Oh, Sunday

It's 5:30pm and I finally got the baby down for his first nap.  He's been fighting his rest time like a maniac child, and he clearly thinks there is way more entertaining things happening just rooms away.  What is really happening is two adults and two tweens who'd like a break from chasing him!

Do you feel the summer fading?  How the air has become dry, scorched, tapped out?  Though the temps have fallen to the just the high 70s, late summer fires are rolling up and down the west coast, turning the sky to hues of amber.  Our upper field stands pointed, dried slivers of wheat grass and Queen Anne Lace crying mercy in the daylight hours.  The apple trees in the front yard are full, drooping with bushels of green goodness, and the deer have been paying their daily visits to devour what's fallen, too heavy to hold on.  In the evening, Toby, our rottie bursts into action at the noise of their hoofs.  During the day, he lays resting, hardly glancing their way.  He knows danger when he sees it, and it is not his precarious, apple grubbing, hoofed friends.

I've been hanging onto these final hours.  The hours that feel like infinite rest and slumber and choice.  When the day moves along as it needs to, in the way that I need it to.  Of course the babe demands and requires much of me through the daytime, but I still have a good amount of choice, and ease, and the demands are sweet.  The summer is a time when replenishment fills and fills what feels like the well that continuously gives throughout the school year.  Thankfully, it never goes dry.

Though...

There's irony in what I'm saying, as this morning we woke to no water.

You don't realize all the ways you use water until you're faced to live a day without it.  No dishes, laundry, flushing toilets, hand washing, showers, drinking water, cooking, filling the oil diffuser.

And until about two hours ago, we sat desperate, beneath hazy skies, with no water.

So dramatic.  So dramatic.

But it wasn't the well that had gone dry.  No, it wasn't the well that plunges some 220 feet into the earth.  It was the nuisance that are little, chewing, nest-building mice, that caused the electrical short, and had Husband running around for the last four plus hours, and caused us to cancel our dinner party.  If need be, we are willing to live off the grid, but we assume our guests are not.

They happily agreed to a rain check.

But it reminds me, in these quiet moments before the school-year-weekday-alarms begin to regulate our days, of the stillness that fills me and is necessary to seek.  There's plenty to get frenzied about, and enough questionable events to spiral us down the rabbit hole--or mice-ridden well, if we let them.  We must protect our time, our hearts, and keep our well in full operation.

So while the babe sleeps, I sit here cross-legged, listening to a heartbeat monitor, and stare out the window at the parched summer haze and the corner of the property that holds the well that keeps our daily lives flowing.  I've got my books, and I'm peeking through into the lives of some old blogging friends.  It's respite to my soul.  And I welcome the rest of this day with ease, in quiet, for what it gives.  Another opportunity to slow down and rest.

How have you been spending this late summer Sunday?

Rest to you today, friends.

Dominoes

I've been a struggling soul lately.  I've been moving through the motions with as much grace as possible, yet, I feel cracked and bruised.  It's been a series of events--the collateral damage type that really dominoes out over the course of months.  With each tile that falls, the weight has pushed me deeper and deeper.

I've been doing the best that I can in the name of self care to keep my head up.  I've been reading a lot.  This morning, while filling the dishwasher, I was thinking to myself: I've been reading a lot.  This might be the summer of books.  I'm always complaining that I don't have enough time to read, now here I am reading close to an hour a day.  

And it fills me.

I've been running about 4x a week.  It's the first time that I've been regimented this way.  I'm finally making some speed and distance gains.  On the days that I'm struggling hard, I crank up the worship music.  I've had some interesting conversations with God while on the treadmill, road and trail.  There's been times when I've wanted to ditch the worship music and turn on Black Eyed Peas, instead, but because I often cling to the thing I most want to avoid, I keep the worship music cranked.  And what do you know?  God always gives me a word.  It might be the last 200 meters of my 4 mile run, but He shows up.

Yesterday, I took my oldest two downtown Portland to see a Pastor speak.  Pastor Frank was the lead pastor at the church we've attended most since Nate and I have been married.  He has dramatically changed my life in the way of Christian living and my relationship with God.  Last year, he stepped down as President of City Bible Church, and now spends his days writing, travelling the world, speaking and training up other pastors.  I went to Portland yesterday to hear from him.  I knew it would do my spirit good to hear from him.  And it did.  His sermon was on Expecting Supernatural Turnarounds.  Yes.  Exactly what I need, exactly what I'm praying for.  Being in the presence of God, hearing worship, worshiping, singing praise eased the weight on my heart--as rigid as it felt.  I could have stayed there all afternoon.

At the close of the service, Pastor Frank happened to come to the side of the ballroom where we were seated to give away some of his books.  It didn't seem that too many knew he'd be signing and giving the books away, as many had filtered out of the room before he made his way over.  I was the third in a short line and when I met with him he took my hands and offered to pray with me.  His words were comfort to my tired soul.  We agreed, I knew what to do.  Before I stepped away, I told him that his was the first church that I attended when I left the church that I was raised in.

"The first time I attended, I felt like I was home," I said.

I've thought about my saying that many times in the last 24 hours.  How many times has he heard someone say that?  How many people have finally come home during his years of preaching?

