seconds, minutes and hours

via

robert and i drove down the road yesterday in the balmy carolina summer air. the kind that hangs stagnant without relief of breeze. we rolled the windows down and pablo stuck his head out, catching the sunshine and heat square on the nose.

and as we drove, we tried to remember last week. what we ate for supper, how we spent our evenings. for events that happened less than seven days ago, we had a terribly difficult time recalling their details. between the day-in, day-outs of how was your day, lie on the couch, bachelorette on monday, bacon and tomato sandwiches every evening on the porch, crash on the couch in that old blanket, lunch breaks at the grocery store, midnight trips to the water bowl with  pablo, thrift store perusing, etsy selling, sleepy, tired, exhausted workdays we just lost track.

but that's the glory of it, sometimes. the forgetting.

letting the seconds and minutes pass, but holding on to the hours.

i think it's one of God's greatest blessings and one of life's greatest kindnesses that some things we forget. at least, some things lose their momentum with the passage of time. a few months ago, i ran into the boy who called me a stutterer in front of the entire lunchroom in the seventh grade. it wasn't bad, and i wasn't mad at him anymore. that sinking feeling in my gut eventually rose. and i can look at the facebook page of my sweet friend who passed away in that awful car wreck in 2007 without my computer screen fading away behind blurred, watery vision. it doesn't mean i will become friends with that boy, or that i don't miss and think about my friend every single blessed day. it just means i forgot the initial shock, and for that i am grateful.

but then, there are things i can't hold onto tight enough. memories of my mama running down the hill behind our house. my day out with dad, when i got my first cast. the time against that old honda, when robert turned to me on my driveway and whispered that he loved me. my first job interview, and the letter that followed.

i want to get to the end of my life with a storage vault of such hours. an arsenal of time. that i can slowly unlock and resavor. but maybe, after all, it's the seconds and minutes we save (the good ones at least).

if we're lucky, we'll get to the end with one good, solid hour. of a million nanoseconds of love.

that's all i can really hope for, come to think of it.

an emancipation proclamation

 via

one day in september, there was an afternoon where the cool, midday sun hung in the trees for hours.

i was fourteen and still swinging in the old tire hanging off the tree near the creek behind our house. i would lay on my belly against the rubber, my eyes facing the cracked mud and tiny clover on the ground. i remember turning in circles, twisting the rope until it was tightly coiled. then i would pull my legs up to my chest and tense my body as the swing unraveled itself, spinning me dizzily.

i thought about that afternoon this morning. that specific day. i don't have many days that i specifically remember from my youth. i have stages, sure. the big t-shirt phase. the year i chopped my hair into a horrible bob to look like mary-anne from the babysitter's club. on that note, the years i read nothing but babysitter's club books in my spare time and even formed my own club at school. the humid summer i met robert. the short season i like raisins. there are waves of time that encompass entire years and half-decades. days often elude me. but not that one.

i thought about that sensation. that tensing and releasing, tightening and loosening. and i realized there's a similar one stirring now. an anxiety sitting on my chest. a wound rope around my heart in need of a good unravel.

so it's warm bath time. front porch rocker time. bible reading in the early morning when the house is still asleep time. beach towel on hot sand time. it's slower now than that september day. more methodical and intentional. but the unwind will come. the release is already happening. and just as i pushed off the red clay, muddying my tennis shoes and spraying pebbles into the wood, i am preparing for takeoff.

this morning, it means lots of dark coffee and deep breaths. tonight, it will mean sitting by my grandfather's bedside as he prepares for another type of liberation. a breaking of the chains of this life. we're all winding up. it's how we unfurl that defines us.

the baddest watchdog that ever was

one of the most trying nights in our marriage occurred about a week before moving into our little cottage. we were tired. we were cold. it was halloween night and our new neighbors were having a party. but we were inside assembling our bright yellow ikea kitchen chairs and television stand.

then we tried to fit our sectional into the tiny living room. the unique angles and corners of the space were one of the first things i had fallen in love with on our tour. but that night? we couldn't for the life of us figure out how to work with the room and fit the couch.

so we jutted it about a foot from the old wooden windowsill. the one that catches ladybugs and late afternoon sunbeams. and finally, we realized, pablo had a lookout spot.

he's pretty fierce looking, if you can't tell. his intimidating fluffy white hair and glorious, cascading tail are enough to scare away even the most determined intruder, whom pablo would immediately shower with kisses. at night, he sits under the reading lamp and keeps watch.

