Christmas Songs are usually better when you sing them...

12/23/2009
It must have been so quiet
It must have been so cold
This aching earth in such need of a miracle
The distance must have pained them
The violent space between
A perfect God and fallen man
Where Your love should have been
Where Your love should have been

How they must have waited
How they must have prayed
For some way to tie heaven to this broken place
How they must have wondered
When choirs of angels sang
How their King and conqueror
A helpless baby came
A helpless baby came

It must have felt like thunder
It must have smelled like rain
Touching You, holding You, whispering Your name
How their hearts must have broken
What agony, what joy
To recognize salvation in
A precious little boy
A precious little boy

I've always known this story
I've always called You mine
I can't quite imagine how it must have felt that night
It's in an old man's promise
A faithful woman's cries
When they first glimpsed the soul of God
In tiny human eyes
In tiny human eyes

I won't forget this Christmas
The miracle You are
That came for shepherds, fools and kings who wished upon a star
And shattered all the quiet
And lit up all the cold
And turned the God of all Creation
Into someone we could hold
Someone we can hold.

Merry Christmas.

love.

Vintage Blogs

Why yes, I am still awake. Fine, though, thanks for asking.

So I finally got around to transferring all of my old blogs from coughMySpacecough onto this one, primarily to make sure I didn't lose this.

If you are one of my five followers and they all showed up in your blog reader, I am truly sorry. Feel free to ignore them.

Learned a few things... one worth noting is that my exclamation abuse has been significantly reduced since befriending Mike Pacchione. I submit this blog as evidence. Mike, I'm almost ashamed. My regret should make you feel proud.

I'm going to bed now, kids. Feel free to read all about my former life should the mood strike you.

love.

I'm in touch with a supernatural...

Here's what I love:

I don't know about you, but God and I have a lot of inside jokes. Is that crazy? It could just be the fact that I grew up in a family where sarcasm is our primary love language, a situation that has obviously colored my interpretation of the world, and maybe the deity, around me. Or it could be that my love for subtle humor and irony gets somehow scrambled in with my prayer time. It could be that I've officially, finally, lost my mind. But since this is my chooseyourownadventure story, and I haven't found any "God is definitely humor-less" statements in my Bible, I'm gonna keep on believing that He is genuinely, often, lovingly trying to make me laugh.

Honestly, this has to be my favorite of all favorite things. I mean, there are a thousand amazings to meditate on when it comes to the greatness that is God - grace, for crying out loud, and redemption, and agape love, on and on and on. But the thought that He knows me well enough, loves me hard enough, desires my heart enough that He might want to make me laugh... that's huge for me. There's something so intimate and personal about humor, and the idea of God taking a second to go "Hey, how do you like them apples?" in my general direction is just neat.

I know this raises all kinds of fascinating questions. Do we serve a meddlesome God who is all about making your tire go flat at a certain time so you're late to work at the job you hate and wind up meeting the owner of the company you've always wanted to work for at the car place where he happened to be because God caused His taillights to malfunction, or is God more of a big supernatural computer programmer in the sky who has set the world up to function pretty well on its own and only intervenes when He's asked to? (Was that the longest sentence you've ever seen? Good grief.) Is God intentionally setting up daily comedy for me, or did He just design me to interpret things a certain way? I tend to lean toward a symphony metaphor when trying to define God's "plan" - He has composed a gazillion different parts for a gazillion different instruments and intelligently and intentionally designed them to line up just so, playing off each other and harmonizing all over the place. Cause if you had unlimited, almighty capacity, well, that's what I imagine you'd do.

Regardless, I love the moments where someone says or does something that is just so dang perfect I can almost hear God chuckle a little and whisper "See, silly girl, look what I can do. Bet you didn't see that one coming. Gotcha." I feel like those are the sort of moments that make this thing we have going a relationship instead of just a story in a book I read sometimes. Those are the moments where we love each other in our own quirky little way, God and me. Those are the moments that make Him specifically mine.

love.

"Black Friday" like "Not in the red" Friday? I wonder...

So it's 9:45 and I'm going to bed, because tomorrow, for the very first time, I'm going shopping at the crack of Black Friday dawn. I'm not sure why I'm even remotely excited about this - crowded stores rank just above the dentist on my list of favorite places, and man, six thirty is early for shopping, especially when you can't even actually buy anything. But I'm going, and in a twist that is an insult to stereotypes everywhere, I'll be accompanied by my father and bro-in-law while the rest of the women in my family get their beauty sleep. Wish us luck.

I wanted to take a minute and acknowledge that I live a life consistently packed with blessings. Here are a few of the greatest hits:

Things I am thankful for always:

1) "You hem me in - behind and before; You have laid Your hand upon me."
2) My family. There is nothing to say that hasn't been said, but I drew an unusually fantastic card in the family game. They are nothing short of amazing. So much of what I am, I am only because they are.
3) The usual suspects - roof over my head, food on my table, friends to spend time with, health, life, sunshine... you know. You're thankful for these things too, I'm sure.
4) I have the best dog, like, ever. Seriously. Ever.

Things I am particularly thankful for this year:

1) Imago Dei, which has been a completely world-altering discovery for me. To feel I have a home in a church I can actually connect with... priceless.
2) More specifically, Northwest Home Community. I just sat here for five minutes trying to decide what to type, and I'm at a loss. You have all changed my life this year in your own ways, most of you I suspect without even knowing it. Thank you.
3) My lovely roommates and our new home. We have the best little Boston family... I'm a lucky, lucky kid.
4) The rest of my Portland family- specifically Dan and Mel, who are my constant. I know it's been a busy year. I love you both so very much.
5) The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Cheesy as anything, reliably boring by hour three, and still always manages to give my gullible, sappy self goosebumps at least three times.
6) Portland in general. You, city, you have stolen my heart.
7) New traditions- Monday breakfasts, Thursday Office parties, Sunday brunches... and people who are willing to play along.

It's 10:01 and I need to go to sleep if I'm going to be watching some soccer moms fight for sweaters at Target in 8 hours. But if you've read this far, I'm thankful for you. I hope you had an amazing Thanksgiving.

And as of tomorrow... :)...Christmas. (!!!)

love.

RSVP

(right, so, if this doesn't make sense to you, don't worry about it. Sometimes the interwebs get the better of me.)


heh hemmm...

T’was eight days before Christmas, and all through the house
I had thrown seven dresses, two tops, and a blouse
I’d established the fact I had nothing to wear
And Shannon could not do a thing with her hair
The beer had been purchased, and our bags were packed
With a fair contribution of holiday snacks
But she, in her curlers, and I, in my robe
Were, as usual, stumped by the issue of clothes
I said,
“What the heck is it with parties these days?
Once again the dress code is decidedly vague
According to this, I must dress like a slob
To escape the harsh judgment of someone’s friend Robb”
“Who spells Robb with two Bs?” Shannon wanted to know
This wasn’t quite helpful. We needed to go.
“Do you still have that Evite?” I asked of my friend
“I think it might help us. Let’s read it again.
Alright, no ugly sweaters, and no stupid gifts
A signature cocktail? How swanky is this?
They got some new trash cans, and Amber is baking
Sounds like one heckuva night in the making
But the part about dress code is quite sad and dire
A comfortable outfit, or cocktail attire?
How more very opposite can two things be?
Shannon just sighed, and looked sideways at me.
“You know, we would not be in this lousy quandary
If all of our black shirts weren’t still in the laundry”


I’m not sure how the rest of this story will go
We may show up in jeans, or in satin and bows
You may feel you should mock us: “How hard can it be?
You just put on an outfit and drive down the street.”
And sure, it’s quite easy to live by that credo
If you happen to own a corduroy tuxedo.
But fit throwing isn’t the proper behavior
When joining to celebrate our Lord and Savior
We would like to accept your most kind invitation,
Dress up and come over for snacks and libations
(I’d like to point out that this poem’s almost done
And I haven’t yet once hit the shift key and 1)
And there truthfully isn’t much we’d rather do
Than spend one of our evenings kickin’ it with you
So if our outfits are awesome or give you a fright
Merry Christmas to all… we’ll see you Friday night.