A multitude.

Today, while scrolling Instagram--not long after the fleeting thought that I should step away from social media for a time, I came across a post from a woman I went to grad school with.  The image showed her on top of a steep, rocky, mountain ridge with deep focus.  In her caption, one particular line stood out to me--"We train our bodies, but if we don't train our minds, we are missing an essential part of being successful at whatever challenge is in front of us."  It reminded me of all the years that I've pushed my body to conquer my latest challenge.  A half marathon, a Crossfit Hero WOD, hot yoga in a dank 105 degree carpeted room.  Gross.  I've always expected more from myself--the most from myself, and perhaps the cracking comes when I can't control the external.  The shitty hands, and having no recourse.  It's in this place of surrender that I fight so well, that I'm forced to wait, cling to grace and eventually, whisper Jesus.

God is training me in the area of my mind.  I know there's strength being summoned, and it's the strength that will carry me through the rough spots--now and in the future.  I've held some real shitty hands, and been in some terribly low places, and I know there is a silver lining.  The ability to connect with others, a compassion that has been placed within me for struggle when I see it, but also a toughness that pushes back and refuses to be taken down completely.

I'm not sure that the last domino has yet fallen.  The collateral damage is still fresh.

But like Pastor Frank said:

I know what to do.

Right now, it's self care and quieting the voices that don't sound much like grace.

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This is now.

It has been so long since I was last here, that I feel like I should explain myself.  But I wont, because that would be boring.  As are disclaimers and excuses.  Where I've been in the last few years will eventually spill out through story.

This is now.  Let's jump in and forget my blog needs a makeover.

Since having our third baby, Benjamin, almost four months ago, I've been working on regaining my fitness.  Though I've spent a great amount of time over the last five years in a Crossfit gym, I've felt pulled to be outdoors on the trail running more often, recently.  There's a different mentality that I encounter while I'm on the trail, than when I'm in the gym.  I lose myself in the rhythmic motion of my feet hitting the ground and the intermittent urges that I have to speed up or slow down.  When I'm in the gym, there's a sense of pressure when the clock starts.  Everything we do is time dependent.  The workout is 12 minutes long, or the workout is an AMRAP--as many rounds as possible in a given time period, or the workout ends when you finish the rounds of exercises.  Then of course, there is the pressure that comes with doing such workouts in a group environment.  Who will finish first?  What movements can I do well?  Which do I struggle with?  If there are double-unders, count on my taking double the time or at least peeing myself.  Will I finish last?  Will I scale down the weights?  Will I ever not need to scale the weight?  Will I throw my freaking back out today?  Lately, I'm just not into it.  It may have something to do with feeling like I'm no longer invincible, like I often imagined I was before baby, but mostly, it has something to do with a deep urge to slow down, to experience the newness of our sweet babe, to watch him smile as often as I can, and to nix any pressure that is unnecessary.

The timing for having Benjamin couldn't have been any better.  I had him late March, and thanks to Nathan, I was able to take maternity leave through the end of the school year.  I've been relishing in the free days and have been intentional with my mothering and self-care.  The worker-bee in me, regularly fights the urge to unit plan for next year's teaching assignment.  I became part of an AP Language and Composition group on Facebook and now it's inundating my news feed.  Last night, I told Nate that the page is a gold mine.  And a time suck.  I keep telling myself to schedule my work and quit allowing it to leak into my every day.

I've been doing a good amount of reading, lately.  I finished Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert last week, and now I'm reading On Writing by Stephen King.  I'm mainly reading On Writing because I keep seeing it as a recommended read for Lang.  I'm still feeling that book out.  I'm not sure about it, but it could have something to do with me having little to no interest in horror and sci-fi, and feeling out of the loop with all of King's references to his work.  Even still, he's a master writer and I feel dedicated to finishing.  I may come around.  I hope.

With the last two books based on the writing life, I have been thinking about my work as a writer, and its non-existence.  Though my practice of this craft is nil, I'm still carrying with me stories that I must tell.

While on the trail today, my mind concocted a series of writing points for a possible essay.  I guess I should carry a notebook on the trail, because I tell you what--I regularly have writing inspiration hit mid run.  Of course I wrote nothing down when I got home, so I can't remember what I was feeling particularly passionate about while I was sweating bullets in the heat, but I do know that inspiration hasn't fully given up on me yet.  This is the good news.  During my run, I was also thinking over my lack of writing and my commitment to the craft.  Suddenly, I was reminded of an old saying that I love--what's for you, wont pass you by.  They are words that have comforted me many times over the last handful of years through my relationships, work, and opportunities.  Today, they were the same, as I thought over my desire to write regularly and lend some serious time to a meaningful work.  Again, thinking these things while sweating bullets, on a dirt trail, in the heat.  When I returned home, I clicked open my Pinterest app to look for some dinner inspiration, and low and behold, those very words that struck me on the trail, were staring at me from the home page.  God has a funny way of making himself heard.  So here I sit, trying to do some work, to put some time in, and to begin a regular practice.  Here's hoping that inspiration will continue to return, and like Elizabeth Gilbert says, "big magic will happen." All while knowing, I can kill the negative pressure, because what's for me, wont pass me by.

