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. :)