Dear Potential Suitor

In my world, the one where people spontaneously burst into Michael Jackson song and dance routines and secret handshakes are an acceptable form of currency, people would come with warning labels. We could wear them printed on our tshirts or tattooed on our arms or project them like holograms in front of us whenever we catch someone giving us the eye. They'd be personal, but unfailingly honest, and you'd be able to see past the nervousness and the awkwardness and the lousy communication skills and straight to the point of a person. They'd go something like this:

Dear Potential Suitor:

This is Karyn. She's aware of her height. She does not play basketball, or volleyball, or model. If you feel the need to discuss any of these topics in great detail or demand an explanation as to her reasons, she is probably not the girl for you. Kindly move along.

This girl is a relentless bundle of enthusiasm. She will drag you out into the night on crazy adventures and behave like a five year old in the presence of rides or costumed characters. She will narrate for your pets and coerce you into participating in cheesy holiday activities. Though you will certainly be allotted grace if you have a hard day, a mood, or an occasional issue, generally, in most parts of life, you will be expected to play along. She has the utmost respect for people who play along.

She will gladly suffer fools, but cannot stomach a snob. Your being too cool to watchthatshow/eatatthatrestaurant/dothatsillydance/hangoutwiththosepeople simply will not be accepted here. However, if you can look like an idiot without flinching, you will win her heart in moments. She loves a man who can laugh at himself.

She seems silly, this girl, a lot of the time, but she's serious in her core, and the things that matter to her are non-negotiable. She thinks about things entirely too much, and she'll want to tell you about them. You would do well to be the sort who will engage in truly unimportant debates without a hint of condescension. She isn't always very good at loving her God, but the trying to is central to her being. You will have to lead her sometimes, but she will come and find you if you need her to. You will always be the second highest priority in her life, and you will be asked to help her remember to keep it that way.

There are four loves for which she will not apologize: musical theater, Disneyland, knitting, and cheesy love songs. You do not have to understand, applaud, or admire these things, but you do have to respect them, and love the part of her that loves them. If you can find it in your heart to humor her from time to time and let her show you why she loves them, she'll return the favor.

She is not always easy to love, this girl.

There are scars in her that are difficult to look at and harder to erase. She won't want to show them to you. She can be reckless with hearts, including yours and her own. She has a stubborn streak that will catch you off guard, and she's sometimes prideful and often insecure. She'll gladly address thousands of people, but be scared to death to meet your mom. She'll hold you to a difficult standard, and at times you'll resent her for it. She'll defend people who anger you and it will annoy you like you wouldn't believe. You will get very, very tired of the sound of her voice. She lacks direction, she doesn't cook well, she hates folding laundry. She's moody sometimes for no reason at all, and she'll just want you to leave her alone.

This girl, though, she'll be a lot of fun. She'll be game for just about anything, and she'll do everything she can to support you in whatever you choose to pursue. She'll show up, this one, she won't cling too hard and she'll want you to be who you are. She'll move mountains to make you laugh. If you can win her respect, she'll try to make sure you always, always know you have it. She'll let you go on and on for hours about the things you care about - she'll try to learn about them and ask thoughtful questions. She'll love you for your eccentricities...the parts you think are the most unlovable will likely be her favorites. She's weirdly wired like that.

She's a little gun shy sometimes, and a little reckless others. She'll spook if you move to quickly and get bored if you take too long. She can't promise she's worth it, but she might be.

Check yes or no.

What does your warning label say?

love.

Scattered Thoughts from Tuesday Night Conversations

We've been talking about relationships in our Home Community this last couple weeks. Which inevitably leads to long and poorly-thought-out blogging. Here goes.

Lord knows I've been in my fair share of relationships, and they've certainly run the gamut of complication and commitment. As a self-termed serial monogamist, I've spent the vast majority of years I can remember tied to someone else. I suppose for my own sanity I have to believe that some good has come of the variety of experiences I've had, and I'd like to call that good "perspective." In any case, I've certainly given it the old college try. (I just used "Lord knows," "run the gamut," and "old college try" in one paragraph... apparently, talking about relationships ages me about 40 years)

We Christians like to complicate the heck out of the dating process. We load it up with expectation, apply a shameless ton of pressure, and try to spiritually one-up each other with sanctimonious rules, recommendations, and restrictions. We build boxes and place ourselves in them, hiding behind walls of timing and circumstance. I don't mean to be skeptical, but I question how many of us truly feel a strong calling to be single or married and how many of us just want to feel called. And further, I feel sometimes like we've drawn a crazy line in the sand - you're either trying to get married or trying to stay single - no room for middle ground, or dating, or getting to know someone, or just plain not knowing at all.

I struggle with this, because in my heart of hearts I'm a huge fan of the not knowing. I've tried to create a plan for myself a thousand times- for now, I'll be single, I'll have this career, I'll move to this city, I'll go to this school, only to watch it crumble away in seconds over a conversation with a stranger or advice from a friend. And I love that. I love that no matter what I think the plan is for my life, no matter how sure I am that I know myself and what I need right now, I have a God who will knock me on my sorry butt and prove that He has me figured out in ways I can't begin to imagine. I love meeting someone who makes me wonder "What if?" or looking back on an old relationship and realizing how necessary all the unexpected pain was. I love that God waits for the moments when my heart is its hardest to swoop in and surprise me. I love that I never, never see it coming.

Being single isn't the resting place for me that it is for some, which, in a strange way, is why I'm okay hanging out here for awhile if that's how it turns out. I'm vaguely uncomfortable, being single, and I think that's a good thing... we should be uncomfortable, at least fairly often, because it's awfully hard to grow when you're sitting around being all cozy. I'm trying to listen. I'm trying to stay open to whatever could be. For a while, being single was the place where I felt the most challenged, but I do feel like it's getting easier lately. Which could very well mean that the time for a new challenging situation is just around the corner. Or not. I have no idea! Isn't that kinda great?

I think we've only just begun this conversation as a group, and I love that we've opened a dialogue. My hope is that none of us get too comfortable in our current situations, that we don't avoid relationships because of the potential difficulties or cling to them because we're afraid to be alone, and that we remember how much we can learn from each other. I hope we can learn to be content but not stagnant, and that we can seek to grow closer to God in whatever our current situation is - single, married, or somewhere in between.

Teach me to see...

Sorry I'm all poetry and no fun and games lately... I'll get you something silly soon. In the mean time, I like this little worship song I wrote this week, and since I'm very unlikely to ever actually play it for you, I'll just post it here to get it out of my system.

How typical of me to try and define Your majesty using my own words
When you write my life like a song, like a melody, in a language I have not learned
You who placed the lights in this expansive sky, that I may walk right by and not see
Then bring You buckets full of tears to wipe away, and beg You not to leave me

Teach me to see

I know You promised You would hold me like a child, but like a child I never listen
Still You whisper that You love me every day, a thousand ways, until it sinks in
You who carved the very earth beneath my feet, You take the time to know me by name
Who am I to doubt the wonder that You are, that You have been, that You will remain

Teach me to see

Sometimes it feels so quiet in this place, all of these faces they don't know me
And this hope of You I carry in my heart, I only see in part, can You show me
Paint a new horizon on my day, take the hurt away, let me love You
Light up this whole world, teach this little girl, how best to love You

Teach me to see
Teach me to see


love.

Truth

In light of recent conversations. It isn't always a struggle... rarely, even. But the days that it is, this is as close as I can get to defining it -

6/10/09 Prayer, 11:03 pm

this is not where i thought i'd be now

i walked an hour today
trying to pick up where i left You
only to be met at every corner
by the doubt i'd hoped You'd take away

i'm not prepared to be alone in this venture
is that fair to say to You?
i want to be whispered to
by someone with a voice i can hear

i'm trying to love You wholly and only
You are difficult to tack down,
immeasurable, uncontainable You
You are All and Every, but You do not hold my hand

You understand

he might say my name using sounds i've never heard

take me over. make it enough.