There is much to write about, and it's my hope that I'll dig my heels and get to the real work--of writing to understand, to share stories, to extend the part of me that continuously begs to be shared.

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That One Prayer I Needed To Quit Praying

I used to pray a certain prayer.

It began during the time when I spent Thursday mornings in Bible study, in a hall of 100 chatty, coffee drinking, worship-singing, Bible-toting women, and had two toddlers in nursery.  It was during the time when I woke early to drink coffee with too much creamer and journaled prayers in my notebook before my day was inundated with diaper changes and meal-making.  It was during the time I sat weekly with a woman much older than I to learn about God's word, and recite scriptures to remind me of my worth.

She'd ask me over and over in various ways, all purposed to uncover the same root, "Why is His love for you so hard to believe?" 

"Put these verses on note cards," she said. "Flip through them while you're sitting in your car.  Put them on your bathroom mirror. Practice memorizing them until they are the words that fill your heart."

I never made the note cards.

Instead, I carried her prayers like a librarian moves books.

Isle to isle. Up, down, over. Scanning titles. Open. Close. Fingertips gliding over spines. 

This one looks good. It tells a story I'll like. One day, I'll read the rest, I'd think. One day, I'll take the words and invite them in.

Regardless. Even though there were no note cards, a believer appreciates every prayer, like a librarian appreciates every book--even small prayers tucked away and gathering dust.

But this story isn't about her, the note cards, or what I was moving from shelf to shelf.  It's not about the prayers I collected like novels and placed on some later to-read list. It's about the prayer that has crept up on me for years, and replays itself within my subconscious, like a startling public service announcement on repeat.

It goes something like this:

Hi God,

I know I haven't been writing. Like at all, and I just want to touch base on this (again). I'd never deny the fact that You made it clear years ago to be writing. It's not that I've given up on myself as a writer, it's just that life has gotten busy. I'm tired, and often feeling uninspired to string words together at the end of the day.  But it's just a season. I'll be back. I may not daydream crafty sentences to write anymore, but that obligation you gave me to be writing, still beckons me. Like all the time. And I feel indebted to it, like it's scrawled across some giant life to-do list that I can't yet check off. I get it. It's not going anywhere until it's done. But God, can we make an agreement? Will you please never take this desire, or this gift?  Will you keep it and protect it for me?   

The gist of the prayer is really this: God, don't let me lose my love of writing. Please don't take the gift away because I'm not using it.

I'm not entirely sure where along the line I began to believe that God will swipe gifts out of offense, or that he cuts people off when they've been feeling tired or uninspired for too long, and passes them along to more grateful servants. But it's a prayer of desperation that I've caught myself praying many times over the years. In each of those moments, I feel the self-inflicted guilt or pressure for not tending to the gift--something I love, that has been deep-seated within me and using it. The same goes for the musician, the dancer, the artist, the mentor, the athlete, the teacher, the doctor, the poet. We've all been given gifts and talents that are unique and they're meant for giving away.

I'm beginning to realize that all of this--the prayer, the desperate plea, the bartering, the excuses, the feelings of indebtedness, and the guilt, is all fear. Fear. A fear so great that it has begun to perpetuate into a cycle of--do the thing, and do it perfectly. The rest is failure. And when you don't, you are definitely a failure. And the cycle continues. Anne Lamott paid tribute to a relatable notion when she said, "You know you've created God in your own image, when He hates all the same people you do." Or when He follows your same outlines for success, failure, beauty, or having it all together.

So I've decided that I need to forget that prayer. And that it's time for me to relieve God from my check-ins concerning this gift and my reminders to him to keep my name on it.  I'm praying to trust more, and believe that He's got more words and stories waiting for me to claim when I'll have them. More words than those note cards that I never wrote, and more words than a stack of books on some lengthy to-read list.

There are words that are all mine and no one can re-gift, swipe, or take them.

#amwriting

Do you pray any prayers that you know in your heart need a revamp? 

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All Natural Energy Bites {again}

So, I have this recipe that people keep asking for.  Maybe it's because they taste like mini candy bar bites, or because I rant and rave, they're healthy, they're fast, and they're easy to anyone that will listen.  And then we all grab another and maybe another, because healthy never equates to calories, right? 

All Natural Energy Bites

Adapted from fooddoodles.com

Makes approximately 16 walnut-sized bites

1/2 C. nut butter ( almond butter, peanut butter or any kind of nut butter--I buy Adam's Natural Creamy Peanut Butter)

1/3 C. honey

1 C. old fashioned rolled oats

1 C. shredded unsweetened coconut (you can substitute here with any dry ingredients, including nuts and seeds.  

I used 3/4 C. wheat germ and a small handful of ground flax seed)

1-2 tsp. vanilla

1-2 tsp. spices (optional-I didn't add any, but you could add cinnamon or pumpkin spice)

Pinch of sea salt

1/2 C. of other add-ins such as nuts, seeds, dried fruit, dark chocolate chips etc. (I added chocolate chips)*

Directions:

1. In a large bowl, mix the nut butter, honey, vanilla and salt if desired. 

2.  Add the remaining ingredients.  Mix well.

3.  Place in the fridge for 15 or so minutes.

4. Remove from the fridge and begin to roll the dough into walnut (or smaller) size bites.

5.  Place in an airtight container in the fridge or in the freezer (we love the freezer!) for a quick and delicious snack!

