girl of cardigan

New Blog Home

2011-04-08T12:27:00.000-07:00

Just in case any of you missed the switch on Facebook and Ravelry, Girl of Cardigan has a new blog home. Click Here for the Goods.

Cheap Thrills: Splurge.

2010-10-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

Oh hello, blog world. I'm sorry I've been neglecting you sorely over the last month or so... I've been up to my ears in wedding madness. I'll try to jump back on the bandwagon here, and maybe even use my Fridays to show you bits and pieces of wedding planning love. But for today, as it is Tuesday, we're cheap-thrilling it up.

I confess that this cheap thrill breaks the rules. It sort of annihilates the rules, really, at over three times my promised budget of $5 (hey, I'm planning a wedding... going over budget is what I'm supposed to do, right? ;) ). But it's one of my absolute favorite fall things, and I have to pitch it to you. Ladies and gents, meet my daily guilty fall pleasure:

Cinnamon Buns by Philosophy. Oh how I <3 this body wash/shampoo/bubble bath. It's like bathing in a bakery. It smells so darn edible that they suggest it not be used by children since they are likely to wind up eating. I'd caution adults: you too may wind up trying to eat this stuff. I can assure you with confidence that it tastes like soap. Don't bother.

Anyway, once a year in early October, I treat myself to a bottle of this yummy scented stuff. It's one of my very favorite fall rituals, and if you are feeling a bit splurgy, I highly recommend it. I usually make the bottle last through February, so really, that's a lot of bang for your 16 bucks. Bonus points if you use the recipe on the bottle to actually make cinnamon buns.

You can get some at Sephora, or online through Amazon or Drugstore.com. Or, if you're Rachelle, Shannon, or Kevin, you can find some in our shower. Have at it. :)

love.

Wanna hear it? Here it goes.

2010-09-24T15:40:00.001-07:00

This story begins with an ending.

In the end of 2004, I was a broken girl with a stubborn heart and a bruised sense of hope. Around that time, I picked up a little book called Blue Like Jazz and found comfort in stories about Portland, a faraway sort of place for me at the time, and an honest look at spirituality, which wasn't yet en vogue and certainly outside of how I'd been relating to God thus far. I read every Don Miller book I could find for the next few years and filed their contents away in my mind.

Two years later I found myself in Oregon, in a little house in my parents' brand new big backyard, and began the slow and painful process of learning how to be alone, how to mourn the life I'd anticipated and face the life I had, how to be content with the woods and a family who loves me and a God who knows my name. I made friends who hadn't known me as I had been, reworked my relationships, watched and protested as God rewrote my story.

Two years later I found myself in Portland, lonely for a church family, standing in front of a book case with a copy of Blue Like Jazz in my hands, scanning the pages frantically for the name of that church, you know, the one Don Miller talks about, the one with the football player pastor and the new idea of religion. In only hours I found myself seated alone in a high school auditorium, unaware of the significant moment of my body in that chair, my heart in that building, my first day in a new home that I couldn't yet recognize.

Nearly two years later I found myself at a party, a celebration of the birth of the incomparable Annie Skroski, one of the many amazing people who have become my Imago/Portland family. I'd been to dozens of parties like this one over the last year and a half, full of laughter and costumes and belonging and love. Parties with dancing, and friends, and food, and photo booths.

Favorite and I met that night, in a photo booth. I could tell you how it went down, but I'll show you instead. Here we are meeting for the very first time:

Since that beautifully orchestrated night, photo booths have been a strange sort of motif in our relationship. For example, here we are on the day we officially became an item:

We've been photographed together at weddings, parties, and in numerous arcades and bars and aquariums, squished together in old school booths that take our $5 and hand us a memory.

More importantly, I've been loved gracefully, wholly, and unrelentingly by the most amazing, generous, and intelligent man. He has never allowed me to hide, never let me feel less than beautiful, and invited me into every corner of his life, his space, his time. He has given me an extraordinary gift - the privilege to love and be loved in a way that acknowledges God, respects the journey, and inspires me to be a better follower, to love more, to give more, to open up.

Last Friday I uncovered my eyes and found myself in a photo booth that Favorite had set up in his house. And, after a bit of goofy photo taking, Favorite found himself down on one knee.