but protecting an entire cottage is tough work, and pabs sometimes gets a bit sleepy.

i'll forever love our little watchdog, and i'm forever grateful that he's got a little lookout space to call his own. and looking back on it, it makes me laugh that we got that upset about the couch that night. he in his red basketball shorts and me in my robe. sitting in the middle of an empty new house with white washed walls and linoleum floors. and every night that pablo climbs up onto his perch, i'm reminded that it was worth it. everything was worth it.

a room with a view

we would talk until we fell asleep.

into the blackness between us, our words would hang heavy on the humid summer air. sometimes, as sisters, you don't even have to talk for the words to hang.

i remember the crickets outside the window. the mauve pink floral dust ruffles. the overstuffed down comforters. hers was as mine, our beds identical. i remember the little window at the foot of my bed, the trees dignified outside.

on the night of my wedding rehearsal, i snuck up to our room. i went inside our closet, the one we wrote on with a magic pen that only shows up with a black light. the one that housed all of our clothes. mine on the top rack, hers on the bottom. where all our hangbags, church dresses and belts were hanging as they had been forever.

and i just cried.

i walked over to my little twin bed, pushed up against the wall, with my bible on the shelf above and my cheerleading portraits. fully clothed, i climbed inside and smelled the sheets. the worn pillowcase and the cotton.

save for a few short months my last semester of college, i've never had my own room. and i've never wanted it. i went from sharing with my sister to sharing with robert and pablo.

this morning, i woke early. i sat up in our bed, the moon high in the sky shining through the blinds. and i looked around me. at the man with his arm propped under his head and his covers snug under his chin. at the dog curled into the tiniest ball on top of the blankets.

and i sighed a deep sigh of contentment. i will forever miss my childhood home, with my boombox and destiny's child cds. my cardboard cutout of tom cruise and my dollhouse.

but at 6.a.m. this morning, i remembered. that any space shared is home. yes, any space shared.

homeward, with heaven above me

whether they are a part of their home or home is a part of them is not a question children are prepared to answer. having taken away the dog, take away the kitchen--the smell of something good in the oven for dinner. also, the smell of washday, of wool drying on the wooden rack. of ashes. of soup simmering on the stove. take away the patient old horse waiting by the pasture fence. take away the chores that kept him busy from the time he got home from school until they sat down for supper. take away the early morning mist, the sound of crows quarreling in the treetops. take away all this and what have you done to him? in the face of deprivation so great, what is the use of asking him to go on being the boy he was. he might as well start life over again as some other boy instead.

so long, see you tomorrow

i drove home in the snow yesterday. it wasn't much. not enough to make the roads dangerous. just a little powdery cascade, dusting my front porch rocker and daintily dancing upon my sidewalk.

and as i drove, i thought (because that's when i do my best thinking, you know). 

about driving home. calling home. walking in my home.

there are things i know because i am taught. because i spend time to learn them and engrave them into my mind. the alphabet, multiplication tables, how to sew a button. my favorite song lyrics.

and then, there are things i know, because i can feel them. in my bones. somewhere that memory doesn't reach. somewhere inside the infant part of me. the part i can't recall.

i can't remember when i first memorized the shape of my home. the rooms and their placement. the corners and unexpected turns. the locations of all the light switches, tabletops and little step-downs. it just happened. and unlike academics, work, or anything else i learned through a teacher, i will never forget it. 

because i still have to bring my calculator to the grocery store. i look at directions when i sew. i write down lyrics so i can repeat them later. i forget grammar, history, and science sometimes.

but i still remember the path to my childhood bedroom. the room with white walls at the top of the stairs. and i still remember the shape of calling robert's old cell phone number, mama's car phone from the 90s, and my best friend's home number, which i haven't called in ages.

because things like that can't be unlearned. because home is me. i am home. what am i if not the accumulation of little moments associated with that structure of brick and vinyl siding, sheet rock and stucco?

the shape of home has changed, yes. now i have two homes. my childhood one and my new one with robert. but both are the same. i still run to them every afternoon. mama used to be at the stove, making homemade vegetable soup in the winter. now, i come home to robert, on the couch with pablo, watching the evening news. 

it's a different scene, but one that is wholly familiar to me.

i remember. i understand. i feel.

not because i was taught. because i already knew.

today i finally overcame trying to fit the world inside a picture frame

this picture was taken three years ago.