*Tonight I made this a bit differently than normal.  Here's the thing:  if you get the base goodness correct (the nut butter, honey, vanilla, sea salt), you really can't go wrong.  Just don't get too carried away with dry ingredients or they wont stick together. 
Once I had the base, I added 1 C. oats, 1/4 C. ground flax, & 1/2 C. almond flour.  Then I added a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips. 

I quadrupled this recipe once, for a family reunion a couple summers ago.  It took hardly any time-except for the rolling, and I popped them in the freezer.  On my way out the door in the morning, I grabbed them, and threw them in the car.  And what do you know?  After a lazy day in the sun, my family snack was ready to go.  No plates, no wrappers, no fuss. Can't beat it.

Do you have a quick, go-to snack recipe that your friends and family love?  Let's share recipes!

Summer Homework Goes Viral

The kids have just four more days of school and school's out for summer.  Then it's playing outside until nearly 10pm and realizing that you still haven't eaten dinner.  It's movies and campouts in the family room.  It's sleeping in, river romps, and BBQs all the way through. Man. Summer we're ready for you.

Well sort of.  Last night on a whim, I started creating a summer bucket list of things to do with the kids.  And I came up with one idea.  One.  This could be a long summer.  

What I wrote down was this:

Golden Skate.  

And might I add this was very out of character?

Then, this afternoon, by some freak turn of events, I read that after 71 years of rollerskating and limbo contests, Golden Skate is closing its doors after this weekend.  I've got elementary memories of flying around that rink, and rolling those skates like a champ.  I even won one of those limbo contests.  We even had a limo pick us up from Golden Skate after our sixth grade graduation party.  If you grew up around here, I'm almost sure that you have memories of Golden Skate, too.

So what happens, now?  I take my kids to Golden Skate tomorrow.

Have you heard about the Italian high school teacher's summer homework assignment that's gone viral?  It's wonderful and sweet and good.  Here's a translated excerpt.  You can find the rest on Facebook.  The media has been doing a nice job of giving this teacher credit for his assignment by guiding people back to his account for the full read.  I'll do the same.  

1. In the morning, some time, go to walk on the shore of the sea in total solitude: look how it reflects the sun and, thinking about the things that you love most in life, feel happy.  

2. try to use all the new terms learned together this year: more things you can say, the more things you can think; and the more things you can think, the more you are free

3. Read, as much as you can. But not because you have to. Read why the summer inspires you adventures and dreams, and reading I look similar to swallows in flight. Read because it is the best form of uprising that you (for advice of reading, ask me).
4. Avoided all the things, the situations and people that make you negative or empty: try situations stimulants and the company of friends that there enrich, I understand and appreciate you for what you are.
5. If you feel sad or scared, don't worry: the summer, as all the wonderful things, puts in turmoil the soul. Try to write a diary to tell your state (in September, if you like, do we read together).

I'm especially fond of the last task:

15.  Do the good

What's on your summer bucket list?

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10 realizations had while writing my final research paper

My entire day today is planned around working on my one and only thesis paper.  Ten things have happened while writing this thing:

1)  I've come to realize that I enjoy doing research.  Entering key words and having them pull up a million archives on your very topic, is satisfying.  It's like going to Ross or garage saleing.  It fulfills my love for a good treasure hunt.

2)  Life has come full circle again.  Funny how that happens.  It's time to go ahead and add another circle to that grad school-who I am aesthetic--with the handful of circles.  Life has come full circle in the way that while I write furiously for this final assignment, I do so with interest and passion.  How could I not when I'm writing about telling one's story.

3)  With this said, I now consider myself a narratologist.  Had you ever heard of such a thing?  The dictionary refers to narratology as "the branch of knowledge of literary criticism dealing with the structure and function of narratives and its themes, conventions and symbols."  My cup of tea.

4)  Which has had me considering getting this tattooed more frequently.

5)  This is the last research paper that I have to write.  Ever.  But that just sounds so unrealistic.  Seriously.  How could this be, when at the end of 5.5 years of schooling, I could decide that I've been enjoying doing this research?  I guess I'm growing up.  I've been coming into the areas that are meaningful to me, and researching the art of narrative is of greatest interest.  Obviously. I'm a story teller.

6)  And then there is this: at this juncture in time, I can't imagine this being the end of my educational journey.  I love to learn.  I love school.  Makes sense, right?  I'm a teacher.  But schooling is not all titles or the certificates.  For me it's about the personal investment that comes with allowing yourself to be fed and to grow.  Life becomes boundless when you position yourself to be poured into.  You may do some busy work, and at times, you may feel your eyeballs would be better poked out with a fiery metal rod, and you may think about bailing.  A lot.  Because it's not like anyone is forcing an education on you.  But you don't, because it's worth it.  And there is way too much to be learned in life than to be hanging out in the bleachers.  Sure, the lessons of life can happen anywhere--in the woods or while meeting chance strangers, and all of that's necessary and priceless.  But getting a {formal} education is just one of the coolest gifts I've ever given myself, and it has made me better in my relationship with others, too.  So we'll see.  In due time, I may head back--to study narratology.

