golden hour

there is a sliver of time before sunset known as the golden hour. when the sun pours across windows and through tree branches. when i walk to the mailbox in my flip flops and feel the small gravel stones against my feet. there is a breath at this hour unlike any other. a release of the day, a sending off of upsets and stresses and disappointments. at the old cottage, my favorite place to soak in this special half hour was sitting on the countertop, my calves resting against the cupboards. but here in this new place, its on the driveway. watching as robert and pablo pull up in the truck and both come falling into my arms.

the day can wear. oh, it can wear a girl down. but all it takes are moments like this, pieced together through a lifetime, to build us back again.

a weekend in

 

 

it was hard to leave the house this morning, with the sunrise spilling in across the bed and pablo's eyes not yet open to the day. it reminded me of how we spent this weekend, the three of us huddled under covers while it snowed and sleeted and rained outside, eventually giving way to sun bright and warm enough to walk in.

this was a long weekend of coffee, movies, reading and talking. of stretching and moving and then sitting for inordinately long periods of time on the couch. and for the first time in a while i remembered what relaxing felt like. the tangible weight of Nothing To Do. where the days pass and you change from one form of lounge pants and a t-shirt to another, then into pajamas when the day gets dark enough to warrant such delicious comfort.

we talked about our garden, and our honeybees. about the beach in february and the newport folk festival in july. we planned and schemed our future a little bit on monday. there are  big decisions coming up soon. but for now, for this little pocket of a weekend, we were two kids in the country, a mile or two from the high school halls where we met, cocooning under a homemade afghan and existing on little but egg sandwiches and kit-kats. oh but what a sweet time this is.

scenes from this weekend: the haze and the days

 

 

 

  

this weekend was actually quite foggy. and muggy. but when the blanket of haze wasn't covering the space outside our windows, it was breezy and pretty enough for two long walks through the country. we passed a sweet neighbor who, upon seeing us, quickly ran inside and brought out a gift bag filled with homemade chow-chow and a kind note that mentioned, "we need more young folks on this road." another neighbor, sweet crazy ol' jerry, walked to greet us, among his used tires and puppy dogs and piles of split logs, and declared that he was carrying the best flu medicine available in his little silver mug. we smiled and kept on down the road. bless his country-blastin, western-watchin, kind-as-can-possibly-be old heart.

it was a weekend spent indoors, behind gas log fireplaces and dark rooms filled with only the television glow. inside church fellowship halls. at one point, i had my entire family around our farm table, with the lamplight illuminating their pretty faces and i felt my heart swell with gratitude. for this time. for this place. for this season.

but when the sun did peek her pretty head out and cover the back yard with enough glow to take some pictures, i ventured out with some new treasures ready to be added to my shop. and how good it felt to pose again. to slip on the beautifully preserved pieces and think about the women who wore them first.  who thought and dreamed and wished and yearned and worried and loved just as i have.

hope your weekend was equally blessed and beautiful.

a new yard and time

wall of hymns over our sofa

it's supposed to be seventy this weekend, but right now it's misty and cloudy in my corner of carolina. it's so gloomy out that the owl who perches on the old swing outside my bedroom window, the one i nicknamed peter, was nowhere to be found when i rose this morning and stretched against the pane.

though we've been here almost a month and half, i haven't really gone out into the backyard for the blanket of chill that has laid itself across these grounds. but i remember it. one hot evening in summer when i was in middle school, i sat cross-legged on the grass and found about 10 four-leaf clovers. i pressed them into my bible and ran in to tell my parents. now they are crumbled stems between the pages, traces that remind me of all that was good and beautiful about being young, and all that is sweet and sacred about being here, in this same house, so many moons later.

but tomorrow, we will go back there. past the place where the see-saw used to be. the rusty one nanno salvaged from the church yard sale. i will decorate the old shed with christmas lights and dust off the picnic benches. we will pick out a spot for our honeybees and dig our hands into the earth to prepare it for our garden. today reminds me that winter is still here in all her frosted glory. but springtime is quick on her heels, bearing clover and crocuses, bare legs and painted toes. and hopefully, the return of peter.

scenes from a country weekend

this weekend was a breath and release. a sigh in the country. a remembrance that the thing that most stirs this heart is the sight of cows behind a split-rail fence. that and good pintos.

hope yours was beautiful, too!