there are many things you can gather from this picture alone. my long sleeves and the auburn leaves hint at fall. we're driving somewhere, but my seat is pushed back, so we're stopped. for the moment. there is obviously, quite plainly, an element of surprise. i am being led. on a scavenger hunt, perhaps?


but what this picture can't tell you--what you can't possibly know or see--is that i was indeed on a little scavenger hunt. one that led me through our sleepy little town and all the special little places and holes in the wall that were crucial in my relationship with robert. under the guise of a fun afternoon spent reminiscing, he picked me up around three. 


we went to local gas station where we always got slushies. the golf course community where we fished together for the first time and broke both our poles. sonic, where we loved to get limeades. the field near my house where we drove his granddad's pickup truck, headlights off, into the woods and ate chinese takeout by candlelight.


and our last stop. the local library. a huge white mansion flanked by towering magnolias and long stretches of gorgeous lawn. the place we fell in love as we danced under the moon to an outdoor big band concert. a little spell of silence came. robert pulled out a boombox and in a style that put "say anything" to shame, started playing our song, a whimsical, string-heavy version of somewhere over the rainbow.


a ring. a proposal. 


and then, my family and friends inside the library. around 40 people. a private meal and party.

-------
photography is an art. a beautiful, special talent that allows me to relive my special memories forever . i cherish my pictures. in their wooden, silver, and gold frames. in their collages and scrapbooks. tucked inside my Bible. 


and the mark of a great photographer is taking those emotions, those feelings that come from the gut and personify themselves in our eyes, and capturing them. freezing them in time. the beautiful mix of joy and nerves in a pregnant woman's smile. the amorous bliss of a newlywed. i know photographers like that, and envy their skills. 


yet, sometimes life just happens. and because it's not a big event, it's not captured on film. we didn't break out the tripod when i made pasta last sunday night, so years from now, we might not remember that we collapsed on couch in laughter a few moments after eating. at least once an hour, pablo looks at me with an expression so innocent and priceless, but my camera is in the other room, and by the time i tiptoe to get it, his head is turned.


so they pass. those special seconds and memorable evenings. those sweet half smiles and big bear hugs. we might not remember every single one, but we lived it. without pause or hesitation. without posing.


yes, a picture is worth a thousand words, but some things just leave me speechless.

excuse me mrs. busybody

source

it's january. and you know what that means.

nope, not resolutions. or gym memberships. or black eyed peas and collard greens.

something far more exciting and potentially debilitating than that.

a fresh, new desk calendar. with beautiful little blank boxes and 52 free weeks. black font on white stock paper. nothing fancy.

but oh how my heart swells when they are delivered around the office. in fact, i've been hoarding mine in my desk for a few months. peeking at it every now and then, itching to mark it up.

you see, i'm a planner. well, not so much a planner but a look-forward-to-er. nothing thrills me more than seeing a month filled with red ink, black smiley faces scribbled on weekend margins, and pictures representing events (i sometimes draw a legend in the bottom right corner to aid with decrypting.)

so yesterday morning i pulled it out of hiding, ripped off the unnecessary cover page, and started at january. blankly. with not one event entering my mind. at first, i was stricken with panic. what? no plans? no trips or weekend getaways or heck, deadlines?

then i breathed a sweet, soft sigh, just loud enough to lift the edge of january and reveal the bottom corner of february. because for now, for this brief second, my life is free. next month will see a trip to the coast, a dinnerboat cruise, and a trip to medieval times.

but not january. this blessed month holds no such surprises. yet.

give it a few weeks (or minutes), and i'm sure i can find something to fill the spaces. little happenings to decorate my days. to anticipate. expect. await.

but for now, january sits naked.

and i sit content.

sunset soon forgotten

i got to bed late last night. it wasn't for lack of trying. goodness knows, i tried.

tried to slip under the covers before eleven. to feel the cool of just-washed linens slip over my nightgown. to replace the glow of laptop and lamp light with the deep, infinite darkness of bed. to take down my ponytail  and let my hair fall carelessly over my pillowcase.

but life got in the way. errands. little menial tasks that meant nothing but added up to hours. dishes. playing with pablo. reality television. etsy.

with my sleepy eyes finally closing, and sleep threatening to wash over me and pull me over the brink any minute, i listened for a second. and felt.

i heard robert breathing heavily behind me. this deep, hearty breath. i'm used to it and barely notice it. but last night i made an effort to take it in. to turn and watch his chest rise and sink with the steady rhythm of a midnight pendulum. i heard pablo too. a raspy little puff of air every few seconds. as i looked up at the bedroom ceiling, i let their collective breath pull me to sleep. the sync of it, paired with the sweet melody it created, was intoxicating.

and right before i fell, i thanked the Lord for such a sweet sound. how many times i take for granted the living beings that share my bed. their breath gentle in my ear. the creatures that i have been blessed to love and listen to.

and i do this so often. take things for granted. become so, so used to something that it loses its grandeur.