7)  Which reminds me...a successful acquaintance once told me, that she doesn't like to learn.  Still trying to reconcile that notion.  I'm not sure she listened to what she was saying.

8)  With this said, I've got many books that I'm ready to consume this summer.  Since starting grad school, reading a book for pleasure has been a thing of a past.  My list of to-reads has been growing, and I can't wait to settle into them.

9)  Then there's the sun.  I'd like to enjoy that.

10)  And finally, because I like lists of ten, and as narratology would suggest--the story does not end.  “The story is beautiful, because or therefore it unwinds like a thread.  A long thread, for there is no end in sight.  Or the end she reaches leads actually to another end, another opening, another ‘residual deposit of duration” (Caine, et al., 2013).  This is just a fragment of my query.  Beautiful, right?

Stumbling For Center

Currently.  So much life has happened.  So many new experiences, new people, uncomfortable, tiring, rewarding, soul-stretching days, and tremendous gratitude for where life has taken me over the last year and a half.

I'm done student teaching, I graduated from Washington State University (for a second time) last weekend, and I'm a teacher with a Masters without a gig.  The demands of being a stay-at-home parent are in full swing, and I thank the heavens that my kids are so charming.  The 100 "Mom!" yells a day have jolted me back to my favorite role.  It's sweet.  And bittersweet.  It's just that when you've seen so much, been part of something great, given so much heart, and then one day it's over, an emptiness sets in.  The screen goes blank.  It's another room vacant.  It's an unfillable void because only that duration of experience belongs.  What was captured in that timeframe are of the things nostalgia thrives on.

So I'm here. Stumbling for center, and living the thing through until life settles itself again.

Don't let this happen.

"Oh my God.  What if you wake up some day, and you're 65 or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or didn't go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid?  It's going to break your heart.  
Don't let this happen."  

-Anne Lamott

I was minding my business (well not really, as I was perusing Facebook), when I found this tonight.  In a moment's notice, I was thrust into my elderly age, looking back on my life, and considering  how it would feel to have not accomplished my heart's list of desires--my ultimate life aspirations; my purpose.

And it devastated me. 

So I got out of bed, headed to my desktop where I can actually type at a fluid rate, and sat down with a banana and some peanut butter to contemplate Anne's forewarning.  

I'm a woman of many aspirations.  I struggle with perfectionism.  I struggle with wanting to find the next best thing to challenge myself.  I am consistently overwhelmed by time and the lack of it in 24 hours, yet I rebel against a full calendar, and for the most part, I fly by the seat of my pants (with some slight organization and scheduling).  

And I see it doing me a disservice.

Here's the truth.  I've hardly been writing--beyond the necessary, at least.  I haven't even looked at those chapters that I wrote, in years. And what's that thing I was writing called--a proposal?  I stopped working on that about four years ago, and I'm positive I might cringe at everything I wrote during that time frame.  No, I'm positive I would want to huck it out the window.  But when I finally get up the nerve to plug in that external hard drive, I'll try and remind myself that even Anne Lamott writes shitty first drafts.   

Shitty and near non-existent, I still feel obligated to that piece of writing; the story--as it continues to evolve, the emotions that are tied to those years and the memories that wrecked me for a time, but gave me a reason to have a reason to fight for myself.  And I feel tied to it knowing I'm the only one who can give it life, and that the actual writing is the only way to uncover the pieces and offer them up, no longer as a lingering metaphor of my life, but a soliloquy of redemption. 

The heart of the matter is that there's a nudging inside that never quite lets up.  The force and the frequency may die down, but it never quite lets up, and I can't ignore it away. 

I may not have until I'm 65 or 75.

And the work is far less painful than the regret.  
I'll put my money that.

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A Word For 2014

The kids and I have been down and out with hacking coughs and congestion since the day before Christmas.  For myself, I wasn't entirely surprised, as I'd felt the stress mounting--up, down and up again.  It was stressful this year, even as much as I used to think Christmas was never a stressful time, I felt the pressure accumulating thick.

The funny thing is, when Christmas morning came, there was a release.  All my ideals came to a thudding halt, the noise turned down and there was a stillness.  And I realized how much of my worry and the pressure I was carrying was because of my choice to entertain it.

Woosh, another Christmas gone.

The cold of winter brings a sense of barrenness.  I've been collecting myself, thinking of ways that I can continue to be in awe this season, to be stimulated and filled up, how I can give thanks all season long.

I'm thinking along the lines of less TV and electronics, and more outdoors.  How I'd love to hike around Jones Creek with Husband, and tromp around the property with my Nikon strapped around my neck, documenting winter in images.  There's something in this season for me, beyond the mothering, writing, reading, studying, long runs, and a few winter bathes.  Whatever it is is waiting for me.

I haven't settled on a resolution(s) this year.  I haven't done that for a couple years, as I've learned like many of you that resolutions can become problematic.  I want to breathe in each day knowing I've given my best and it must be simply so.

Last year, I did choose a word to focus on, and I liked doing that because even though it is just one word, it can be all encompassing.

The word for 2013 was WRITE.

