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.

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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.

accolades and the girl God made

i won an award in the fifth grade, but i passed it up. i had to read a paper over the intercom, and my anxieties over my stutter forced me to give up the title (and a trip to the local theme park). you can read about it here.

but today it's different. i wish i could go back. to that little school in the middle of the country. with its trailers outside and cafeteria that smelled like cookies and chicken pie. to reclaim that prize and speak, even if slow and strained, over the loud speaker.

thankfully, my sweet blogger friends have given me the opportunity to receive another kind of award, and i'll accept it with humility, grace and appreciation! the best part? i can type my answers! 

the sweet, beautiful grace from loving life, the awesome in my tennis shoes, super talented bethani of when a girl met a boy, and the adventerous, fun ana from the world through my eyes sweetly gave me the stylish blogger award.

for a girl who still wears flared jeans and sometimes scrunchies (i dare you to find a better hold with a regular hair tie), this award truly touches my heart, so thank you. please go check out grace's blog. she is kind, funny, and honest about juggling school, work and being a girl in general. 

in my tennis shoes is a daily stop for me! the way she writes about her family and faith is so inspiring and refreshing.

bethani is my new favorite pen pal:) just got your letter, sweet friend! made my day, i tell you.

and ana is the epitome of cool and fun. did you know she made an impromptu trip to the big apple to watch the ball drop on new year's eve? head over to her blog and read about her fun adventure and her sweet grandpa!

i hereby tag:

1. angie, from living aloha

2. dawn, from puzzle pieces

3.    thisisme, from southhamsdarling

4.    amy, from a daring little life

5.    haley k, from LIFE is sweet...
6. jessica, from heart on homestead
7. diana smith, from the smith circle

all fabulous, beautiful bloggers that i want to learn more about. simply answer seven questions about yourselves, ladies, then pass the award on to more bloggers. i chose to honor seven.

so, seven things about me:

1. i am a child of God. i remember visiting my friend's church in middle school, and everyone went around in a circle and prayed a little prayer out loud. mine was something simple, like "thank you for this day and for always being there for me." but one girl said something i'll never forget. she said, "Lord, help me walk in a way worthy of being called your child." before my feet hit the wood floor every morning, i try to breathe up this prayer toward the ceiling, toward a God who hears me, understands me, and listens.

2. i love the circus. with an unmatched, unexplainable passion and fervor. the first thing i did with my christmas money? buy two front row seats for me and robert to the ringling brothers and barnum & bailey circus coming in february. front row, friends! there's just something nostalgic and beautiful about the circus. has anyone seen the movie big fish? you know the scene when ewan mcgregor first enters the circus ring and sees karl the giant? the whole scene just embodies the 1920s. it's magical, a little mystical, and just astonishing.

source

3. speaking of big fish, i had a sit-down interview with daniel wallace, the author who wrote the book on which the movie was based, for my college journalism final project. in his classroom at unc chapel hill. he told me about the saddest moment in his life, things he wished he could have changed, and why he wrote the book. it was the best interview i ever did. i aced the project.

4. robert and i are high school sweethearts. we got married exactly five years from our first date. total, we've been together seven years. that's not to say that our romance was perfect, or is to this day. but its those imperfections, those little arguments and big make ups that make it life...make it real.

5. i keep my hand lotion in the fridge. try it.

6. until my sister moved away to college, we had a life-sized cardboard cutout of tom cruise in our bedroom. for about 10 years. it was of him talking on the phone, in a scene from jerry mcguire. it scared all my high school friends.