--like the feel of cool hardwood on my bare toes in the early hours of the morning, when the world is asleep but i'm reaching toward the coffee pot.

--the house i pass on my drive to work every morning, always stuck behind the school bus. the little boy who lives in that clapboard shack. running with unbelievable fervor toward the bus, blowing kisses to his mama, waving from the driveway in her robe and slippers.

--the little basil plant on my windowsill, still reaching its meager leaves toward the sunshine. hanging on even after being stripped of most of its green.

--the sound of robert coming home after work. his muddy boots. yes, even the mud. a sign that he loves me and will do whatever it takes to make a home for me.

--the delicious heat of an evening shower. taken with the bathroom lights off, the adjacent office light bathing the room in a soft glow.

i will take all these things in, and be thankful. because they are all gifts that could be taken in an instant. little, tangible proof that God loves me, i am worthy,

and life is unforgettably beautiful.

california road trip 2010

my heart on my sleeve

it's snowing here in north carolina. by snowing i  mean a nasty slush of rain/snow/sleet, just enough to deem the roads undriveable, and warrant a two-hour delay from work. yesterday, the air around my town was getting ready for this. this beautiful, once-or-twice a year treat of long mornings spent sleeping under quilts, snowman-building in the afternoon sun, and sipping hot coffee in front of the television.

the air dipped into freezing yesterday. my car struggled to start in this newfound chill. my toes were ice blocks as soon as i stepped onto the wooden floorboards beneath my bed. when i left the house yesterday morning, i remembered leaving my favorite jacket at mama and dad's. my cream white pea coat with oversized buttons. it sat warm and unused, a mere few miles away.

so i reached for another coat, then quickly put it back and went for a different one. i couldn't take this one. my vintage, waffle-texture long coat with a single gold clasp at the neck. i didn't leave it behind because of the weather. a little rain wouldn't hurt it. i didn't leave it because of its weight. it's plenty heavy enough to shield me from the winds that sang through my trees.

honestly, i left it behind because i really don't like it anymore. it's not that soft. there's a slight yellow circle-shaped stain on the back. the clasp is hard to manage and tends to come undone easily.

but i'd never give it away.  i can't even put it in my shop. because every time i look at it, i remember.

dipping my toes in the pacific ocean for the first time this past autumn. standing in my bare feet in the hazy, gray glow that permeated cannon beach, oregon. i swear, the scene was almost european, with birds decorating the sand and water the color of slate. it was gorgeous.

as we hastily pulled into our motel, i grabbed that coat out of the trunk and ran, hand in hand, with robert. literally chasing the sunset, we hurried to the beach, over cobblestone streets and a cove of sea brush, finally arriving to this:

i was wearing the coat then, and so i will hold onto it now. on it is the sea spray and memories of my trip, and perhaps a few crumbs from the boysenberry scone i devoured moments before that picture of me was taken.

so i'll keep it in my closet. for that reason alone.

like the curious george boxer shorts i got in the 7th grade, on our family's only trip to disneyworld. they have a flap in the front and i'm certain they are for boys, but i've held onto them. because when i look at the image of george, wearing his spacesuit and floating around on the fabric, i remember that vacation. the heat that just sat on top of the atmosphere and almost suffocated us. riding the rock n' roller coaster with my mama, my hips hurting the entire rest of the trip after that initial jolt. my dad's sweet laugh and my sister's fright and nerves as we approached each ride. 

isn't it funny how we associate so many memories with clothes? i think that's why i love vintage so much, because you can almost feel the decades in the fibers. and i'm so happy and thankful for those precious souls who donate their clothes to thrift stores, so i can happily snatch them up and make my own memories in them.

so the coat sits in the closet. 

smashed between my jeans and winter sweaters. collecting dust. 

maybe one day i can pass it down to my daughter, and tell her, over a steaming pot of coffee, how her mama and daddy interlocked fingers and ran into the ocean. how we chased  the sun and raced with nature together. i hope she'll be able to feel the love, my heart, on the sleeves.

because it's there. and just because i don't wear it anymore doesn't mean it's gone. just like when i close my eyes, i can still see oregon.