while i was out

wow. it's been a while, huh? i don't know what caused this funk. this little hiatus that ballooned into a downright break. from blogging. from facebooking. from looking at any screen that was not required by work or school. two beasts, busy season at work and my last semester of grad school, decided to burrow their little faces into my life at once, and in this case, the concept of "the more, the merrier" was lost.

so i gave it up for a bit. and in the mornings i sat on the kitchen counter in the dark and thought about the day. and in the evenings, i took long walks to mom and dad's and didn't think about that blue light beckoning me from my little red desk.

but as it always does, the need to write was uncompromising. the need to put words to this heart stirring. so hi! as much as i truly want to, i can't promise my posts won't be sporadic until december. until i can finally slay one of those beasts by donning an oversized black cape and square hat with tassle. i'll stomp on him in my heels as i walk across the creaky old stage in the church where graduation is held.

what i've noticed on my time away is this: there is a sacredness to free time. there is a deliberate holiness to how we choose to spend those minutes, hours or entire, blessed days that are ours for the filling. and somewhere between the supper dishes in the sink, the tennis ball thrown down the short corridor between the bathroom and the bedroom for the hundredth time to a pup who never seems to tire, the refilling of the coffee cup, the wine glass, and the water bottle, the opening of a new book just to fall asleep against the cool cotton, and the conversation that starts small between family around an antique supper table then mushrooms into guffaws and shouts of hilarity and smiles that say i know you and love you all the same, we find God.

because it's not just in the opening of the Bible or the fellowship between believers or the late-night prayers whispered up from the depths of the covers that we engage in this way. it is entered into, often unintentionally, by the simple act of living. when we reveal our truest self in that split second we aren't trying to pretend to be someone else. when, for even the briefest of glimpses, we let that shell crack. when the lipstick is off and the bangs are pushed back and the old t-shirt emerges.

it is there that we remember, oh yes. this is who i was. this is who i am. and Lord help me, this is who i want to always be.

this weekend...

 

 

...will be spent mugging on this sweet face.

who stayed up past midnight with his babysitter, waiting for me to return from night school.

who reminds me that this world can be simple. and beautiful. and good.

if we just let it.

what are your weekend plans? pablo and i hope they involve sleep:)

scenes from a country cottage: the squirrels find the corn

 

i was about to go for a walk yesterday, when the late summer sun cut the prettiest glow across the yard and i had to run back inside for my camera. the dog days ended yesterday and there is a new whisper of cool in the air, so faint you have to strain to feel it, but it is certainly ahead. as i walked around, i noticed the corn shavings and peelings and pieces littering the ground. it seems the friendly squirrels who patrol our trees have discovered the glorious, delicious cornfield that flanks our cottage. the other morning, i stood silent in the laundry room and watched as one hopped up on the old well with his treasure, then nibbled and devoured a tiny little ear, leaving just dust and old kernels as he scurried away.

squirrels were the bane of my sweet nanno's dedicated attempts to build a bird feeder on the lamppost by the front of his house. they would climb and swing to get to the top, taunting the babies that lived inside. he built a little silver disc to keep them out, and we never saw them again. but this week, i'm thankful for the little creatures. for bringing me a moment of laughter, a reprieve of silliness. a moment to remind me that this world is really not about me, but about all of us living our day-in, day-out lives, eating, socializing and running. from the biggest to the littlest of us.

on blogging/ the things they don't show you.

some days, most days, i see the beauty in this pretty little world. i get home at just the right time to see the sun cut across the old oaks and the walk to the mailbox is my favorite two seconds of the day. there are times when my little town, the hay fields, and robert in his old blue collar are truly as magnificant and pastoral as i can write them out to  be.

but then there are days like sunday. when i set forth to make an apple cake in the cast iron skillet, recipe courtesy of the pioneer woman.

because i had a hankering for it. and we just got a skillet a while ago and it needs to be seasoned. and ok, because it would make for a pretty fun blog post the next day. watch me in my apron stir these apples with the sugar! see how pretty the crust rose! you can do this too, here's the steps!

but then i opened the oven door to check on the little pie's progress.

and i saw the flames.

you know what? you find out things about yourself during times of emergency. fight or flight?

i flighted. i grabbed the pie and placed it safely on the counter (priorities, people). then i ran.