7. one of my favorite movies is wild hearts can't be broken. i was a bit sad to hear that sonora carver, the woman the movie is based on, didn't care for the way her story was portrayed. i just finished her book, "a girl and five brave horses," to hear her side. both are fantastic. she dove horses off the atlantic city pier in the 1920s-1930s. there's so much more to it than that, but go read the book!

source

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so now you know a little more about me. thank you for not making me say these things out loud. this is better than a trip to the theme park, hands down.

an avocado love affair

we spent the morning looking for glass on the shore. cool october wind ripped across our jeans and the sea grass was high. fort bragg, california. halfway through our once-in-a-lifetime trip down the west coast. we'd heard of the wonders of glass beach. planned on a morning by the ocean, looking into nature's mirror, the ruby of the sunrise bouncing off the clear reflection. 

but it was cloudy that friday. and we slept in. so we had to get on down the highway. we took a quick picture of the beach and headed toward mendocino.

the sleepy town on the coast was breathtaking. as our little rental pulled into the side streets, i took it all in. the art shops. the cafes. the locale, walking around in flip flops, ripped denim and well-loved cowboy hats.

we got a seat on the balcony patio at one of the only open restaurants. our waitress had auburn hair and a sweet, singsong voice. i had to squint across the table to see robert, the golden sun shooting down on my eyes and back. the man eating alone behind us started rubbing butter on his arms. that was the one part of this experience that did not make complete sense.

then my veggie breakfast casserole came out. it included the usual suspects. green and red bell peppers. little sweet corn kernels. soft, stewed tomatoes.

then, all of a sudden, there it was. woven beautifully between the eggs. soft without smushy. creamy and buttery. avocado.

i'd had one before, but never like this. maybe it was california. maybe it was the morning, so different from how i spend my usual mornings. maybe it was the knowledge that only hollywood stood between us and home.

since then, i've discovered a new love for avocados, so my heart leaped when i found this recipe. i made it last night for robert, and i swear it made the whole day better.

bacon avocado cheddar melts

from pillsbury

ingredients

5 refrigerated biscuits

5 tablespoons creamy caesar dressing

5 tablespoons shredded cheddar cheese

2 small avocados, pitted and peeled (or pre-made guacamole)

2 medium tomatoes, sliced

bacon bits

1

heat oven to 375 degrees.

bake biscuits as directed.

place on cooling rack. cool five minutes.

set oven to broil.

2

split each biscuit, and place on cookie sheet.

brush each side with dressing.

sprinkle with cheese.

broil with tops 4-6 inches from heat until cheese melts (about 1 minute)

3

mash avocado to desired consistency.

spoon avocado over cheese.

top with tomato slices.

sprinkle with bacon bits.

 

 

the perfect little bite-sized dose of avocado, with a little bacon surprise. warning: this recipe makes 10 open faced sandwiches. you'll want to eat them all {we did}.

you'll be the first to spin your story

after my shower last night, i looked in the mirror.

the tiny, silver rimmed one cleverly masking the medicine cabinet. with its still damp toothbrush.

and i took a second to examine my eyes. the curve of my lips, the shape of my forehead. the height of my cheekbones and the depths of my pupils. i tried to look subjectively. from an outside perspective. and i almost accomplished it. for a split second, i saw a stranger. past the familiar, the usual and the comfortable. into an alien state of out-of-body consciousness. i forgot my favorites. my likes and dislikes. my preferences and tastes. and just saw a girl. with wet hair in a bun and smudged mascara.

then my glance turned upward. to the tiny crevice emerging just slightly from the top of my left brow. a tiny pock mark no bigger than the head of a pushpin. a light scar from the time i had chickenpox in elementary school. in my impatience and utter agony, i had scratched at the surface of my skin, and everyone knows you don't scratch chickenpox. you just don't.

and i returned. to myself, the evening, the present.

because it was quite possible, that at that very moment, another girl was doing the exact same thing, wet hair and all. maybe in paris. maybe in ecuador. maybe right down the road. there was a chance that her hair was wet, that she had just taken a deliciously hot bath. that her mascara was leaking.

but i knew for certain, beyond any doubt creeping in with the moon, that no one was running her finger across a tiny, circular imprint just above her brow. jaggedly round, with a raised right side.

that was just me. just courtney.

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