the weight of an empty kitchen

in a few short weeks, robert and i will be leaving our little cottage, following a little different path that will hopefully lead us sooner to our forever home. and i've put off writing this post. partially because of all the hustle and  bustle and throwing away that comes with any move. but more so because every time i sit down to write about it, i start to cry.

but last night around midnight, i slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to get some water. and with the lights off and the moon spilling across the countertops, i could pretend for a second. pretend our plates were still hung on the wall, the way my uncle arranged them that one afternoon. that my yellow spice jars were still sitting on the shelf, the ones i was so happy to find at the dollar store. i could imagine we still had the chalkboard hanging over the microwave, with notes and quotes i couldn't bring myself to erase. that the oversized alarm clock wasn't in a cardboard box somewhere, along with the magnet from our honeymoon, and the vegetables from our garden were still hanging in the wire basket.

i holstered myself up and let my legs dangle by the cabinets. from that vantage point i've watched a million sunrises and seen my windowsill plants lean into the glass. i saw the oven where i burnt that apple cake this year, and the caramel glaze last december. the old wooden table where we sit on weekdays for supper. the meals i tried to make. the ones that succeeded and the tuna casserole that didn't. that little corner where every night i sit and wait with pablo while he eats. i stayed there for a second and breathed it in.

our first night here, i walked around the rooms in the dark. there are only five. i walked around and around them in a circle, learning their curve and shape. i laid on the linoleum and rested my cheek on its cold flower pattern. i leaned into the wood walls and breathed in their years. since then, i've made my mark on every crevice of this tiny place. i can't look outside without remembering the laundry that hung from the clothesline or that warm march night when i went and sat on a blanket alone and listened to ryan adams while the moon shone over the pin oaks. the little porch and swing reminds me of summer nights and white wine, of waving goodbye to parents and of robert in his white sleep shirt, propping the screen door open to wish me a good day at work as i honked in the driveway.

i cried when i took the first picture off the wall. that first moment of deconstruction, of removal. the transformation from home to house, the erasure of all i tried so hard to build. and i cried again last night, my pillow propped against the headboard, the shed light glowing in through the blinds, just as it has every windy night since 2009. 

places and people change, this much i know. and time marches on, but just this time, i wish it would crawl.

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!

i and love and you

life is a day-by-day thing. and i like going day-by-day with you.

these words were spoken to me around midnight on monday. in a living room lit only by a lamp with handles shaped like elephant noses. and i swear, they were more beautiful and comforting than the string of noun-verb-noun that has become i-love-you. that overused little phrase. those tiny words that at the beginning of our courtship held such overwhelming weight. he first spoke them to me on my parent's driveway under the florescent flood light.

now, we whisper this sacred sentiment across the bed before falling asleep. it's the conclusion of every text, phone call and lunch date. and it still holds as much meaning and truth as it did when we said it that steaming august afternoon at the alter.

but sometimes, hearing it in a different way is just as special. i like spending time with you. i actually like you. for every long, silent car ride home after a misspeak, every grocery store tiff, misunderstanding and spat, there are actually things i truly, deeply enjoy about being in your presence.

and i like living out this joyous, terrible, hard and perfect life with you. day in, and day out. let's do this forever, shall we?

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:)

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.