepped outside of my house tonight to try to capture some of the low flying planes. We live mere miles from the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. I would not have thought this would impact our lives as much as it has. Low flying planes crossing over the house every five minutes, all day long. And lately? Night time flying. I'm way over any charm or curiosity I had the first few days of moving in. I really want to get a photo of one of these planes as it passes over the home. You would not believe how close they fly. A little 9-11 shutter comes over me sometimes.

While outside looking at the planes, I played around with my camera and the slow shutter speed appropriate for night time photos. By focusing on my neighbor's outdoor light, I attempted to write my name (top photo). Can you see it? It says 'Alina.' (Don't judge. Hermit week, in all it's boredom, produces some rather unusual behavior).

Finally, I dug deep into the files of my childhood memory and came away with an awesome find. I got to thinking about something my aunt tells every time I see her. She reminds me that as a child I had a really deep voice, and I would watch Sesame Street and sing, 'Which comes first, the chicken or the egg?' I sang it boldly and pronounced 'first' like 'purst'. I have no memory of this song, but I got to thinking that perhaps it could be found on Youtube. Look what I discovered.



Clearly the brainchild of some stoned, hippie chicken farmers, this video is quirky and fun. My sense of humor was already fully formed by age 3. And am I mistaken or does it sound like they are actually pronouncing 'first' like 'purst'?

I’ve already forwarded the proof to my aunt.

Banana pancakes

Today was a lazy Sunday afternoon. The rain fell gently outside. The babe and man of the house both engaged in some nap time. Thoughts of dinner slowly began to come on the horizon when Matt woke up and greeted me as I was being moderately entertained by a movie. We remarked on what a great afternoon it had been...relaxing and cozy. He looked at me with a sideways glance and sparkling smile, and I knew what he was thinking when he disappeared into the kitchen. He and Jack Johnson both knew the conditions were perfect for banana pancakes.

My husband made the enchanting discovery yesterday that when slices of ripened banana are plopped into pancake batter right after it has been poured onto the griddle, magic occurs. The bananas caramelize and form a sweet and crispy crust on the surface as they cook in the batter. The finished product is a pancake with chunks of warm, sweet banana in nearly every bite. I said it was magic, right? Turns out, this is a great Saturday morning breakfast. And a savory Sunday evening meal. And probably an excellent Monday night dinner, if we're honest. Cause that's how we roll around here.

Karis wanted to show you what the delicious pancakes look like all chewed up. Yeah, you're welcome!

Shake it

I need more dance parties in my life. That is what my friend heard me say on the phone today. She laughed, as well she should have done with such an unexpected admission. I was serious.

The cd so stubbornly stuck in the player of my car contains a recent Paste compilation. I realized this was not such a bad album to have stuck when I found myself repeating track #2 over and over on my way home from the store last night. I smiled and danced, beckoning my already dancing daughter to join me in an impromptu dance party. She is usually quick to oblige the second a funky beat booms out from any speaker.

Dance parties ran free like water in college. Recipe: grab the nearest hall mates into a room, throw a good cd in the player, lower the lights, and let loose. Many a rug was "cut" with some talented women.

I miss Jessica so much when I think about dance parties. I called her my "sugar plum, cherry-coated, polka dancing, gum drop." Bomb shell blond hair and bright pink lips, she could sweat on the dance floor like no other. It was never anything super graceful, but it was always spirited, energetic, and seriously rhythmic.

Another hall of fame dance maniac is Brooke. Now, you talk about graceful moves and she's your girl. We've danced together in many a locale: Tennessee, Florida, Missouri, Eastern Europe. One of my favorite spots we danced together was at her childhood home with her family a couple of years ago. A sometimes family tradition, they pop their favorite Stevie Wonder album in, turn off the lights, hit the strobe light, and everyone goes to town. Everyone. Mom, Dad, siblings, friends all dancing our hearts out in that little home nestled in the central California hills. I've moved away from Brooke, and she now dances with her newly adopted 14 year old daughter. I am sure they still dance to Stevie Wonder.

The rugs in our new home have not been officially christened by dancing feet, and that is a shame. When I explained all this to my friend over the phone, she agreed something needed to be done. I think she and her baby are going to make great dance partners for me and Karis.

My daytime dance partner. I tried to take a photo of her and Daddy dancing today in an impromptu "Daddy/daughter dance off" when he came home for lunch today, but none of them turned out. As Daddy said, "Some things are just not meant to be photographed...like our dancing toddler." Instead I leave you with my favorite shot of her having a wildly good time in the winter leaves on our recent family trip. Oh and that song Karis and I were dancing to? It's "Say Hey (I love you)" by Michael Franti and Spearhead. I have a serious crush on this song right now. Check out the music video.

Hilltops and valleys

Today marks seven years for me and my honey. It’s hard to believe we made such a monumental commitment to one another. We now realize how good it was that we did this when young and naïve. Marriage is healing, exhausting, and constant. We celebrate this commitment to each other today. We also celebrate the end of the most trying year so far in our young marriage. Much lost and even more learned. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Twenty-five days of unbridled writing and photo creativity-- the DPP was a great experience. I can’t believe how much I learned about my camera and myself. I am sort of “worded” out. I find myself having trouble getting started back up. I don’t like feeling wordless.