Oh, you'd like to see? Well, go figure, I have pictures:

This story ends with a beginning. Five months from now, I will stand in front of friends and family with the man I've chosen who so wonderfully has also chosen me, and we will be married by our cherished friend Tony, who was once only a beat poet in a book that brought me to my new family, and is now someone I call friend and share a table with every Sunday night. If God is in the details, and you know I believe He is, He is most certainly in that one.

What I would say to you is this: This story you're in, I'm in, we're in, is a symphony. It's so much bigger than all of us, the plan is so much greater than we can fathom, and the pieces come together in ways we can't begin to imagine. The miracle will come, grace is yours to accept, God wants to bless you. Watch for the tiny patterns, the echoes of amazing love. You'll find them. You'll feel them. God takes broken edges and marries them like puzzle pieces. Hold on. Stay in. Wait for the miracle. And when it comes, and it will come, try to take a few pictures.

love.

In Other Words...

2010-09-19T23:32:00.000-07:00

Favorite's words: "Will you marry me?"
Mine: "Yes!"

God is good all the time. :)

!!!!!!!!!!

(details to follow... stay tuned)

love.

Fall Cometh. (!)

2010-09-16T22:41:00.000-07:00

Next week it will officially be autumn.

The days here are still oddly sticky, warming in the late afternoon in that Oregon way that I'm not sure I'll ever get used to, but the mornings are arriving with the tiniest suggestion of a chill, a whisper that yes, fall is coming. I am beside myself with anticipation.

One of the many perils of the hopelessly romantic is our ability to become madly, passionately enamored of things like flowers and oceans and entire seasons. But seriously, is anything better than fall? I'd have never guessed I could love a time of year as fiercely as I love fall in the Pacific Northwest. There is a part of my soul that lives only in smoke spirals snaking out of chimneys and the bitter softness of wool on the skin of my neck, and it stumbles out of hibernation in the early days of September, squinting in the light and quivering with the sheer fantasticness of it all - months of uninterrupted loveliness, color, joy.

I grew up in a place where it was perpetually spring - consistently somewhere between warmish and too warm with a smattering of rain and a month or two of summer heat tossed in for good measure. I loved autumn then, but not with the distracting fervor with which I crave it here. Because here, here there are leaves and fabulously unexpected shivery breezes. Here, hats and scarves and gloves begin to sheath the hurrying bodies on sidewalks, gift wrapping the city in handknits and coziness and fuzz. Here the seasonal totems are abundant and unmissable - pumpkins growing in yards, turkeys running wild through my family's pastures, Christmas trees lined up on the sides of the highway. Here people will begin to stand closer together, will let the light of the coming holidays begin to ignite them, will huddle for warmth and snuggle for the simple perfection that is being tangled up with loved ones as the world cools around them.

Autumn is coming, and I'm wishing you mugs filled with warm things, hands to hold, and cozy sweaters. I'm wishing you the smell of chimney smoke and harvest and rain and the time to recognize it. I'm wishing you sharpened pencils and apple cider and holiday kitsch. I'm wishing you the faith of children and the ability to see this season through their eyes. I'm wishing something deep within you to begin the celebration of gratitude, the spirit of giving, the desire for peace on earth. I'm wishing you people to love, and those who will love you. I'm wishing you autumn and magic and joy.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Be in the right place at the wrong time.

2010-09-14T23:00:00.000-07:00

To be fair, this week's Cheap Thrill is not a new idea. I've heard it suggested in many different forums, read about it in a few books, and watched it play out in a movie or two. That said, it is sort of a fun challenge, and I'm daring you to do it sometime this week. That's right. I dare you. Double dog.

Here are your steps:

1. Choose a buddy. I especially like the idea of doing this with someone you see regularly in a way that could be perceived as "routine." This person could be your significant other, a coworker, a close friend, or a sibling or parent or child... someone with whom you spend some time doing the sameoldsameold thing. It also helps if your buddy of choice is, well, down with crazy. Because they're going to need a bit of a can-do attitude for this one.

2. Choose an activity that has an appropriate time and place, like eating breakfast or dinner, or rollerskating, or sleeping, or sitting on a couch, or watching a movie. You'll be wise to choose an activity that doesn't require help from professionals - for example, getting pedicures won't work out so well here. Unless you DIY it up.