This is not a blog.

The following are actual conversations I've had with the Clear Wireless tech support/account services folks in the past month or so, with very little embellishment, honest to goodness:

Call One, Before the Move

Tech Douche A: Now, Ms. Serface, you said you've tried to get a signal in every room of your house?
Me: Well, I live in a studio apartment, so there's, you know, the one room, but yes, I've tried it all over the apartment.
TDA: And you say you can't get a signal?
Me: That is correct.
TDA: Ms. Serface, you are aware that there is a tower just near your apartment... you should be getting a signal.
Me: So sorry.
TDA: Is the unit plugged in to an outlet?
Me: Yes sir, it surely is.
TDA: And you receive no bars?
Me: As I've mentioned, I receive one bar in one of the windows if the modem is sitting on the sill, but just the one bar.
TDA: To confirm that, Ms. Serface, you are receiving a signal in one window?
Me: Yes.
TDA: And which window is that?
Me: Um, the left one? There are three... it's the one on the left?
TDA: In which room of your home?
Me: Which room of my studio apartment?
TDA: Yes, Ms. Serface, in which room are you receiving the signal?
Me: I have just the one room, my friend. (I always start imitating Michael Cera when I'm on the phone with tech support types... that might be worth exploring...)
TDA: I see, I see... have you tried putting the unit in the hallway to see if you receive a signal there?
Me: The hallway outside my apartment?
TDA: Yes.
Me: No?

Call Two, Before the Move

Me: So what will it cost me to just cancel my contract?
Accounting Jerk B: One hundred dollars.
Me: So if I do that, you can just charge it to my card and we can move on?
AJB: That would be most unwise, Ms. Serface. We can simply send a tech out to your home and he can verify that you are receiving no signal. Then there will be no cost to you.
Me: Ok, well, let's do that then.
AJB: Excellent, but first let me run you through some trouble shooting. I see on your file that you claim to have tried the modem in every room of your home, is that so?
Me: In every room of my studio, one room apartment, yes. Though not the hallway (this is about when I started getting snarky with the Clear team)
AJB: Do you receive a signal any room of your home?
Me: No sir, I surely do not.
AJB: Are you aware that you have a tower just outside your building?
Me: I've heard a rumor to that effect, yes. Still no signal.
AJB: What about in the hallway outside your apartment?

Call Three, After the Move

Non-Jerky Tech Guy John: So Ms. Serface, you aren't receiving a signal in your new home either?
Me: No sir, I surely am not.
John: I'm sorry.
Me: Me too.
John: Can I put you on hold while I check the coverage in your new area?
Me: Sure thing John.
John: Did you know you have two towers just near your home? You should be getting a signal.
Me: I have a force-field surrounding me, John. I seem to personally block any possible signal.
John: I'm sorry?
Me: Still no signal, John.
John: How many rooms are there in your home? (where was this question before, I ask you, where?)
Me: I'm glad you asked...lots! Three floors. An attic, a basement, and a main floor... six rooms not counting the bathrooms. And just so we're on the same page, I've taken the modem into every room, placed it against every window, opened every window, and rotated it a quarter turn in every direction and I'm pretty sure there is no signal. I have not tried the roof, the backyard, my neighbors house, or anywhere else where it will be extremely impossible for me to keep my modem. The modem, by the way, is plugged in, I have no surge protector, and it isn't currently attached to a computer of any kind. I don't receive one bar or two bars, just no bars at all. It scrolls indefinitely. It has been scrolling for days. No signal. I'm sorry, because there should be one, but there truly isn't. At this point, I'm going to be cancelling the service, penalty fee or no, so actually acquiring a signal isn't high on my list of things to do. I've spent about four hours on the phone with your people, and you yourself have been very kind and I realize none of this is your fault, but I'm tired, John, and frustrated, and I'd like to have a tech come out because I'd like to not spend $100. Can we arrange that?
John: Hold please.
(7 minutes pass)
John: We will be able to get that tech out to you, Ms. Serface, but first I'll have to run you through some trouble shooting. Let's start in the kitchen. Are you currently receiving a signal in the kitchen?


I'll spare you the rest. Let's just say I was on the phone this morning for one hour and twenty seven minutes.

Seriously? I mean, seriously?

Seventeen

7/12/09 11:53 pm

i used to love you madly, madly

i remember still the way
we were all and nothing
for hours on end
content in the breathing of
each other's secrets
lost in the passionate warring of
angst-riddled youth

you would put on your
faux punk rock defiance
and i would stand frozen
in my insecurity
captive to fear and
your hands on my face

you could pull me out of and into all silences
i laughed hardest in your arms

i used to love you madly, madly

It tastes good, I swear...

So on some Sundays I buy myself McDonald's for breakfast. I like McDonald's for breakfast, I always have, and I likely always will (you Food Inc. people can stop your threatening to burn me at stake for crying out loud... I'm calling your bluff). After leaving the Mickey D's drive thru this morning, I embarked on a very spiritual train of thought for my drive to church: there are a lot of things that I like that other people think are gross. To illustrate, I've created the following list, cleverly titled:

Ten Things Karyn Likes That Normal People Think Are Gross

1) McDonald's Breakfast Burritos... the little ones, not the new weird ones. The ones that they often fail to microwave enough, resulting in semi-frozen eggy insides. Man, I love those things.

2) Puppy kisses. I'm totally not grossed out by dog kisses. It's unfortunate if no people will want to kiss me after reading this.

3) The fantastic flavor combination of cheese and banana. If you haven't tried it, shut up.

4) Watching surgery on television. Fascinating. Not at all gross.

5) Kraft Mac & Cheese with no butter in it. I still hold that I can't really taste the difference. Which is probably why my foody friends are often frustrated with me.

6) Babies in all their drooly, snotty glory. I'm not the least bit worried about baby goo. I dig babies at any level of gooeyness.

7) Diet Pepsi. Aspartame may kill me, but first it will make me stronger.

8) Food sharing... I have absolutely no cootie issues, and am often guilty of swiping sips from someone's beverage or food from their plate. I'm cool with double dipping, too, in case you were wondering.

9)Rodents, rats especially. I'm a huge advocate for the rats-as-pets-for-children movement. They don't bite! They're smart! They actually like people!

10) Hot Pockets. I'm fairly convinced they are the perfect food.

And because I'm all about achieving balance in life (?), here's a companion list:

Ten Things Normal People Like That Karyn Thinks Are Gross

1) Cheesecake. Have you had cheesecake? Ugh.

2) Slugs. I realize Normal People may think slugs are a little gross, but I think they're top of the top of the grossness scale. *shudder*

3) Flossing in public. Watching people fish bits of old food out of their teeth with a piece of string is soooo not my idea of a good time.

4) On a similar note, sharing toothbrushes. I still can't believe there are people who actually think this is ok.

5) Kraft Mac & Cheese with other stuff in it. Keep your veggies/tuna/hot dogs/creamed corn away, please and thanks.

6) Feet. Yours, mine, ours... just don't ask me to rub them, and we'll be fine.

7) Anything drenched in sauce or gravy or other unnecessary food-wetters. I'm not even that into soup.

8) Watching people get accidentally injured on television. Cue empathy pain issues.

9) Holding hands when it's more than 90 degrees outside. Ew.

10) Moths. Dude. Creepy.

I'm sure this blog has changed your life. What largely-considered-gross item do you enjoy, or what normal thing grosses you out big time? I'm dying to know.

love.

Live like you were dying...

My friend Dan is one of my favorite people, a title he has earned in part by being one of the most predictably unpredictable people I've ever met. When we met at Starbucks, I wasn't sure we'd get along - he was exactly the sort of cynical kid that I tend to annoy (in fact, I think I did annoy him quite a bit in the beginning). Unpredictably, Dan and I are the same in as many ways as we are different, and through a series of ice breaker questions, we forged a friendship that finally made me feel at home here in Oregon. A few years later, he's still surprising me. (She thinks my tractor's sexy? REAlly?)

