wal-marts and mondays

 

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when snow falls on a small town, suddenly you go from having very little to do to absolutely nothing. shops and schools close. people get in pajamas and stay that way all weekend, huddled in kitchens and on sofas. they have real conversations and finally watch those movies on their lists.

but we had to get out this weekend. had to feel the weight of the truck on the road. had to slip into a corner booth and listen to live music and eat sloppy barbecue. and when that was over, we played our favorite game. we call this game, "people watching at wal-mart." with milkshakes in hand and the lights off, we park a good enough distance away and make up storylines about the characters that walk in and out of that glorious, extremely well-lit mecca of retail. because at wal-mart, people are at their most ordinary, and i love that. no pretense. no makeup. no heels. just running in to grab some cereal. or a firearm. or a grill. or maybe a t-shirt.

and last night was similar. just an ordinary monday. with a walk to mom and dad's. with desert before supper. with a dark room filled with the bachelor and dallas, and a fire.

but i love these times. an entire life is built on ordinary mondays and ordinary people. moments of familiarity that slowly, over the course of months and years and decades, shape us into humans capable of feeling and reaching and loving and even dreaming.

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?

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.

i have a 63-year old child

pablo turns eight, 2011.

pablo turns nine today!

or 63.

however you want to look at it.

i was up late making pupcakes (which contain regular, dog-friendly baking ingredients but taste like cardboard. think whole wheat cupcakes.) i put the finishing touches on the slideshow and trivia game, and robert prepared the pork roast for our cookout tonight.

i rose at 5:30 to clean the house, put up the requisite birthday banner, wrap all his gifts and prepare the goodie bag for the trivia winner.

a bit much?

i think so too, but then i think about the five years that he wasn't mine. the five years he was abused, neglected, starved and left alone. and all of a sudden, spoiling him doesn't seem so bad.

because life's about days like this. silly memories that you create that someone else might not understand. wearing a pretty dress to wal-mart because it's a nice day out and your hair is falling in a good way and you feel like it. staying up late to watch reality television even though tomorrow is a big day. eating breakfast for dinner and cake for breakfast.

because in breaking those little rules we gain something big. i'm not sure what that is yet, but i'm learning. and honestly having quite the ball in the process. are kids this much fun? goodness, i hope so.

this morning, for four minutes (+giveaway winner)

this morning, i had a sliver of time. between packaging etsy sales and setting my hair in rollers and running out the door with my zucchinni bread sliding out of my hands.

i had exactly four minutes.

i wrapped my hands around my mug and sat in my absolute favorite spot in the house, propped up on the kitchen counter, looking out over the yard. a sunbeam hit me square between the eyes. i let my gaze rest on the gravel drive, then a bird running across the grass. then i shut my lids and breathed in the cool, new morning, whispering a prayer while robert and pablo slept in the room nearby.

practically 20 hours of crazy were sitting there, waiting for me. and i'm convinced that moment prepared me for it. with my legs dangling against the cabinets and seven thirty on the horizon.

it's amazing what a little sunlight can do.

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p.s. thank you ALL for entering my shabby apple giveaway! the winner is:

congratulations April! i'll send you an e-mail with all the details.

in the country, where the prayers grow like weeds along the road

it was a sunday in october when we set off on the ferry. a short jaunt from long island to connecticut across a sea of blue glass, seamless save for a few boats that cut through the currents. it was cold and you were wearing your members only jacket, my goosebumped arms tucked into it too. i told myself in that moment, remember this as a time you were happy. my mind literally formed that exact phrase.

i reminded myself the same thing that afternoon in charlotte. when we snuck off from the walking trail to explore the vacant playground. the slides and the merry-go-round and empty field. there are some times when i am so cognizant, so fully aware, of the desire to remember something, to store it up and preserve it, that it almost breaks my heart.

such a moment happened this morning. in the laundry room out the back of the house, with the late dawn sunshine pouring in through the glass door and old blinds. pablo lying in the exact place it chose to dance across the worn carpet. you came in wearing your blue collar and pants stained with dirt and something about the way the light hit your forehead made me drop the shirt i was folding and drink in the room.

remember this as a time you were happy.

i waved goodbye to you on the brick porch and went back to finish getting ready. it was then i found your note on my laptop. i went outside to check on our garden at 1. a.m., you wrote. let's build a farm one day.