What's funny about me and writing in 2013, is that I did less in a sense, but what I did do, was more.  Without plans to do so, I blogged less.  Then later, I decided that my blog needed some fine-tuning.  I felt the authenticity of SFS slipping between trendy-natured posts and a pressure to write more regularly to "have a successfully read blog" (i.e. increase numbers), than to write hard and meaningful for me, and if it so happens, for others along the road of exchange--however that happens over the interwebs.  I've watched a handful of blogs that I love become so overrun with marketing, links, products to buy, etc. that I've actually quit reading.  I'm making it a point to go and seek beautifully written blogs for their content, alone.   I love a good story.

My word for 2014 is EUCHARISTEO.

In the Greek translation, it means to have joy and to give thanks.  I first learned of this word last year when reading, "One Thousand Gifts" by Ann Voskamp.  It's a book that has altered my thinking; it has firmed me up spiritually.  I've found that in giving such thanks there is an exchange that occurs.  I give You my broken pieces and questions, and You give me Your comfort, unending love, Your beauty, and deepen within me a joy for life in its intricate and fragile mess of wonder.   "Thanksgiving always proceeds the miracle."

"The root word of eucharisteo is charis, meaning “grace.” Jesus took the bread and saw it as graceand gave thanks. He took the bread and knew it to be gift and gave thanks. Eucharisteo, thanksgiving, envelopes the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning “joy.” Charis. Grace. Eucharisteo. Thanksgiving. Chara. Joy."  Ann Voskamp, The High Calling

The thanksgiving is a way of life.  It's a present term; active and free-flowing.  It's words falling off saddened lips of loss.  It's thanks during disappointments that have penetrated deep.  It's the thanks for the blessings which have miraculously arrived after doors have slammed shut.  The thanks keep me in close relation with God, it keeps me joyful, and it keeps me humble, too.

Here's to eucharisteo; here's to the exciting New Year!

Did you do a resolution or do you have a word for this year?

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Merry Christmas from our family to yours!

Merry Christmas!

Blessings to you and yours this holiday and throughout 2014.

With love, The McCully Family

 Nathan, Cassie, Brooklynn--7 1/2 & Asher-- 5 1/2

Stories and Mourning: These Gifts God Gave

All the stories the rooms could tell...

It was wet, with rain tapping on the skylights for the better part of the weekend.  So wet, that when I noticed the fruit bowl was empty, I decided against walking into the front yard to pluck an apple from our tree, and opted to nap instead.  Rain drains deep, I guess.

Do you ever find yourself in conversations that you aren't sure you're supposed to be in?

Three scenarios took place over the weekend, and each time I felt like I had walked in on a private matter, uninvited.  Except I was invited; I was the receiver on the other end.  But unlike conversations with a beginning, middle and end, I felt like I was getting served a double portion of mystery, ache and struggle, with no conclusion.  Just a whole lot of subject matter to sift through and eventually file away into the compartments of what I've been told about life.

They were stories leaking such heartache, that cause you sit there torn up with emotion for a person who has no idea that you're even thinking of them, or their loss that was so deep, or the tears they fell that finally ran dry; the facet finally shutting off.

It was the news of the mentor, who means well, who may have given very bad advice.  Advice that caused a divide so deep, that it took a hefty stitch from another receiver to repair the tears.  The thought that one who means well, could give divisive advice in the name of Jesus?  Reconcile that on a moment's notice.  

It was the conversation with a new acquaintance that ran circles and circles and circles with long explanations for his life lived unconventional, housed in a VW bus, a week out from being shipped to The Islands.

"I'm living on the sand.  But I don't have a house, cause I'm still running.  But when I build a house, it's going to be on a rock," he said.

Confused by his need to tell me why the VW bus, the sand running, the here, there, everywhere, explained in story, unpacked with analogies, I finally offered,

"You don't need to explain yourself.  Just be."  He looked at me eyes slightly squinted, half smiling.

Though I did manage to say four our five more things in those two hours, I felt it my responsibility to be a receiver that night.  He had much to share, explanations to give and circles to run.  His whys were not for me, but for himself, so I listened on.

One of these days I suspect he'll get tired of running, and just be.  Maybe on the Islands, or maybe back in the Midwest.  Maybe his past love--the one whose visa ran out, will come after him again.  It's hard to catch a person if they're running.

As much as these stories petitioned an unsuspecting visit with mystery, ache and struggle, and as much as I wanted to forget how they made me feel on that long rainy car ride, or on the couch with two sleeping babes curled beside me, wisdom beckons me to scoop them up and take them with me.

It's as though God was telling me, take these stories.  No, here.  I know they're not yours, but have them. Be burdened by them for a minute.  Because they are real.  And of the people around you.  These stories are the people walking by and beside you each day.  I'm building compassion in you.  It's one of my greatest virtues.  To be able to give more, you must know more.

A year and a half or so ago, I had felt that my passion for my work in peer abuse prevention and spreading kindness, was running dry.  I'd been pushing away my dealings with prevention, because I wasn't quite sure that I had yet entirely faced my own story of abuse.  I fought with myself over what healing looked like and whether or not I could in fact be a voice or a vessel of hope.  But on a good day, during that time, I prayed to God with the Hillsong lyrics:

Heal my heart and make it clean / Open up my eyes to the things unseen / Show me how to love like You have loved me / Break my heart for what breaks Yours.