Dan and his girlfriend Mel are probably the most frustratingly intelligent couple I've encountered - separately, they are both painfully smart, and together, they basically know everything. The trouble with smart people is the way they so often insist on making you think about your life and your reasons, and their constant need to know why you feel the way you do. It's what I love most about them, their insistence on unsettling me, and it's also annoying, because sometimes I get emails like this:

Blogger's prompt: When I was in high school, the columnist Rick Reilly (Sports Illustrated) wrote a column about what he would do given the the predicament of having one year left to live. I wrote my own version for my college entrance essay. I wonder what yours would look like.

Of course, the problem with me is that I can't walk away from an assignment. So, I've been wandering Portland for the last week or so pondering my impending doom. Cheery, no? I've come up with all kinds of wild plans - world tours, massive Disneyland excursions, skydiving and rocky mountain climbing and 2.7 seconds on Fu Manchu... and I've concluded that I hate this question. I hate it because it serves no real purpose but to raise another question: If these are the things I would do if I knew I was going to die, and I could die at any moment, why am I not already doing these things?

There are obvious answers, most of them financial - I have to work, I can't afford the airfare for a world tour, and Disneyland is getting more expensive by the minute. Yet I keep coming back to a less obvious truth: if I really wanted to be on a world tour, I'd be out there, touring the world. If that was the desire of my heart, I wouldn't hold back... I wouldn't be able to stop myself. The truth is, seeing the world isn't really what I'd want to do with one more year. It's only what I think I should want to do. Because what I want to do, what I'd truly want to do, doesn't sound grand enough. But here it is anyhow.

I'd stay up nights. Every night, I'd commission a different friend or relative to sit up with me, to walk with me, and make them tell me their stories. Stories are so very much improved by wee small hours... people open up when it's dark and you can't quite see them. I'd ask them to tell me all their thoughts on God ( :) ), and I'd share mine. I'd sleep in mornings, but only after staying out late enough to catch a sunrise. I'd eat breakfast for lunch, and I wouldn't care about calories or my health when I'm in my fifties... I'd have pancakes every day.

I'd quit my job and guilt my friends into housing me - split my time evenly between Portland, Creswell, and Morro Bay (my SJ relatives can make the drive). I'd take walks and sing songs with my father and listen, really listen, to everything he told me. I'd play cards with my mother and my sister as long as they wanted me to, and laugh with them, and sit in silence on the swing in the backyard with them, and watch Katelyn hide from bats. I'd watch silly TV with my mom until one or two in the morning. I'd spend hours just holding my grandmother's hand and letting her love me.

I'd write letters, man, I'd write hundreds of letters full of things I've probably already said but want people to remember. I'd try to tell you all how beautiful you are, how I'm so stupidly lucky, and blessed, and grateful, and I wish you understood the sort of magic you have. I'd talk so much less and let you talk so much more. I'd drive over the speed limit. I'd get one heck of a crazy, career-limiting tattoo. If the opportunity arose, I'd fall recklessly in love and not worry about being rejected. Who says no to a dying girl? ;)

I'd call everyone, the scattered so many of you I love, and make you come hang out with me. I'd wave that pity card high and wear it proudly if it meant face time with those of you I never get to see. I'd try to make sure you're going to be awesome, because being the tragic, dying friend gives me sudden power and profound wisdom, and you're all going to listen to what I say. I'd warn you to brace yourselves for the pep talk.

Is it wrong that that's all? I'd have late night conversations and pancakes and time with all of you. It sounds like such a Hallmark commercial, but it's true. I hope you aren't too dissatisfied with my answer, Dan. It's all I can come up with.

Well, that isn't entirely true. I might do all of those things, but I'd also blatantly refuse to have only one year to live. I'm not sure who decided my fate in our hypothetical, but I can't imagine myself managing to be realistic about the whole thing - I'm never realistic about anything. So I guess, DMoe, my real answer is that I would wave my magic wand and refuse to die. So there. Now come talk to me until two in the morning. Bring that cute girl.

love.

When you're working and no one else is, make lists.

Mildly interesting things I've learned this week:

- The moving crew of Leisha, Aaron, Janae, and Karyn is force to be reckoned with. That and Kevin and Rachelle are a perfectly balanced comedy team. Olive oil is messy stuff.

- Screens on windows are not, repeat, not over-rated.

- Jennifer Nettles and I have twin tattoos. Who knew.

- Cupcakes from Southern California are awesome. Also, I miss Katherine Peterson tons when she goes away.

- My brother-in-law is going to be my new Harry Potter buddy. I love that.

- In the case of Leisha and Karyn versus a pancake, the pancake doesn't stand a chance.

- I'm too mean to Taylor Swift. I'm not sure I'm ready to change.

- Janae and I have identical parallel parking strategies. You're better off not knowing.

- The California Raisins are far more popular than I thought. I mean, I never actually had a costume... :)

- Tamara Leeper is a fantastic anti-shopping buddy. She made my week.

- The nervous chattersarcasm thing that I do has got to stop. Just tell me to shut up already.

- Kyle doesn't like mayonnaise on his sushi. Which sounds perfectly reasonable until you realize how much sushi involves mayonnaise.

-Every now and then, Internet Aaron makes an appearance in the real world. And it stings. :)

- Looking forward to a weekend with Dan, Mel, Katherine, and my family makes the week take forever, but is totally, totally worth it.

- Twitter: eh. I'm trying.

I love your faces.

Did you really expect me to go cold turkey?

I know that the following truth makes me a walking stereotype, but few things are as unexpectedly delightful as not buying a sweater last year at Anthropologie for $136 dollars and finding it this year at Buffalo for $20. In the correct size, no less. That's just happy. Damn the man, save the Empire.

I've decided to try an experiment in the name of recycling, living simply, and polar bears. I vow not to purchase any new clothing for the next 2 years. No Forever 21, no Target, no Anthropologie. According to the rules I've drafted for myself, I can purchase second hand, used, or vintage clothing, or items that are handmade by individuals (not companies) within the US. Exceptions are: one pair of jeans a year (I know, but you try being me and buying jeans. If I can find them long enough, I swear I'll go second hand), underwear (for obvious reasons), and socks. I will also allow myself two pairs of practical new shoes each year, but only if a pair I own dies somehow and I can't find a suitable second-hand replacement. Please keep in mind that practical does not mean ugly. So lay off.

I can make my own clothing, but only from mill end or thrifted fabric. If I receive a gift card, I may use it, but I may not ask for said gift card (so no crying to mommy). If asked, I will encourage people to gift me Etsy dollars or something instead.

And here's the one that really hurts: Books. This rule also applies to books. Eek. That was even hard for me to type. Thank God for Powells.

The goals are to reduce the impact my purchasing has on the bleeding fingers of small children in third world sweat shops, to reduce the impact my impulses have on my wallet, to detox from the high I get buying stuff I don't need, and to challenge myself to be creative and resourceful (and maybe use my sewing machine for once).

Yup. Challenge ends 7/1/11. Anyone in?

PS Though I feel it's a bit jinxy, I have to add another exception: should I need a bridal gown, I'm gonna buy one. Not seeming too likely, but here's to praying big and not limiting God and the plan and the future and all. Same story if I'm asked to be a bridesmaid again. ;)

A broken bottle top, and a-one man's soul...

I've never been shy about my affection for Michael Jackson. In the face of countless rumors, mishaps, and accusations, I found him truly fascinating - a walking representation of the short-comings of this world, the damage we can do to our children, to each other, to our heroes. He was truly one of the most gifted entertainers we've been blessed with, and also one of the most tragic. How lonely it must have been to be MJ, and how difficult to be lonely with all of us watching. I hope he's at peace. Maybe he and God had worked out something good in the midst of all the chaos... I hope so.