i'll follow you. down the driveway. the road. the country. as we build our life with these happy mornings. remembering all the way.

i'm not sleepy and there is no place i'm going to

there were plans for a $1 movie last night. at the old theater downtown where stale popcorn litters the aisles and the seats are threadbare. plans to sink deep into them and watch a mediocre movie with my head against robert's shoulder in the dark.

there were plans to cook cabbage for the next day, to wash and sort all the laundry, and start packing for our trip to the coast tomorrow.

but there was only a sliver of sunlight left when i got home from work. and some sweet friends had brought by tacos and cheerwine. and my pup was freshly groomed and in need of a good slow dance. and robert was still in his blue collar.

so we made a picnic beside the garden. and watched the sun set behind the cucumber plants. and i played mr. tambourine man until night fell on the yard.

and that was it. that was our night. there is still laundry to do and plans to make and deadlines to meet.

but in the jingle jangle morning, we awoke happy. so really, all is well.

today

 today is the day i give the biggest speech of my life. today is the day i slay those demons.

oh, and today is my birthday!

lots of big things.

back tomorrow with a more thoughtful post! in the meantime, prayers please.

today's blessing + a shameless plug

 

there are some times it hits me that this world is okay. it's usually when i'm perched on my kitchen counter in the dark clutching hot coffee while the sun rises around the field in front of the window.

sometimes, it's driving on the highway and a kind stranger lets me in his lane. or when a man in a business suit and porsche gets behind me and doesn't curse me with his eyes because i'm driving slow.

when pablo looks at me with a face that says, i don't care what you did today. i don't care who you ignored or didn't call back. who you were rude to or forgot about. that you promised yourself you'd read your bible at lunch and went out with the office instead. that you hurried off the phone with your mom on your way out the door this morning, and cut robert off when he called to check in. all i care about is you're here. you're here and home and you're good. to me, you are good.


today, it is my sister. driving across town to meet me in an hour. to sit in a cafe far from here and drink caramel coffee. looking into a face so like mine, but so different. spending time with her reminds me no matter how crazed life gets, i'm blessed because i know someone who is golden.


it's these little reminders that propel me along. that i collect and store until one day it rains too hard and the fog has a hard time lifting, and i need them. the good thing is, like His mercy, these blessings are new every morning, within reach. the important thing is grabbing them.
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p.s. my sweet friend janette from janette the jongleur has nominated my little blog for a blogscar. as someone enthralled with everything hollywood, who made the trek to the independence theater across town last weekend to see the artist, i am beyond honored. the blogscars are the blogging oscars, and vintch is up for best blog and best writing. if you have a second, please cast your vote!

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thank you xoxo

the front seat of the plumbing truck

 is this the more adult, less scandalous version of the backseat of the car?

either way, it's one of my favorite places to be. 

smashed to the edge of the seat among old  boxes of pipe fittings, wrenches and nails. the smell of rust. of robert's blue collar made real. 

and it's not steamy, or hot. and chick-fil-a at noon, with moms and children and men on their lunch break swarming around us, is not quite makeout mountain.

but the sunshine was beating down on the dashboard and robert's arm was around me and i had a gut full of combo #1. and i declare, it was quite romantic in its own little way.

but more so the flutter

you tell me all the time you love to watch me sleep. in the nook of the couch around midnight. in the bed at six in the morning, before any living creature is roused and our tiny room is washed in dark.

but i love the flutter of waking. when your eyes shift around under their lids and i can tell you're emerging. out of that deep dream and into the warmth of the quilt, and my my hands in your hair. that look of confusion that quickly gives way to recognition, oh hey, i know you. and for that split second, before words crush the moment and deflate the cocoon, there's a holy peace, a sacred space. yes, i suppose i love the flutter of it all more so than the dreaming.

in seventy years, i hope

i did dishes last night. and this morning. and yesterday morning and on tuesday too.

the sink is deep and metal. it's got hairline scratches from piles of pans stacked up over seventy years of housekeeping. but it overlooks the front yard and the pin oaks i have grown to adore. and at 5:45 in the afternoon there's a sliver of setting sun that falls on the spigot and makes it flicker. i like to sit up on the countertop and let my heels hit against the knotty pine cabinets.

elbows deep in suds, i thought, i'll probably be doing this for the rest of my life. there will be dishes in the sink and clothes in the hamper day in and day out. it's a sort of a ritualistic romance we lead, me and these chores.