because memories embed themselves in the most unexpected of places. in the chipped red paint of my desk, the one i painted outside one warm spring evening. in the pupils of pablo's eyes. and in the threads of clothing.

yes, especially in the threads of clothing.

love is a mixed tape

source

i have a 25 minute drive home from work. not too long, just the exact right amount of time to really get into a mixed cd. to let the songs wash over me, free me of deadline-induced stress and coffee-induced anxiety.

yesterday was one of those days. i was driving on the highway, with dusk chasing me outside my window. the air was arctic outside, but my heater was on at my toes, and i was enveloped in my pea coat and scarf. then, i looked up.

the sky was baby pink with swirls of iris. the setting sun gave off a full-sky glow as it sank, illuminating the colors and deepening their brilliance. it was magnificent. the kind of beautiful you want your sunsets to be.

and my mixed cd was playing iron and wine's "passing afternoon." the sunset's magic was intensified. peace and serenity were restored in my weary heart. and i was reminded. of the power of music. to restore, humor, lighten and soothe. to conjure up old memories and heal new hurts.

so i began to think. of the songs that mean the most to me. and i came up with this playlist. now, it should be noted these are iconic songs in my life right now. if i would have made a playlist 10 years ago, it would have included such gems as "jumpin' jumpin'" by destiny's child and "story of a girl" by nine days. both great songs. both should remain circa the year 2000.

so please take a listen:

1.florida: patty griffin. my former co-worker ellie used to listen to patty while we worked on proposals. ellie is the kind of girl you always want to be. she's elegant, kind-hearted and has the sweetest speaking voice. this song reminds me of her, and of my first real job. in my first real office. with my first real co-worker. later, robert and i put this song on one of our favorite mixed cds, and have played it so.many.times in the car since.


2. la cienega just smiled: ryan adams. because ryan adams songs make me feel melancholy in a strangely pleasant way. because this song is haunting and gorgeous. because a few months ago, i went to los angeles and stood at the top of la cienega boulevard and thought about these lyrics.


3. passing afternoon: iron and wine. this is my all-time favorite song. similar to the way i remember where i was when i learned princess diana, JFK jr, heath ledger, and michael jackson died, i remember exactly what i was doing when this song first came on. i was studying with robert. in the secret space behind the book stacks in the library. the clandestine room with leather chairs that only cool kids knew about. this song encapsulates my college years. i love it for this line alone: "there are things that drift away, like our endless, numbered days."


4. california: joni mitchell. i played this as robert and i crossed over the california state line on our road trip a few months ago. with the windows down on our rental car and my bare feet hanging out the window, i threw my hands in the air and robert laid on the horn. i've never felt more alive.


5. cape canaveral: conor oberst. our first road trip as a married couple was to myrtle beach. nothing fancy, especially not in the middle of winter, when we sneaked there for our valentine's day getaway. i played this song on the way down, in the middle of the night after the circus. we had learned all the words by the time we arrived, we played it so many times. this song reminds me of that sweet, nerve-wracking feeling of being on the cusp of something great. we were just starting out and getting our toes wet together, and this song was the beginning.


6. so-so: brooke waggoner. this is one of my little brother's favorite artists. i took him to brooke's concert once, but we got there late and almost missed the entire show. we didn't even get to see her perform this song. this one reminds me of clint, and his incredible zest for life and excellent taste in music. all the concerts we've traveled to together, and all the unexpected fun we've had.


7. shape of a heart: jackson browne. i played this the first autumn we got pablo. i remember dancing in the kitchen in my socks, with his furry body in my arms, tail dangling against my stomach. still unsure how to hold him, still awkwardly wrapping my arms around his torso. we danced together to this song and in the course of those three minutes, i became a mama.


8. the book of right-ON: joanna newsom. see #6. we made the concert this time, in asheville. thanks, clint!


9. something good this way comes: jakob dylan. jakob has had my heart since the wallflowers sang "one headlight." there's something so distinctively beautiful about his voice. so different from his father's, but with that same gorgeous gravel. i also played this song on our first road trip to the beach. it reminds me of salty air, ferry rides, and dinner boat cruises.


10. clean getaway: maria taylor. because the honesty in her voice is heartbreaking. simple as that.


so there you have it! enjoy. i hope these songs bring as much comfort and happiness to your day as they have brought to my 20s. i love how songs are soundtracks, as corny as that may sound. when you can't go back in time, at least you can press rewind.