He will continue to be the soundtrack of my insecurity... any time I'm nervous about meeting new people, or going to a party, or playing entertainer myself, his songs will still be the ones I choose to play to psych myself up and dance it out. I'm thankful to him for that.

Also, those of you who have heard about the Man in the Mirror Project, it's on... sort of has to be, don't you think? I'm thinking about two years from now, probably on the anniversary of today... I'll be needing about 200 of you. People get ready. ;)

love.

Errt Errt... Woah oh woah oh woah oh...

Runaround Sue was the malapropos anthem of my childhood. I'm not sure why my father thought a song about a cheerful promiscuous woman would be the right thing to play for a two year old, but play it he did. All of his other song choices made perfect sense: The House at Pooh Corner, I've Got My Pajamas On, All of Me... all sweet, child friendly songs with positive messages. A quarter of a century later, however, and the one I remember best is the song about the girl who runs around with every single guy in town. My father would bring out his beat up guitar and I would dance, dance, dance.

From the very first hours, my father has wrapped my life in music. It began with theme songs: Airwolf, Greatest American Hero, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. There were songs he loved (Sweet Baby James, Fire and Rain, Carolina in My Mind) and the ones we made up as we went along (Goodnight to Freckles...you'll always be my friend...). When he discovered the Vineyard church, it was Awesome God and The Victory Chant. Whenever there has been a campfire in my life, my father has been there to serenade it. Whenever I've had a song stuck in my head, he's been around to play it out for me. If I want to sing, my father is there to back me up.

If the music had been the only thing my father gave me, it would have been enough. But he is not a man of few words or few talents, and he wanted me to have all my bases covered. He made sure I could identify superheros, pro-wrestlers, and the crew of the Starship Enterprise. He read me chapters of the Bible interspersed with chapters of Tarzan. He taught me to play Pooh Sticks, to ride a bike, to follow instead of lead when I dance... he coached soccer, softball, and whatever else was my hobby of the week. My early education was peppered with talk of quantum physics and computer science, and he helped me build a laser at age eight.

If the lessons were the only thing my father gave me, they would have been enough. But he is not a man to teach from a distance, and he jumped in. He donned a white top hat and tails to become Charlie the Cherub in our kids choir and an electric bow tie for my elementary recital. In middle school, he took the stage with me for my very first solo number - rocking a wicked Irish accent and watching patiently as I sang. He made sure he knew what I was doing in class, helped me finish my homework, and fixed everything I broke.

If participation in my activities was the only thing my father gave me, it would have been enough. But he is not a man to settle for activities - my father participates in me. He knows the names and habits of every friend I make, becomes their facebook buddy, and comments on their lives. He asks my opinion when he doesn't need to and genuinely considers my viewpoint. He engages me in debate, challenging my ideas and pushing me to consider new angles. He defends me unconditionally, and believes that I'm somehow stronger and smarter and better than I am. He makes sure that I know it.

I am lucky. I am lucky because from the beginning, my father has taught me, participated with me, been my friend, and provided the soundtrack. I'm lucky because he played Runaround Sue over and over again, inappropriate lyrics and all, simply because I loved dancing to it. He's exactly the sort of parent I hope to someday be.

If I'd been given the chance to choose, Daddy, you'd have been my pick. Thank you. Happy Father's Day.

Confession.

I love being Pollyanna. It's a strange thing to be prideful about, sure, but I am. I love being able to identify myself as the most optimistic person you know, the one who can see the good, accentuate the positive, bring in da noise and da funk. I even somewhat enjoy the downsides, like the shameful smiling I did at the nice-smelling, well-dressed man on the corner of 20th and Burnside until Dan and Mel gently informed me that he was the neighborhood pimp. I'm used to my rosy-colored glasses, and they suit me fine.

The problem with becoming too proud (problems? with pride? never. ;) ) of being Pollyanna is how difficult it is to 'fess up to the bad days. When you are saddled with sunshine as your very identity, the idea of being sad for an hour or two can rock you to your core and make you doubt yourself. As for me, I'm terrible at not being "ok." Better than ok, really: I'm terrible at not being awesome. I want to be awesome all of the time. I want to be the person doing, not needing, the cheering. I want to be the helper, not the helpee.

But sometimes I'm just tired. Sometimes I just want someone braver than me, and stronger than me, and smarter than me, and more hopeful and wiser and bigger than me to pick me up and remind me, assure me, that everything is going to be amazing. Sometimes grace feels heavy - forgiveness I can't ever earn, a debt I can never repay. I wish I didn't struggle with that. I wish I could take God at His word and look Him in the eye and say thank you instead of getting caught up in my own failure. How do you wish you were better at not wishing you were better? Sometimes I just want to sit up all night and talk to someone, anyone, who will speak to me like they're sure about something.

I wish I wasn't so aware that I have nothing worth complaining about in my life, just so I could complain and feel justified. Sometimes it sucks to be level-headed. There. That made me feel better. :)

I'm blessed. And I'm loved. And my God is mighty to save. And tonight I'm just tired... and joy will come in the morning.

The best defense is a good offense...

My not-so-secret strategy to befriend every canvasser in Portland is starting to work. Yesterday, on my walk home, I encountered two different Children's International workers with positively delightful results.

The first was V, who I know because he was my surprise-and-delight target a few months back. V is my favorite to run into as he is always all about the free hugs. We chatted for a few minutes about the heat and people being mean to him. I was then able to get my free hug (and one of those fist-pound thingys) and head on my way.

The second was a girl I've spoken with a few times, but whose name I can never remember. She looked at me and said "Yeah, you already have a sponsored child, huh?" I nodded. She smiled. "You would."

Really? I'm adding that to my list of favorite things people I don't really know at all have said to me. "You would." I love it.

I'm a long way, obviously, from getting to the point where I can walk anywhere in this city with similar results, but yesterday made me feel like I was on my way. I'm pretty amped about my little mission. As someone who walks basically everywhere, and then takes walks for fun, the idea of completely eliminating all awkward "No, I don't really have enough money" (which is pretty true) encounters is super appealing. I'll keep you posted.

FYI, if you'd like to participate in the movement, here's the not-so-genius strategy: Be aggressive... be, be aggressive and approach a canvasser first. Smile as big as you can, shake their hand, ask how they're doing... they're used to being avoided, and this throws them off their game. Ask what they are supporting, but come right out with "I honestly won't be signing up for anything today. I do, however, support what you're doing and think it must suck to be out here." The first time, you will be stuck talking for about 5 minutes while they try to make the sale. Say no, but tell them your name. After awhile, you'll start to only run into canvassers you know, and if you repeat the game plan enough times (I seem to average two times before they remember me), they start to recognize you, wave to you, and not pitch to you! If you ever want to skip immediately to the no-pitch buddies step and have a few bucks, buy them coffee. Works like a charm, and costs a heck of a lot less than $25 a month. Most seem to position themselves strategically near coffeehouses anyhow. :) If you do ever want to sponsor a kid or something, do it. They seem to have a solid network, and will spread the word and completely lay off you if you do. (Disclaimer: this does not work with all canvassers, as canvassers are people and all have different needs and reactions. I'm not responsible if you try it and get stuck buying a polar bear. Be strong. Persevere.)

I know most of you think I'm insane now, or still, but I spend a lot of time thinking about this stuff. I walk past the same 10 canvassers almost everywhere I go. People bring it up in conversations with me weirdly often. It's a daily issue, kids. So just roll with it. This is working better than anything else I've tried so far.

If you see V, give him a hug. He likes that.

love.

This won't bother you nearly as much as it bothers me...

Grammar Girl informed me today that it's alright (edit: upon closer inspection, and to her credit, she said it might be ok, but she is also skeptical) to begin a sentence with the word "for," if by "for" I mean "because." Which means I could say something like this:

I am exhausted. For I have taken my dog on a very long walk.

Does that seem wrong to anyone but me? I mean, really? I could get behind I am exhausted, for I have taken my dog on a very long walk. I just don't think I can take it as two separate sentences. Icky icky yuck.