The definition of retreat is “to withdraw, retire, or draw back, especially for shelter or seclusion”. I like that definition. My family did just that last week as we escaped to our vacation spot of choice on a tight budget: Chattanooga. We had an unspeakably good time. Good friends, savory food, hours of lounging, and even a bonfire thrown in for good measure. Oh yes…and laughter, laughter, laughter. It was so needed. Restoration came in those 5 days of "withdrawing".

While in Tennessee, we visited the college where we studied books (and each other). I had not been back there in years. So many memories came back as we drove up the mountain and strolled around the dormitories and lecture buildings. It made me miss those years and ever so thankful that I was past them. A funny mix of emotions.

One thing is for certain, it was an enchanting day. Gray and gloomy, a fog blanketing the mountaintop. We walked around for hours with Karis, showing her the places where we fell in love. Truth be told, we climbed around that campus. Many flights of stairs, up and down the hills. I relished the dim lighting and moodiness of the day and took around 600 photos. Matt spent time encouraging Karis to maneuver her way up and down all those hills and stairs, mostly without hand holding. It was so good for her. There was such a look of pride on her toddler face as she roamed around on her own, ascending the many stairs and rising to each challenge.

I couldn’t help but think as I watched her just how much our year has been like climbing those flights of stairs. One challenge after the next. Always feeling like we were climbing but getting no where. Exhausted and uncertain of what our future held. But like Karis, I too felt pride and gratitude for reaching the year’s end. Pride that we made it relatively in tact (some bruises to our pride, confidence, and marriage aside). And gratitude to the One who certainly has carried us through.

We will not be the same after this year, this much I know is true. But I like who we are now.

Always growing.

Grateful.

Beautifully unfinished.

A Tale of Four Chairs

I love making old things new. There is a deep, abiding comfort in redeeming something. The life of Jesus was all about a redemption project. I've concluded that it is simply gratifying to restore something to its original luster, the beauty it was created to display.

My sister-in-law and her mother are excellent at redeeming things. They see the hidden value under the chipping layers of paint and gaudy 80's fabric. But me? I profess to be able to do it. I look at something and with the arrogance of a school girl, I flip my hair nonchalantly and proclaim with utter confidence, 'I'll just paint it. No problem.' But on the inside I am the shy school girl hiding in the back of the class, petrified that the teacher is actually going to call on her. The confident school girl always beats out the shy one when I am in the store contemplating buying something tattered but promising. It is when I get home that I face the demons of inexperience, lack of know-how, and inadequate funds to support my new 'redemption' project.

Furnishing our little home has been a priority for me over the last few months. We sold most of our furniture before leaving California. It didn't make sense to lug it across country, rent a large truck to carry it all, and risk having it ruined by the 3000+ mile trip from sea to shining sea.

So, we sold everything except the beds. Every. Last. Bit. Of. It.

Once we landed in our own home, we began to unpack and take inventory of the empty corners and bare rooms. Eating on the floor got old really quickly. Thus commenced the searching process. I became a religious lurker of the local Goodwill and Craigslist.

Slowly but surely the home began to take shape. The living room was filling out nicely. I had a dining room table but no chairs. And I was kind of picky about what I wanted. I was about ready to throw in the towel and give up when my mom came to visit.

I remember the day I first met the chairs. It was a hot, sunny day in October. My mom and I were on a mission to find my dining room chairs and some patio furniture. We strolled casually into the Goodwill a couple miles from my home. This place is a virtual treasure trove. And this day did not disappoint.

Sitting there awkwardly were four white chairs, each facing a different direction as if they'd lost their way and each was trying to figure out which direction to take home. As I neared them I noticed they were the exact style I had been envisioning...rustic, farmhouse style, spindle-back chairs. Slapped haphazardly on one of them was a sign reading '4 chairs for 25.99'. Looking closer I could almost detect a shade of pink as they blushed in embarrassment from being sold for so little. I stepped up to them, bent down, and in a hushed whisper, with a satisfied grin I told them they were coming home with me.

They were instantly white again, I swear.

My mother and I quickly rounded up these four chairs, a few outdoor pieces of furniture, and a slew of lamps. Ecstatic from our finds, we shoved it all into her hatchback and headed home, our hands out the window, singing a gleeful song about our good(will) fortune. I may have even heard humming from the rear.

From that point on, the story is rather drab. Or at least predictable to anybody who has ever done this 'makeover' type of thing. Chairs sanded. Paint purchased. Paint applied. Paint not quite right and returned for a different type. Second purchase is much better. Paint goes on in layers. Much time elapses between coats. Long story short...it has been three months and all the chairs are complete, as of last week. Well, actually two chairs need one more coat. It will happen, some day.

They do look lovely, in case you were wondering. Instead of begging, Somebody please take us home!, these chairs proudly proclaim, Take a seat and stay a while. Enjoy a savory meal. Talk about love and life. I am a rustic farmhouse chair. It is my duty to serve you.

Sure, the work was considerable, and the cost was steep for my budget. But when I look at these ladies, I know it was all worth it. They are black and beautiful. Not a trace of pink, I promise.