My timing must have been off.

I fell into despair, heart cracked for friends dealing with heartache and loss.  I learned fast that God is quick to answer a prayer that builds compassion.  God shows up when you sit at His table.

He showed me a mother mourning for a son who'd taken his life, and her dealings with on-going depression. He brought to my attention a father, who worked in the trenches of suicide and peer abuse prevention, who succumbed to the pain of his lost child, taking his own life.  He showed me over and over, heartache and mourning, heartache and mourning.

Until I was aching and mourning.  The sky clouded, happy hellos half-filled, a closing in, a double-take at the children, and the deep heaviness in the chest that greeted me in the morning, even as the sky beamed in blue hues.  And I didn't know what to do with it.

Isn't that what He feels for us each day, every hour, every minute as His children walk out life feeling alone, abandoned, rejected, humiliated.  His heart breaks for us while we mourn.  And He waits for us in the mourning.  He waits for the moment that we give ourselves over to His love, to set us free from the leaky facet, the divisiveness, and the race that begs to be ran--the race that He's already finished.

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12.  It was never required of me to know what to do with a double-portion of mourning.  I was only asked to receive and mourn, and rejoice with those who rejoice.

So as the stories continue to be given, they don't fall on deaf ears.  Though the lives that they've affected stir in me an emotion to close off and not receive, I agree to receive them anyway.  Because to know is to understand and with understanding we can live with compassion.  The stories make up volumes of books that God has outlined for His children; a compilation of stories shared, to teach, uplift, pages to mourn over, to rejoice over. All leading back to Him.

So I gather the stories, the mystery, ache and struggle and place them in my pack, and continue.  I'll carry them with me, eventually tucking them into the books of compassion that God is writing in me. 

The light is on for you, friend,

The Knowing and the Showing Up

It's the eve of my 31st birthday, the crickets are humming and I've got one thing weighing heavy on my mind this warm, stuffy, September night.

This morning, after both the littles climbed onto their yellow school bus, I picked up a treasured friend and we made our way to corner coffee shop at the edge of Northwest Portland.  Even the car-ride time was put to good use, as two women with children know, uninterrupted time is sparse; we must tackle the minutes.

So it was, over deep-cupped cappuccinos and toasted focaccia, we dove in--somersaulting into conversation about passions, goals, God's timing and the like.

In this sort of conversation with this particular friend, there is a deep-rooted place that we walk together and where words collide into heaps of fire.  We get each other when we talk our craft--her's music, mine writing, and the purpose for these giftings.

"I'm thinking of doing 365 days of writing for my 31st year."  I announced.

"You've got to be careful about acts that are religious," she said.  "Because if you fall off the wagon, the enemy wants you to feel like you've failed and that you aren't any good."

I sat for a quick moment, considering fete and failure.

"It's like you and music." I said.  "If you practice daily, you become better and better.  Your inspiration grows, your creativity widens.  It's the same in writing.  Even if it's small, insignificant, just five minutes--it's about showing up."

"Yes!" She agreed.  "It is." 

Something happens when we commit to showing up.

God can work with those who show up.

The truth is, when I initially listed no.13 on my 32 Before 32 list as "Write 365 days of the year,"  I added the hyphen "did I just write that?" and then the list ended.  I remember feeling like my list had become so romanticized that logic had taken a nose-dive out the window.

I'm already praying for more hours in the day, and considering an hourly planner.  My bed is rarely made, the kids' room scares me, I haven't menu planned in months, and I grocery shop on need-for-meal basis. Thankfully, I'm still cooking.

But what's worse than the chicken scrap pile still on the counter, or the laundry that needs to be de-wrinkled, is the know in my spirit that I should be writing. It's the regular reminder that that story deep-down still hasn't been written and is waiting quietly for me to give it narration.  The burden is more so in the knowing what needs to be done and doing nothing about it, again and again.

So this year, I'm lending myself to 365 days of writing.  I'm counting on words, chapters, chewed fingernails, neck cramps, writer's block and shitty first drafts, as Ann Lamott would say.  There will be plenty of those.

But what I know for sure is, if I show up consistently, I'll get better at my craft.

And God can choose to use me if I show up.

 



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Pieces of a Pacific Northwest Summer

 

It was hot, gorgeous as ever and the days were spent in the best of company.  My oldest sister, Tammy, and her family came up for a week-long visit over the holiday and we made the most of it.  River time, a day spent at the base of Mt. Hood on the Alpine Slides and other kiddie adventures, tire swings, pool dips, lots of catch-up-sessions and capped the week off with a day trip to Indian Beach, Oregon.  What fun it was, and how hard we played.  

Gah!  We're off to a great Pacific Northwest summer!

Yay Friday!

You guys!  It has been three months since I last blogged and I can hardly believe it!  Literally, our computer tech just dropped off my newly restored tower, so now I can reach all my programs, pictures, editors etc. and get back to the land of blogging!  I never expected the break to be this long, but it was, and a lot has happened over a quarter of a year!

I've missed you!  So glad to reconnect!