The whole thing is just making me itchy.

love.

Complaint.

It is perfectly fine with me if the people of Abercrombie & Fitch want to continue to try to asphyxiate their customers. But could we try to keep the toxic fume cloud inside the building? My having to cross to the other side of the street to avoid death-by-cologne is completely unacceptable.

Side note: the word asphyxiate is making me very happy. Yx is the coolest letter combination ever. Are there other yx words floating around out there? I'd like to meet them.

In The Eye of the Beholder

Note to Rascal Flatts: I understand that, after reading this story, you'll most likely want to write a song about it. I think it's right up your alley. Feel free.

It's been that kind of a day today.

I struggle, sometimes, with the superficiality of my job. It's loads of fun, but in the end I am still expected to close the deal. I've always done well in sales and always felt a little funny about it... I mean, it's not like I'm saving lives. I'm selling dresses. Important dresses, sure, but dresses. I'm working for the man and the empire. I'm not really doing anything all that meaningful.

Today, what I do mattered. Today, I was humbled and smacked upside the head for being short-sighted and cynical. Today was a good day.

You see, we have this dress. It's an old, old dress that's been hanging around the sample sale pile for at least six or seven years. The edges are yellowing and the beadwork looks like it has narrowly survived a natural disaster. The neckline is cut remarkably high, a look that screams 1994 and would make most conservative grandmothers rather happy. There is a giant, cliche, borderline farcical bow that snaps (yes, snaps... biggaudymetal snaps) on just above the badonkadonk. It's not a very pretty picture, this dress in its sorry old plastic bag.

I've been mocking this dress. I've been whining about it, threatening to donate it, and claiming that its presence alone was a threat to our credibility as a retail establishment. I've implied, nay, insisted that it could not possibly serve a purpose on this planet, ever. As you can imagine, I haven't done so subtly. I've been a big jerk to this dress.

Today. Today, the sweetest bride arrives with an army of annoyed looking women who practically vibrate around the store, exchanging unhappy phrases in Japanese. They are skeptical of price, have only so much to spend, have been treated poorly. They are protective of the bride, and they are fierce. Somehow, in the frenzy and the yelling and the buzzing, they emerge with the dress. I cringe, subtly (I do at least that much subtly), and obligingly hang my nemesis in the fitting room.

It isn't until the bride is undressing that I see the scars... the open, new, painfully raw scars that are freckled across her torso and neck. They huddle in with the lumps of small tumors, bruises, and unnatural indentations. The cancer, she says, took her hair... she had beautiful hair. I, for once, have nothing to say.

I know I don't have to tell you how this all went down. You are smarter than me, and you've seen it already. That dress, that ugly, forgotten, embarrassing dress, covered those scars perfectly. It will take work to make it beautiful, but the work will be done, and the beginning is there. She had a thousand dollars to spend, and bought my least favorite dress at $125. It will be rebeaded, restored, refinished, and it will cover her scars. She had been looking for quite awhile for a dress that would make her feel safe and beautiful on her wedding day, and that dress will be the one. She has an impossibly wonderful smile.

There was joy, today. They thanked me, and hugged me, and left happy. I sat in the back room for awhile and let myself cry.

We are short-sighted. We look so often at something, someone, and fail to see the potential through the missing pieces, the stains, the broken parts. We forget that God is in the timing. We forget that He takes broken edges and fits them together like puzzle pieces, creates something beautiful from something tattered, harbors a perfect plan for what we have rejected. Often it is the smallest of things that reminds us. I am reminded today.

I'm not THAT tall...

What I'm laughing about today: the Tall Girl Triple Glance (TGTG), as presented to me by, oh, half of Portland on my walk home this afternoon. I would like to point out that I was only wearing 1" heels, which shouldn't even count. I mean, come on.

For those of you who aren't familiar, the TGTG goes like this:

1) General glance, with a quick look at my face... the height registers.
2) Quick, shameless glance at my shoes to check for some sort of platform... perhaps I'm standing on a box? Nope.
3) Back up to my face, this time with a clearly searching expression that is so very honestly, albeit not very subtly, trying to decide whether or not I'm really a girl. Thankfully, I usually get a smile if I catch them at this point.

Hilarious. I'm not sure why some days are TGTG days... usually, I'm at least wearing a serious heel and topping out at about 6'3".... but today, today I was just little old me, and TGTG they did. Good thing I'm not shy.

Thank you to the man on the bench who actually said to his dog: "Look, honey, that girl is so tall... isn't she lovely?" You, sir, are my hero of the day. And no, I don't play basketball.

love.

Good all the time...

a.m.

today the world accosts from all sides
the man on the bicycle wobbles only once
before
offering me his finger and going darkly on his way
the rain begins
and silly me, i have again forgotten
to change the blades on my windshield wipers
i drive with soggy vision
the streets are treacherous
and the radio politely refuses to play

i wear Your love like a merit badge

like armor

like skin

A Letter to Sophie

Dear Muffin -

I want you to know I appreciate how you tried to be a good little girl and get here before your Auntie Karyn leaves for vacation. I thank you for the effort, despite the fact that it seems I'll miss you by just a day or so. I'll let you slide this time - you're new yet.

So I'm probably not going to be around to meet you right away, but perhaps your mommy will be awake in the middle of the night sometime while I'm gone (you may have something to do with that) and she'll stumble on this blog if she happens to tear her eyes away from you for a minute or two, and she'll let you know how very much I'm looking forward to seeing your pretty face.

Your mommy is a pretty special lady. I haven't even known her that long, but she has been a rock and a sounding board for me over the course of our short friendship, and I'm so grateful for her. She'll be a rock and a sounding board for you too, I'm sure. I know how much she has anticipated you - you are already so hugely loved, and you're a very lucky little girl. If you're smart, and I know you will be, you'll want to grow up to be the sort of gracious and Godly woman that your mommy is - truth be told, when I grow up, I hope to be a little bit like her too.

I'm praying for you tonight. According to my cell phone, you've been not-so-subtly hinting that the time is coming. Maybe I'll get a text in a few hours to come see you, but it's more likely you'll take your time, as well you should. I hope your journey here is as painless as possible for you (mommy too, for that matter) and I wish I could be there to see you.

I'll be in a place called Mexico, drinking some things called Margaritas (you'll learn about that much, much later). I'll bring you some more cute clothes (which I know you desperately need ;) ) and a margarita for your mommy (which I know she'll desperately need*) and I'll see you when I get back.

Godspeed, little Muffin. See you soon.

*a virgin margarita, of course, what with breast feeding and all. No infants will become intoxicated as a result of the delivery of the margarita.

I am from...

I've been falling in love with these on everyone's blog, and finally had to write my own. Should you like to follow (and I hope you will), the template is here: I Am From


I am from neighborhood rides in the red wagon, from My Little Pony and donuts hung from trees.

I am from the house just after the "Stop Ahead" sign, the screened porch and the squeaky swing in the yard on lazy summer days.

I am from transplanted palm trees and the holes they leave behind, the raw and urgent smell of ginko and the peach tree that only sometimes was.

I am from Pooh Sticks under bridges, from yell-to-be-heard family dinners, from Peters and Serfaces and Isabella Glockenspiel, from Verle and Lorraine.

I am from exploring the possibilities of the imagination, from a world where love accomplished and allowed belief time and time again. I am from the callouses on my father's left fingers, from Nipper and Napper and my mother's sewing machine.

I am from seagulls who know my name, from static electricity, and from The Collected Works of William Shakespeare.

I am from the church that raised me, from Sunday night potlucks and retreats in October. I'm from the pews I crawled under, the terrifying height of the baptistery, the choir room. I am from my Precious Moments Bible with my name in gold letters, the cross my father bought me and the one he made me keep, from Christmas Eve candlelight services and footy pajamas.

I am from Grandma's Spaghetti and the defense of Slop, from the bullet holes in the walls of Chicago and the beaches of Morro Bay. I am from a newlywed's hideaway in Seattle and from the house my mother grew up in.