but pablo laid at my heels on the rug as i folded the millionth white undershirt. and robert came up behind me at the sink, getting his arms wet. i dropped the cereal bowl. and at nine in the evening i rested my head against him, breathing in the rusty smell of pipes and copper.

and another thought came, i hope so. i hope at eighty i'm still standing over a sink. maybe looking at the same grassy field. maybe not. maybe in a kitchen full of grandchildren, or perhaps just robert. he'll be eighty-two and by then the callouses on his hands will be deeper. a new dog on the old rug, or maybe just my house slippers.

i hope i'm blessed to always tidy up a house filled with love. but more than that, i hope to always have someone there to pull me from it. to remind me that a messy home is better than a clean house. and, on the really overwhelming days, someone to roll up his sleeves, and stand beside me in bright yellow gloves. washing and scrubbing and loving all the rest of our days.

let me lead

let me lead.

on the kitchen floor in your socks and shirt. my hair falling down as the sun follows suit, a stray ray seeping in through the tiny window.

because no one can match the steps of your feet like me, the clumsy footsteps i've come to recognize as you walk across the creaky floorboards when i'm sleeping.

so go to work, as you must. drink lots of black coffee and stay up past midnight finishing it. carry the stress on the broad shoulders you tuck into your blue collar. callous your hands with pipes and wrenches.

but when you come home and it's late in the day and this little old house is sighing and singing with winter, just find me. in the laundry room out back. and bring me into this room, right here. with linoleum tiles and wood paneled walls.

you bring home the bacon and i'll fry it up. you start the music on the old record player and i'll start swirling before you return. a ballerina in my bathrobe. pretty eyed, pirate smile, yours for the taking.

someone's got a dirty mouth

like mamas who stuff lollipops in their purse before church, we know all the right bribes to make pablo stay quiet. our go-to incentive is a little treat filled with peanut butter. perfect for those nights when we want to watch modern family, work on homework, or just  hang out without a pup on our laps, begging to play.

the only problem is, he looks so darn cute afterward. so cute that i turn off the television, shut the laptop and invite him into my arms.

and shows get missed. homework piles up and alone time isn't so alone anymore. but one look into those chestnut brown eyes and suddenly it doesn't quite matter as much as it used to.

a cheese-fest at midnight

i went to bed last night at 2:00.

i wish i could tell you i was up reading a great novel. studying. working on my Bible study that's two days behind.

but no.

last night was the season finale of bachelor pad.

and though we didn't get fully home and showered and settled until 11:00, we had to watch.

and it's cheesy. oh boy is it awfully cheesy. and a bit staged. and dramatic to no end.

but for a girl who spends her life behind a desk, with a clear head on her shoulders and always contemplating her next rational, logical move, and a boy who spends his days in a blue collar with calloused hands, it's just the mindless escape we need.

so our plans for a morning walk were scrapped, and we spent the dawn hours pressing snooze. but there's a coffee shop near work and the promise of an early bedtime tonight, so all is well. all is well indeed.

and as the above photo illustrates, i'm clearly a hollywood groupie. and though i wouldn't exactly call the contestants stars, for my weary, sleepy self they certainly sufficed.

shedding our summer skin

i woke in a fit. hours early. before that five-thirty moonlight fights with the six o'clock sunrise and creates a jagged spill of light onto our quilt.

and when it's a fit that wakes you, falling back to sleep is unbearable. i laid in the silence and thought for an hour until it was a logical time to stretch my weary arms and rouse pablo outside. there is no stiller moment, no calmer minutes, than those before everyone wakes. even nighttime, with its blanket of black, still buzzes with the aura of exhaustion. with twisting and turning and crickets outside and creaks and cracks as this old farmhouse settles its bones into a slumber.

but the morning? the morning is for thinking, and i thought. surprisingly, i found myself reminiscing. looking over at robert, his arm tucked under his neck and his legs tangled in the covers. that yellow quilt he hates because it's hot but i love because it's vintage. and over at pablo curled up in a tiny ball, the rise and fall of his downy chest the only flutter of movement around. thinking about how even now, even this morning, time is slipping and moving and roller coastering. wondering if my one-day babies will ever know pablo, at least the pablo i know now. it's getting harder for him to jump up on the bed and it's breaking my  heart.