3. Choose a completely incongruous time and/or place to perform your activity of choice. This is where it gets fun. Get together and make pancakes at 2am. Go rollerskating in the snootiest neighborhood in town. Stage a sleepover on your front porch. Load a loveseat into a truck and take it up a hill to sit and watch the sunset. Form a knitting circle in a popular bar on a Friday night. Grab your laptop and a DVD and have a movie afternoon at the beach. Go for a walk in the pouring rain. Agree to meet for coffee at 4am, bring a french press and a blanket, and chat until the sun comes up. Get all dressed up and go eat at McDonald's. Do something in a way that you've never done it before.

4. Enjoy seeing your chosen buddy in a new context. Laugh about that time you met for hamburgers on the roof at midnight for years and years to come. Learn something about each other, form a bond, mend a distance, create a moment.

5. Tell me what you do! I'm dying to know if you'll try it.

love.

In Other Words...

2010-09-12T23:22:00.000-07:00

Favorite thinks I'm dating him for his car and his ability to apply a quote from UHF to nearly any situation. I'm actually dating him for his ability to recite the following piece of loveliness... among other reasons too copious to list here.

If You Knew
by Ellen Bass

What if you knew you'd be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm
brush your fingertips
along the lifeline's crease.

When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn't signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won't say thank you, I don't remember
they're going to die.

A friend told me she'd been with her aunt,
They'd just had lunch, and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt's powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.

How close does the dragon's spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?

Ellen Bass has a book out, The Human Line. I vote we go get it. Who's with me?

My prayer for you, for us, this week is that we remember to touch each other, remember to notice, remember to see.

love.

If I live to be a hundred...

2010-09-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly certain that the following is common knowledge, but just in case you haven't checked your email in the last several years or have just returned to blog reading after a stint on a reality television show or an island somewhere, I'll make sure it's perfectly clear: I am the biggest cheeseball on the face of the planet.

I've tried at different phases of my life to act somehow less ridiculously cheesy than I natural am, but despite valiant efforts at the ages of 14 and 22, the cheese eventually finds its way to the surface. I am a total cheese fest. I like horrible movies. I am routinely moved to tears by YouTube videos starring animals and small children (Christian the Lion?!? Please. I'm welling up just typing about it). I can find the bright side of a nuclear war and I genuinely believe with every sparkly fiber of my cheesy being that Disneyland is the happiest place on earth. I can't help but clap my hands when asked if I believe in fairies. I'm practically carved out of cheddar.

Which means, sometimes, when I'm feeling a little off or a little headache-y or a little blue, it requires the cheesiest of something to cheer me up. Today, it was country singer Jessica Andrews. Jessica had, like, one hit song ever, and on the cheesy meter, it's a total chart topper. But the best thing about this song is that I can change the lyrics so that they directly apply to MY life! Oh joy of cheesy cheesy joys!

So this afternoon found me in my car, in the rain, driving down the highway and singing at the top of my lungs:

I am GENEVIEVE's grandaughter
the spittin' image of my MOTHER
and when the day is done
my DADDY's still my biggest fan...

... like the complete fool that I am. I got all choked up and everything. It was pathetic and beautiful.

All of which to say...

Thank God we were given spirits that delight in ridiculous things. Thank God that we all have our silly, tiny moments of cheesy joy. Thank God that we can laugh at our lame little selves and have a good cry when we need one over nothing more than a deer smelling a cat on a computer screen. And thanks, God, for delighting in ridiculous us.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Local Addition Edition

2010-08-31T21:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, so when I started this whole Cheap Thrills bit, the goal was to keep things very non-Portland specific to allow for equal opportunity participation. However, tonight I'm making an exception to the rule for the purpose of plugging one perfectly perfect new Portland haunt.

People, you must go visit my favorite new spot, Palace of Industry. Close your eyes for a minute and imagine that Anthropologie suddenly became less corporate and spendy and is now all genuinely second-hand or handmade, and then imagine that they started selling delicious food and obtained a liquor license and became somehow just, well, cooler, and there -hold that thought! You have behind your eyelids the fantasticness that is Palace of Industry.

I keep hearing that the stretch of N Killingsworth near our house is going to be reborn, revitalized, and turn into one of the hip little Portland neighborhoods it looks up to and admires. Palace of Industry makes me believe. And with The Naked Sheep, a fairly decent yarn store, mere feet away from the door, it's entirely possible that I might start spending ridiculous amounts of time there.