I am from the boy and girl who met in the marching band, from a poorly-planned teenage spying episode, a parking lot engagement, and a blue tuxedo shirt. I am from Sabrina and Bear.

I am from walks with my grandfather. I am from the two who read each other to sleep every night.

I am from the hill with the tire swing, from wide open spaces, the Angel Garden, and my parents attic. I am from the faintest whiff of eucalyptus, from suspended moments of beauty, from a hint of chlorine.

I am grateful always.

Something True

Walking around listening to my iPod makes me feel like I have a secret. Now I'm constantly wondering what's playing in other people's ears. If I run into you somewhere, let's switch.

A Few Good Men

There has been a cute couple trend going on at AniA lately. Normally, I land pretty solidly on the side of tradition: the groom shouldn't see the gown until the wedding day. However, I've been seriously enjoying the fiances that have been showing up lately to help with the selection process.

Take, for example, the bride who bought her dress this Monday. She and her fiance are from out of town, and every time they come they make a weekend of it, stay somewhere, do cute little couple-y things. I love to watch the two of them interact. They have this fantastically casual vibe, an ease with each other, that sucks me right in. I believe in those two. They're also getting married in a castle in Scotland. So, I mean, come on.

I also dig the sweet couple that recognized me on the MAX the other day. You have to love a man who will go out of his way to say hello to a bridal consultant, and compliment her on her service skills, and talk about how difficult it is to find cute shoes. Love it.

Then there's the fiance who sits in our store for hours on end while his bride goes over every detail. She's spent more time with us than anyone else I can think of, and still he is patient, still he waits and comments and praises and adores. She has most definitely found the right guy.

My favorite thing about men in the store is the way they look at the bride when she does her "reveal." Fiances, dads, friends... all of them look right at her face. Women, well, we all go straight to the dress, but not the men. Not one of them sees the gown first... they simply see the girl. I LOVE that. Just love it.

Way to go, boys, way to go.

On Never Making My Point

Do you ever feel like you just can't say what you want to say? I often feel like I'm on the edge of explaining something important and just can't quite find the words. It feels as though if I could just get it out of my head, onto a page or a screen somewhere, I could stop thinking about the same things over and over.

I think this selfish struggle is why I blog so repetitively. Try as I may, I can never seem to make the point I want to make. So you, whoever you are, get the same blog every five posts or so, as I explore the same turf, and fail again to explain it. They look like this:

A) The "Moment" posts... in which I try to capture that crazy moment that I'm still not sure other people ever share with me. I tend to meet certain new people and know, just know, that they'll be important people in my life. Anyone else have this instinct? It's frighteningly accurate, and literally instant. Perhaps it's where the phrase "love at first sight" comes from, but I wouldn't call it love, just, I dunno, anticipation? Recognition? Argh, it makes me nuts. I can, and do, go on all day.

B) The "Identity" posts... in which I go on and on: "Why is it so hard for me to just be me around people? If you knew me you would like me. Why can't I be less self-aware? Which version of me am I anyhow?" Blah, blah, blah...they make me a little nauseated, actually. Which will cause me to write another blog.

C) The "Gratitude" posts... I'm not apologizing for these. The world needs more gratitude posts.

I'm not sure why I'm so hell-bent on trying to explain myself to the world. I'm not sure why I'm still, at 26, struggling with an irrational fear of being misunderstood. I'm not sure why on earth I think it matters so much, why I'm always at the center of my universe. I'm not sure of much, really.

But I am sure of this: I am grateful this Easter for a savior... for a Someone who knows my thoughts, understands my point and how silly and small it probably is, and loves me anyhow, loves me for it, loves me through it. I'm thankful for a God who is bigger than my self-obsession, who died to bridge the gap between my failure and the Divine, who will put a new song in my heart. I am humbled by His patience with my whining, my questions, my weak and wild little soul. I'm praying that I may become less, so that He may become more.

love.

Puppy Love

Sometimes Caper and I have important heart-to-hearts:




love. :).

I thank you God...

As you well may know, e.e. cummings was certainly not a religious man. He did, however, write one of my all-time favorite pieces of worship, and it is perfectly, eloquently, exactly that which has been bouncing around my head and heart all day:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

happy Sun Day. :)

So, I like Portland...

The man with the over-amplified guitar stops strumming as I pass:

"Hey, you, that's my coat!"

"I'm sorry?" I stop. I'm a glutton for crazy person conversations. I regularly approach picketers and soap-box preachers. By myself, by choice. That's another story.

"Yeah, that's my coat!"

"This is your coat?"

"Yeah!" People are starting to watch. "Remember, you came to my house last night, you punched me in the face, and you took my coat?"

"This coat? With the flower?" My friend Claire made me this awesome fabric flower I wear pinned to my lapel. "Is this your flower?"

"Hell yeah. Now gimme back my coat"

"Sorry, man... I like your coat. I worked hard for it. I'm totally keeping it."

He smiles. Apparently I've passed my standard Portland insta-banter test. "Alright." He picks up the guitar, the impossibly loud guitar, and I continue my walk home.

I love this city. I love it for its wackos and its artists and its incredible walk-ability. I love the lost little girl feeling I get from wandering, the countless tiny neighborhoods, the chalk on the sidewalk, the posters on the walls. I love the man with the blanket and the police on their horses and the churches on every corner, filed neatly between the Planned Parenthoods and strip clubs. I love that everyone talks to me, for whatever reason... I'm so thankful that everyone talks.

The girl with the acid wash skinny jeans stopped me on the street the other night to tell me she liked my outfit. Why am I the only person with passive-aggressive karma? God is cool.

Wish you were here. Wish I could walk with you.

love.

Forest & Frill & Spring in the air...

Today is the most perfectly lovely day in Portland. I spent the morning in full on spring cleaning mode, and then Boyfriend, Doggo, and I hit Forest Park for a mini hike/photo shoot. Introducing the Forest & Frill Cardigan:



Pattern: Forest & Frill Yarn: KnitPicks Wool of the Andes Bulky, held double for the knit body and single for the crochet edging... Clasp is from the Button Emporium here in Ptown.





This is officially the first non-scarf FO that I've been brave enough to wear to work... and I think it went over well! I like it, anyhow... Took a few tries to get it perfect. The body was pretty bunchy, but I managed to force it into submission, and the armholes have been re-crocheted a few times to get them to stop looking so little girl ruffly (is that how you spell ruffley? ruffly? I dunno). Anyhow, done and done.

Doggo wants me to also share with you the terrible thing that happened to him today:


What can I say? It's muddy in them there woods.

love.

Baby Sophie's Things

Here are the promised pictures of Baby Sophie's Shower Set. They are Elizabeth Zimmerman's February Baby Sweater (appropriate for a February Baby Shower, no?) and the Pea Pod Sweater from Kate Gilbret's Pea Pod Set... also some Saartje's Bootees, because I've been dying to make them. Yarns are GGH Scarlet (purple cotton) and some old school Lion Brand Wool Ease (undyed stuff) The buttons were an Etsy find... gotta love Etsy. Without further ado:





On the subject of babies, please continue to pray for little Riley... she seems to be doing so well, and I have to believe it's because she's surrounded by so very many thoughts and prayers and so much love.

Hugs!

Rant.

I understand that the following may expose me as the not-so-hipster not-one-of-the-cool-kids girl that I am, but I don't care. It simply has to be said.

People.

Please, please, please, stop sagging your skinny jeans. Please.

I understand that skinny jeans have persevered through fad status and general unflatteringness to become a remarkably lasting trend. I understand that boys in tight jeans have a certain rocker appeal, and that some girls with remarkably low body fat actually look quite appealing in them. I get that they're convenient to tuck into boots, or wear under tunics, or just look all Ashlee and Pete'd out. But for the love of God, people, don't sag them.