and i don't take enough photographs. oh i take digital pictures plenty. but they stay on my camera or on my phone. i haven't made a photo album since high school. it was this realization that made me the most sad.

and, to top it all off, the tomatoes are gone.

the tomatoes that robert's grandpa watered twice a day for months. sent home to us in paper bags with little notes from his grandma. we ate the last one yesterday. the plants have shriveled and wilted and now fall is marching in with its heavy boots.

so i prayed for time to crawl and sunk back into the darkness, cocooning myself in the sacred space of morning, willing the sun to rise a little slower, the moon suspended a little longer. just enough time to take it all in, before it all starts moving at lightning speed once again.

the way i know it's fall

i'm not sure how i feel about starbucks. sometimes the coffee is too roasted. sometimes the corporate culture is a bit much and i find myself wandering into more local, hometown places.

but today they officially released pumpkin spice lattes.

there is a rainy haze over north carolina this morning, brought in from late summer showers and a hurricane swirling in the atlantic. it's brisk, leggings weather. and as soon as i received my cup, i ripped off the cardboard holder and pressed my hands firm to the heat.

and i declare, a tuesday morning never tasted as good.

new series: microscope heart

 
it hit me around 6:45 this morning.

the sunlight in my laundry room. spreading its rays over clean, folded white t-shirts. it bounced off the white walls and warmed my sleepy eyelids. the laundry room off the back of our little cottage, a room not warmed or cooled, but opens straight into the back fields. with its little screen door and tiny perimeter, its my favorite room in the house.

but what struck me today wasn't the room's beauty or quaintness. nope, it was just the sunlight. the way it seemed to enter my bones and shake me awake.

it was then that i realized the power of the smallest things.

so i want to begin a new little series on this blog. let's break this big ol' world down. into tangible, lovable pieces. tell me the absolute smallest thing that makes you happy. is it the first sip of coffee, the way it warms you awake? what about the way your dog pants, or the wind filling the trees before a storm? yesterday, for me, it was humming an old jewel song all day.

God's given us a beautiful, expansive world. but i get lost in it sometimes. and i need this series to bring me back. back to the basics, the elementary stepping blocks of faith, feeling and appreciation.

so send 'em in! i'm going to feature one a week, on friday. pictures, too, please. together, i think we can make something pretty spectacular.

send your submissions to: vintchdesigns@gmail.com 

via

a morning regret

my darling,

i'm sorry i didn't get up this morning to run the circle with you. it was 5:30 a.m. and i was tired down into my bones. and the aroma of crock-pot chicken was wafting through the cottage. and pablo was curled at my feet, making a warm spot with his breathing belly. and there was no place i wanted to be but tucked in those cotton sheets, the sun not yet risen. plus, you see, i've got these new bangs to maintain. and running would throw my morning routine off a bit, but i digress.

but then, about an hour later, i awoke. and sunlight was slowly rising behind the blinds. and i reached over to your side of the bed, still in that half dream state. for a second, i forgot where you were, and i was scared and sad until i went outside to find you leaning against the porch. and i'd stay awake forever to see those crinkly eyes.

you waved goodbye to me this morning still in your sweats. and i smiled the entire drive to work.

hemingway was right

 the blueberry bush produced this week!

i like to ease into my mornings.

there is a sweet envelope of time between waking and starting the day. when i'm still in that hazy half-dream state and the dew on the grass outside is magical. when the sunshine falls in slivers between the pin oaks and the earth is still cool with damp darkness.

it is this nugget--this sacred, special gap between sleep and energy that i love most of any waking hour. i think primarily because of the promise it holds. i like to hop up on my kitchen counter in my pajamas and eat my fruit, looking out onto the long, empty country road. in less than an hour, i will be in an office chair. i will divide my glance between two computer monitors. i will meet deadlines, edit copy, and call salesmen.

but at 6:30 in the morning, i am just me. a 24-year-old awake. with a husband and pup sleeping in the next room. with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee and a little bowl of blueberries resting in my lap. and it is good. i declare, it is completely good.

and the day might not live up to its promise. days just don't sometimes. but that moment of magical believing is worth getting up early for. the sun might set today without anything spectacular happening. it might just be a ho-hum repetition of spreadsheets and reports broken up by coffee breaks. i might go to bed without any true accomplishment. yes, the sun will set on this day.

but the sun also rises.