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Winning :: On this first day of Spring

Can you believe we've already made it through another Winter?  I'm amazed at how painless it was.  I think it has everything to do with our Indian Summer last year.  September and October were so nice that they fended off many soggy memories of the rain that we know too well here in the PNW.  #win

But this is not to say we've had a shortage of wet weather.  In fact, today, there was rain, hail and sleet, topped off with a little bit of sunshine.  There was a rainbow somewhere, for sure.  Did you see it?

With Spring sprouting around the property and the frogs croaking their harmonies into the night, there are a handful of exciting events happening.  First off, I don't want to make you envious or anything, but I just found out that I won a second giveaway in about a week's time.  Whaaaaat?  Winning!  I can't wait to show you what's coming to me in the mail from this blogger and this blogger!  Love me some month-of-March luck!

Another score this month are the two FREE tickets to see Cheryl Strayed speak at a local event where she'll be speaking on her bestseller, "Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail."  I just pre-ordered the paperback and can't wait to read it before Husband and I see her speak at the beginning of April.  If you don't already, I recommend you follow her on Facebook.  Good-hearted, entertaining stuff. 

We just booked our tickets to Cabo for Spring Break!  We haven't been on a family vacay like this EVER.  The last time Husband and I went on a vacation was our honeymoon--to NYC.  And there was no sunshine, heat, or blue water about it.  This is a big deal.  BIG deal. 

On another note, tonight, while scouring my brain and Pinterest for a dessert idea for book club tomorrow, I came across these.  Holy!  I've been baking sugar cookies for decades, and I have a feeling that this recipe could bring a whole new level of goodness into the kitchen.  Just looking at these cookies makes me want to eat two...or three, and completely forget that I'm cleansing for Cabo.  If it looks that good, I call it a win.

Lastly, the cherry blossoms have bloomed and they made me smile this afternoon.  Definitely a win.

Any recent wins? 

 

Monday Mentions: bits and curiositites from around the web

Today, Brooklynn brought home a special book from the library.  I'm guessing she chose it because it had our last name on the cover, or maybe it was the leprechauns and it being March, but what she didn't know is that the illustrator of the book, Emily Arnold McCully, a Caldecott Medalist, is actually her Great, Great Aunt!  Husband and the kids and I shared a fun moment over the book.  Personally, I've never met this Great, Great Aunt, but I'd love to.  If I could, I'd ask her to tea, and cozy in for warm scones and hours talking the creative life.  I never dreamed that I would be a children's book author when I was young - but it turns out that I was preparing myself to be just that all along.  Love that.

Speaking of leprechauns, this St. Patrick's Day Scavenger Hunt looks like such festive fun!  Do you have traditions for St. Pattie's Day?

Did you know that daylight saving causes some folks to act strangely?  Check out these facts and statistics.

I've added this to my growing 31 before 31 list.  It's right there with make cinnamon rolls and wake up on a mountaintop.  You know--the important things in life.

Since I mentioned life, what about this beautiful book of images titled, "Where Children Sleep."  I think the premise is great--intended to interest and engage children in the details of the lives of other children around the world, and the social issues affecting them, while also being a serious photographic essay for an adult audience.  Beautiful.

Now I'm going to get on the rest of that important 31 before 31 list!  I hope you're off to a great week! 

Image:: Brooklynn in 2012

Monday Mentions: monday, you came fast.

How was your weekend, friends?  Ours was enjoyable and pretty laid back.  I got to visit with one of my mentors on Friday and I gifted her "One Thousand Gifts."  I'm guessing I'll gift that book fifteen times this year.  I love it and think everyone needs a copy. 

I've been working hard to keep my workouts up, as I'm getting ready for the Shamrock 15k in just under two weeks.  Since I started crossfitting last June, my long-distance running has become nearly non-exisitant.  But I got the itch to hit the road long and hard, and signed up for the Portland Shamrock Run.  Nothing beats the Shamrock Run!  It's my favorite run by far, and it has become an annual tradition of mine.  The great news is that increased strength has definitely made me faster.  I've cut 25 seconds off my average mile pace since I began crossfit.  I'm ecstatic!  Friday and Saturday I did crossfit and then Sunday, I ran six miles at race pace, while my sweet SIL biked behind me. 

Saturday night, we had a small gathering, which included BBQ, the males playing the game, Quelf, while the wives looked on, some humored/some not, friends down from Bellevue (near Seattle--and newly pregnant!) and me passing out on the couch with a pillow in my face while my guests were still present.  Wow.  That's embarrassing.  I blame it on the workouts. 

Sunday was extra fun as my SIL took the kids and I to see Yo Gabba Gabba live, with tickets she won from a local radio station.  Cotton candy, Kettle Corn, Rockstars and glow sticks are a few of the things that carried us through.  Not going to lie--there were some catchy tunes, a cool beat-boxer (who Husband tells me is extremely famous), and sweet moments as the kids danced and smiled the time away.

And then Monday came, and I realized I hadn't gathered any Monday Mentions, and I considered quitting blogging because I clearly can't stick to a schedule.  And then I realized you probably don't give a lick whether or not I blog Monday Mentions, so I went ahead and wrote this instead. 

What fun did you have this weekend?