Palace of Industry wins the cheap thrill award today because I bought a very cute dress there for $5. They have a ton of super well-edited, spot on vintage clothes, and if you have a sewing machine, you can score something with a split seam or tiny hole for next to nothing and fix it up. I had my new dress in wearable shape within 10 minutes of bringing it in the house. There were plenty of $5 or less (fewer? The money thing always gets me...) items left on the shelves, so get to it already.

Palace's FB page is here. If you want to just take my advice and go there, set your GPS to 5426 N Gay Ave. Portland, OR 97217.

love.

In Other Words

2010-08-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

Today's In Other Words is brought to you by Billy Collins and my favorite three-year-old of the week. I highly recommend experiencing the following poem by going here and watching it recited by this super cool kid who will probably have a hard time getting a date in high school and marry a supermodel shortly thereafter.

Seriously, click here.

Or you can be all traditional and just read it. It goes like this:

Litany
by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

By the way, it's cloudy and a little chilly and delightfully fall-like outside. I'm wishing you somebody wonderful to cozy up with. ;)

love.

Last Thursday

2010-08-26T23:17:00.000-07:00

8/26/10

tonight we will stand in the presence of wonder
swirled tightly into a sea of the masked and the painted
they will carve roads around us
brush us with their feathers
singe us with the tips of fire soaked swords

tonight strangers will dance with the ghosts of old friends
and the corners will smell of sweat and lost causes
dogs will lie down on the sidewalks
truths will be learned
lies will be carried

tonight we will bear witness to a thousand magical onces
we will feel the heat of the many and watch as they twirl
you and i will wander past fallen kings
and emerging artists
someone's first kiss, someone's child
the poet and his guitar
a drunk and a lover
the vain and the bleeding
the last and the first

the miracle being only
that among them
i will hold your hand

love.

Portlandiversary.

2010-08-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Portland-

I know you are only a city. I know that you are only the sum of the living, breathing bodies that inhabit you - the things they build, the places they live, the doings they do. I know that, though we often speak of you as though you are one of us, you have no real pulse, no heartbeat, no soul, no energy of your own. I know you don't really have a "heart." But you have mine.

My dear friend Annie and I were talking yesterday about how today is her 5 year anniversary with you, which started me thinking that it's also our 2 year celebration, you and me. I remember how vast you seemed when I first met you, how I stubbornly tried to learn a city built on a grid in tiny rings of concentric circles, how you patiently let me get lost and found a thousand times, how your people smiled me right on through. I noticed today, driving familiar streets, that you have become a collection of small places for me - a memory in every neighborhood, an adventure in every restaurant, an echo on every corner. You have both shrunken and grown, lovely city, and I am poised and ready to continue to explore you and the hundreds of other somewheres hiding within your walls and under your trees that I will slowly, methodically, patiently claim as my own.

Dear Portland, thank you for becoming home to me. Thank you for letting me be myself, for wrapping me up, for taking me in. Happy Anni(Annie!)versary.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Felt It Up

2010-08-24T23:28:00.001-07:00

Today's Cheap Thrill is a craft project! Hooray!

I love felt. I love felt because it's cheap and fairly sturdy and doesn't unravel when you cut it. My beautiful friend Katherine got married a while back, and we used felt for all kinds of projects, not the least of which was this pretty little flower in her hair:

Here are your steps:

1. Admire how cute groom Chris looks over Kat's right shoulder all smiley in the photo above. Happiness is adorable.

2. Go to the store and get some felt (should be about 30 cents a sheet... go buck wild!) in the colors you prefer, and some cheap buttons (or raid your button stash if you have that sort of thing, or use one of those spare buttons that came with a coat or something).

3. Go to this sweet little blog and acquire the template: Click Here!

4. Cut out your petals, stitch or glue them together, stick the whole shebang on a spare bobby pin, and tada! You are now a craft genius. Martha is shaking in her intimidatingly well chosen and sensible shoes. Of course, she's making a five course dinner from scratch while she's shaking, but whatever. Screw her.

5. Wear. Feel proud. Glow a little. Make more (cause felt is cheap!) and give them away.

love.

In other words...

2010-08-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read Hyperbole and a Half, you may not actually be aware of how hard you can laugh. If you'd like to find out, I strongly encourage you to start with this recent post that may well be a contender for my new favorite. But they're all good. Seriously. All of them.