right into the living room. frantically. calling robert. fanning my arms. feeling my chest grow tight and my face flushed. THE OVEN IS ON FIRE! i shouted. THE OVEN IS ON FIRE.

and robert, being the deep well of calm that he is, went to the laundry room, grabbed the fire extinguisher, opened the oven door and shot a blast of white powder directly on the flame.

and just like that, it was over. crisis averted.

later that night, robert saved my life again when we went walking and a fercoious dog started approaching us. he stomped his feet and clapped his hands and the dog ran away with his tail between his legs.

so yes, we all have those moments. when the stars align and the world tilts just right on its axis and blogging moments abound. but sometimes they don't. and that's OK too.

because maybe those moments aren't meant to be captured. maybe they're meant to be savored, wholly and personally, between you and the person you love. the person you can sit with, at the end of the day, and savor a slice of apple pie on the front porch swing. the secret trial just between you.

catch some light and you'll be all right

 

 

i spend my day looking at a computer screen, breaking only to pour a hot cup of coffee or take a walk around the building, my headphones drowning out the highway traffic. and i look at the parking lot. and people in restaurants. and the pin oaks in front of the house. the clothesline. the stove. at night, it's the blue buzz of the television that draws me close.

but on saturday, i looked up.

and saw an explosion of rose in the sky. a few spots of amber. we took a walk like we do every night and i couldn't get over the sheer beauty of it all.

later that evening, we took a blanket outside. to that far corner of the yard beside the blueberry bush, where we can't see or hear the road. and we talked like teens and looked up at the stars, the sky again a wonderous shade of ebony.

this morning i looked up and said a prayer of thanksgiving. for a clear lane on the highway (a blessing every time).

i've become determined to make this a habit, this upward glancing. to remind me of prayer. and of nature. and of consistency. because the sky is always there, whether i acknowledge it or not. and if paintings like this are always above me, it just seems silly to ignore them.

you say tomato, i say supper

 

 

 

 

 

 



i wasn't kidding when i said we've been eating tomato sandwiches every evening here lately.

last night, after a long walk, where the ground was cool and the clouds hung as shade,

i noticed our garden needed to be picked.

also, we were a bit hungry.

so we took our supper outside, eating them right off the vine.

the winds and heavy storms that have pestered the carolinas have caused our little stakes to lean

the garden needs to be weeded,

and the squash has seen better days.

but last night, lying on our backs looking up at the pin oaks,

i was thankful for this little 10x10 square of dirt and seeds

for simple suppers and old quilts

a happy life do make.

scenes from a country cottage: summer sheds its light

 

 

 

i'm getting spoiled by these late afternoons. where the sun shines dimly until past nine. i'm getting too used to it, stretching my days past their limit. staying up late on the couch with no lamplight, just the comfortable blue buzz of the television. to the late risings, just getting out the door in time. to the delving into covers soft from the wash. to lying on my side and giving belly rubs to a dog who turns nine this friday. to gazing out my window at work. the sunshine can make even a parking lot seem pretty.

to allowing myself to dream, and to move past just the dream. to really, truly believe it could happen. that's the powerful push of summer. it makes me just drowsy and delrious enough that i'm not scared to move into that unfamiliar, but achingly beautiful space called hope.

but such is summer, and such is a home. and such are these blessed dog days.

this weekend: beating the heat

there's only so much to do in a small town when the temperatures crawl past 100 degrees. only so many cool, air conditioned buildings that provide reprieve. so we piled in the car and drove. just about anywhere we could. as the cold air blasted our shins and cheeks and pablo rested his head inches from the vent.

we found ourselves in a little deli an hour from home. with expensive, tiny sandwiches that were about the best thing i've ever tasted (it's a good thing i don't let myself wander into places like this too much. i'm a guppie for organic, delicious fare and am easily duped into giving my right arm for a tiny slice of something labeled "free range.")

we sat on old rocking chairs and ate homemade ice cream, overlooking a pretty dairy farm run by an old man in overalls. i decided right then and there that this man was living my dream.

then, we nestled ourselves indoors the rest of the time. where the chill was blasting through the floor like ice and we could lay against the hardwoods and let it blow our hair around. we made squash fritters and mini pizzas.

and the sun rose and set, and like that the weekend was over. it marched out on the heels of a wet, dark rainstorm that happened last night. cooling down the blistering pavement and quenching the yellowing, dying garden. and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.