Sagging your skinny jeans does every wrong thing possible for the human body. Lately, it seems I am surrounded by assless, carmel-apple shaped teens and twenties, in acid wash no less, who look as though they've forgotten to do laundry and had to borrow their ten year old brother's pants for the day. It's the ultimate in cruel fashion - cruel to those of us on the sidelines, and to the fairly decent figure of the poor sucker with the crotch of his denim leggings suctioning his knees together.

You know the scene in Mary Poppins where Dick van Dyke is dancing with the penguins and pulls his pants down to waddle? THAT'S WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE! Only less goofy and Dick van Dykey charming and just basically more dumb.

Commit any other fashion crimes you need to. Wear your mini skirts and Ugg boots with pride, bring back the worst of the eighties with your flourescent yellow and crimped side pony. Live in velour jumpsuits. But for God's sake, people, for ALL of our sakes, please... pull them up. Just pull them up.

An Updaty Blog

Caper and I are having the perfect rainy Saturday (this Wednesday), complete with knitting, Chinese food, and Casablanca on the internet big screen. I thought it would be nice to post a little updaty sort of blog, so here goes.

First, in keeping with the recent theme: more knitwear!

Pattern: Brulee Scarf (linked on Ravely) Yarn: More yummy Beaverslide McTaggert Tweed

Coziness Factor: off the charts.
Easy pattern, too... all garter stitch with a little beginner crochet to dress up the ends... and a darn good excuse for cute buttons.

Congratulations to Dan and Mel on their amazing new apartment. It used to be a bakery, and is complete with awesome painted wood floors and beadboard walls, the world's cutest (pink!) retro double oven, and interior stained glass windows. I'm a jealous, jealous girl. But I can't think of any two who deserve it more!

This weekend at work we had the pleasure of hosting Edric Woo, the designer for Tara Keely... I was nervous that having him in the store might be awkward, but he was soooo much fun! I think we were all a little smitten (funny how the presence of someone male in a bridal salon sends all the girls into a tizzy). The brides loved him, his work is truly beautiful, and he's a darn good bowler. Pamela took some great pictures... hopefully I'll get copies soon. In the meantime, here's my favorite gown from his latestest collection: Pretty Pretty Prettiness Edric, thank you for being such a blast! We love your work around here.

I also got to drive to Albany this weekend for Heather's baby shower, which was an honor, and fun, in spite of all the usually baby shower silliness. Heather is the world's most perfect pregnant person, and I can't wait to meet little Sophie! It was good to see Heather and Kamala... funny how you sometimes don't realize how much you miss someone until you see them. I'd like to show you pictures of the set I knit for Sophie-Muffin, but I've maxed out Flickr for the month and am too cheap to pay the yearly... March 1st!

Katelyn and Mikey were also here last week, and we played games and had fun. I feel like we've seen a lot of them in the last few months, and I'm glad, and I hope it continues! Nice to have a brother in the family.

And, let's see, today I worked the stock market for the very first time (wow, go me), and sold a pair of shoes to Buffalo Exchange for $2.45, which I used to buy an iced caramel machiatto from Kale, whom I love and miss working with. Kale, kindly come crash on my couch again sometime soon. Ooo, also today I got word from Tamara Leeper that she might be coming to town!!! I'm pretty dang excited about that.

How's that for mundane updaty blogging?

That's all. Blessings and hugs.

"You're not the person I thought you were..."

Tonight Caper and I were walking around the city, listening and thinking, as we do best at night while walking in the city.

I was thinking about how it feels sometimes as though I've lived several lifetimes in my short life. I have been the sort who changes things so drastically, blows massive holes in my routines again and again just to see where the pieces fall. Funny, really, because though I think I've grown as a person, I don't feel I've really changed much... just changed my surroundings, trying to make something fit.

I lose myself, always, in the transition... I become someone I'm not, forget who I was, and take six months off from my life to dabble in a new idea of what I could be. But I seem to return always to the same girl I have always been... hopelessly optimistic, shamelessly geeky, equal parts self-conscious watcher and know-it-all. I try to balance this me with the new setting and often feel the need to start the whole process over again.

Sometimes I think I had it right before I started trying to figure it out.

Strangely enough, I think Facebook worsens this cycle... suddenly I'm faced, daily, with every person I've known in every lifetime I've lived, everyone who has known me in every different phase, and I can watch them. I know how they are, where they are, what their new dog likes to chew, how they wear their hair. It's living my whole life all at once... a different person to all who know me, and different version for every year. Karyn 2.0, 3.7, 8.4...

I am always trying to be her, the girl you thought I was. That girl, the one who I've always been, the one I've always been running away from, she's the one I'm chasing. I'll keep trying to become her, get back to her. She trusted the answers... she knew exactly who I am.

Saturday Gratitude and Cheap Scarves

It's Saturday night, which means I'm exhausted. Saturdays at the bridal salon are 7 hour marathon runs for me... a breakless, heavy-lifting, chaotic whirlwind of a day. I'm grateful for the way the time flies, and the chance I have to really connect with people with my job. It's a blessing to use my stressful day to magically make someone's planning process a bit LESS stressful... everything comes full circle.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how lucky I am to have a job that I love, given the state of our country and our economy. I certainly don't make much more than I need to get by, but I'm able to get by, and enjoy making a living, and I'm just humbled, and grateful, and thrilled. I play dress up all day long, and there are tears, and champagne, and I get to make other women feel beautiful and special and pampered... it's awesome. I'm a lucky, lucky kid.

But in light of our current economic crisis, I present the two dollar scarf: made with (on sale) KnitPicks Wool of the Andes Kettle-Dyed (1 skein) and one beautiful left-over button. Pattern is Mustard Scarf...find it on Rav.



Cheap and dead sexy... I'm in love with this little scarf, and am wearing it everywhere.



(this is me trying to model. the more observant of you will note that I'm cracking up)

Today I am grateful for a job that is stable and makes me smile, for the tears of happy moms-of-brides, for cheap yarn, a new president, a boyfriend who tirelessly takes photos, the world's best dog, happy-hour manicures and glasses of wine, beautiful, intelligent, inspiring friends, and a family that constantly expands my definition of love.




And buttons. I do love me some buttons.

hugs.

Take That, Angelina Jolie!

Boyfriend and I finally got a chance to shoot some photos of recent knits today. I'm going to try to post them one at a time so as to achieve maximum blogging impact. :)



This is the Sideways Grande Cloche from Laura Irwin's adorable, need-to-own Boutique Knits. I'm too lazy to swatch hats, so it's a bit slouchier than intended, but I kinda dig it. Really interesting construction... Boyfriend didn't believe in the hatness until the very last possible second.





The yarn is Beaverslide Dry Goods McTaggart Tweed, which still smells delightfully farmy despite being processed and shipped. It's cozy and cushy and perfect.

I'm loving Boutique knits with all of its flapperesque headgear. I live only a few blocks from Seaplane, the boutique Laura Irwin owns here in Portland. Needless to say, I'm a bit intimidated about wearing this hat about town. :) Nothing like running into the designer at SBUX.

More to follow. God Bless.

Shed a Little Light

My supremely awesome friend Brandon reminded me of this James Taylor song today:

Oh let us turn our thoughts today to Martin Luther King
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood

That we are bound together
In our desire to see the world become a place in which our children
Can grow free and strong

We are bound together by the task that stands before us
And the road that lies ahead
We are bound, and we are bound

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist
There is a hunger in the center of the chest
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist
And though the body sleeps, the heart will never rest

Shed a little light, oh Lord
So that we can see
Just a little light, oh Lord
Wanna stand it on up
Stand it on up, oh Lord
Wanna walk it on down
Shed a little light oh Lord

Can't get no light from a dollar bill
Don't give me no light from a TV screen
When I open my eyes
I wanna drink my fill
From the well on the hill
I know you know what I mean

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist
There is a hunger in the center of the chest
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist
And though the body sleeps, the heart will never rest

Oh let us turn our thoughts today to Martin Luther King
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood.

Happy Martin Luther King/Day Before Inauguration Day!

Shed light,
K.