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:)

my ducks in a row

robert and i snuck away to the mountains this weekend, my sweet parents in tow. to see one of my best friends in the whole world marry a man who choked up at the mere mention of her name at the alter. to wake up early and take walks around the lake and stay up way too late drinking mcdonald's coffee at midnight. and the lake! what a beauty. i don't think i've ever seen so many ducks.

and upon seeing these waterfowl, i started thinking. and maybe it was the way the sun was hitting the middle of the water just so, or the cross sitting on the hill within eyeshot, or maybe just looking ahead of me and seeing mama and dad cross over the bridge, his arm around her shoulder because that's just where it fits, but i started thinking about getting my ducks in  a row. getting things organized and cleaned up around the house after a weekend away. getting my homework done ahead of time. getting the e-mails sent and the Bible read and the phone call returned within a reasonable hour.

the things i could accomplish if all my ducks would just line themselves up, pretty as can be.  but it's up to me to corral them. to wrangle them in line. and sometimes, like today, i'd honestly just rather let them play. let my mind wander, and my hair fall and the music sound. because ducks look nice in a row, but wouldn't you much rather see them splashing around in the water? i know i would.

a covenant for today

i've been thinking a lot about covenants lately. in my earnest and heartfelt attempt to understand, truly understand, the Bible, i've started again back at the beginning. deep in the language of genesis, there's mention of these sacred promises. to never again send rain to cover the earth. that all the land, as far as abraham could see, would be his. that his family would be fruitful enough to cover that land with babies and women and love. that sarah could have her taste of miracles, even though by any other standard than God's, she was too old for such dreams.

they were big, these covenants. huge. they were a declaration that things would be OK for you. that there would be long days of gray and heartaches, but there would also be sunshine. so much sunshine that the dove would never come back and you would forget the flood.

reading it, i rejoiced for these people. these early foragers plowing their way through life, guinea pigs of the most fantastic kind. and i, too, ached for a covenant. an assurance.

but i was reminded this morning, driving to work with my hard boiled egg and favorite song, that such a covenant does exist. it exists when i sneak a peek at pablo asleep on the pillow, his little paw tucked under his chin. or at robert, putting his folded clothes into the old dresser. it exists when i hold hands across the table with my family, like last night at mama's. and on my favorite two-second walk to the mailbox at the end of the day.

the same promises that were made to these ancient ancestors hold true for us today. the flood won't last. there will be sun. there will be redemption. there will be mercy. there will be babies. there will be life. there will be forgiveness. there will be joy.

an anniversary

these are the lightning days. the flashes of busyness and hurry that accumulate into storm clouds so full that sometimes they burst, and sometimes they lay heavy across the atmosphere, their weight deep and real.

i apologize for my time away. it is busy season at work and my last semester of graduate school and a million other little things that seem so big in a day that's only a meager twenty-four hours long.

but today is a special day, and so blogging commences again. robert and i are celebrating nine years since our first date, and four since our wedding. though we were both tired to the bone and pablo was restless, we stayed up until midnight to ring in the big day. life's made in those midnight moments, i'm convinced. in those times you stay up even though it's illogical and force your eyes to see happy things even when sometimes they just want to shut the world out for a few hours.

i wrote a post for our anniversary last year. and  because words are failing me this morning and this post remains my favorite one i've ever written, i wanted to share it again. so here you go. happy anniversary, my love.
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i knew him before facebook.

before the north american blackout. bush's second term. the last season of friends. love actually.

before janet had a wardrobe malfunction, martha went to prison, and ken won millions on jeopardy.

we sang along to stacy's mom and watched mystic river on the couch with my parents.

eight years have passed since that summer. that late august romance. that last first date. eight years of up-all-nights, throw my phone against the wall because i-miss-you-and-high-school-is-hard-without-you -and-why-do-i-hear-girls-in-the-background-are-there-girls-in-your-dorm? eight years of dates in cafeterias, in dining halls, in our kitchen. of bible reading and home brewing. of early morning greetings and front porch goodbyes.

we've climbed a waterfall together in jamaica, and fallen into bed at nine on a wednesday night. i've seen this man cry and i've seen a laugh rise from his gut so deep it cut off his breath. i've seen him on one knee. in a tux and blue collar.

and eight years ago today, i saw him on my doorstep. with a borrowed car and pressed shirt. and three years ago, i saw him at the alter.

and i declare, for all its hardships and trials, being in love is something more than spectacular. worth saving. keeping. remembering.

and on those nights when it seems like the darkness has won, worth calling him back for.

happy anniversary to the boy who always picked up.

thankful today

i came home yesterday morning at an hour more atuned to morning than night. only two before i usually wake. from a night on the town with my best girlfriends and my new high heels. celebrating the end of her singlehood. there were pink feathered boas, a diamond-encrusted goblet, and a chocolate cake with fondant tassles.

you were asleep, as i imagined. the old blanket curled at your feet. pablo greeted me at the door and fell to his little knees with joy on the hardwoods, stretching out beneath my hands.

i pulled up the blanket around you and left you peaceful on the couch, your arm above your head as i've come to expect. i thought you'd sleep as late as i did, and we would ring in the morning together. it was with a little sink of disappointment that i awoke at ten and remembered your weekend work assignment.

but then i drug my sleepy self into the kitchen and found your surprise. a crock-pot full of fiesta chicken, with the recipe still pulled up on my ipad.

i am thankful for nights out. i am thankful for girlfriends that knew me when i still had the gap between my teeth and my stutter was invariably worse than it is now. for the beauty they bring to my life. the femininity.

and i am thankful, too, for you. for your trust and lack of interrogation. for the evidence that you tried to stay awake for me. and for the humble act of love you left me yesterday.

i'm just very thankful today, for all of it.

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.

for your monday: stress relief

because it's monday, and mondays are synonymous with the stress and avalanche of weekly to-dos, i thought i'd offer up this timely article. i read this last night as the sun was sinking behind the oaks and cutting a pretty stream of light through the porch. and it made sense, and seemed do-able.

this is woman's day's 75 best stress relief tips of all time. a collection of their hints and tricks from as far  back as the fifties. they are all applicable, wonderful and spot-on. my personal favorite is #64:

whatever you enjoy doing, give it a regular place in your life. everyone needs an outlet. (may 1955).

so here you go.

today, #64 means a minute spent with my head lifted toward the sun, the heat and the light hiting me behind the eyes. and tonight, it will mean watching bacheor pad. oh yes. everyone needs an outlet.