Go here and read this!!!

love.

Cartoon Friday

2010-08-20T23:30:00.000-07:00

My sister sent me this sweet little video -

love.

Ah, yes, poetic Thursday

2010-08-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

where your tears have fallen
there are riverbeds
etched winding into the previously unmarred
landscape of my forehead
visible to me only
i can see them like a fingerprint
on the topography of my reflection
feel them like a memory
on the map of my soul
i carry them like a whisper
like a melody
like time
and smile secretly over the many small ways
you have already begun to change me

so altered, i am only yours

love.

Love Letter

2010-08-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

I turned 28 on Sunday.

28 is a lot of things: one of the precious few ages I'll ever be that end in my favorite number, a mere two years hopskipjump from a new decade, and, most significantly, the age my mother was when she gave birth to me. As of Sunday, August 15th, I've known my parents for exactly half of their lives. Which is, well, interesting. I don't really know what I feel about that.

But I do know how I felt on Sunday: loved. I am blessed and surrounded by amazing people who went above and beyond to make my day a special one. Favorite showed up at the crack of dawn to wake me and make a breakfast of all my favorite things. He came with beautiful flowers and seemingly bottomless pockets full of cards from just about everyone I know. My birthday team assembled and transcribed messages from all of my nearest and dearest and armed Favorite with them to deliver to me nearly every fifteen minutes throughout the day. 41 cards in all. Wow.

Here's what I love about God - He's the master of completing the cycle. There I was, birthday joy incarnate, reading hundreds of thoughtful, flattering, beautiful words from people I love and admire, walking completely unarmed into an Imago service that ended in an elder's public confession of an affair. One brave, well-loved, and surrounded man stood trembling before our congregation and whispered the story of his failure. And I wept, and fought to keep myself in my seat. Because I have stood in rooms of people who suddenly saw me as a different person than they had only moments before. Because I know what it feels like to fail hugely, publicly, painfully, and irrevocably. And because I know that God sees him with exactly the same eyes, the same love, with which He still sees me - the same love that has been mine to bask in from the moment of my birth and will remain mine, will remain his, through a thousand other failures and let downs and public humiliations.

I hold these 41 cards in my hands with their beautiful words and I love them, I cherish them, I count them treasure, but I know the traits attributed to me on them aren't really mine. I am all things destructive, I am stubborn and prideful, and I could never account on my own for the hurt that I've caused. These things you see in me, friends whom I love, they are only the product of the grace I've been afforded. They are redemption. They are not mine to claim, but I'm grateful any time I can be a vessel for them. I am none of these words on my own, and all of them through Christ who lives in me. What a privilege to have them laid out before me, to be able to read forgiveness on a notecard, to remember that but for the grace of God go I, to remember that in all things He wants to bless me and use me.

My amazing Portland family, you gathered at Favorite's in the afternoon and jumped out and yelled surprise, despite my best efforts to melt you. You had a beautiful cake and beautiful faces and I'm not sure I've ever been grateful for or in love with any time in my life more than this one, so obviously surrounded by love. The already amazing family I was blessed with has grown to include all of you, and I'm so very glad. You are my evidence of God's ability and desire to rebuild. Yours are the words He uses to love me. You are my very best birthday present.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Operation Beautiful

2010-08-17T16:36:00.000-07:00

Today's Cheap Thrill is a real do-gooder, and it's brought to you by one beautiful girl named Caitlin who saw fit to start a bit of a body image revolution that I can't help but get behind.

Most of you who follow this blog know that I deal with women and their body image issues at work every day. I witness first hand the absurd tendency that we all have to zoom in on the worst parts of ourselves the moment we step in front of a mirror, and the venomous way we turn that critical gaze onto each other. It's tragic really - so many beautiful pieces of intentional creation being torn into unrecognizable ugliness, verbally berated, and scornfully poked and pinched. How very wasteful and how very sad.

Operation Beautiful is a rockstar of an idea - effective, unexpected, and cheap and easy to participate in. Here's how you roll:

1) Buy some PostIt notes. Standard PostIts can run you anywhere from $1.99 up, depending on how many you want and how fancy you want to go. Or take some off your desk at home. Or ask your boss if you can have a pack for a good cause. Take note that this blog does not advocate stealing PostIts from work. But I'm not really watching you, either. Get some sticky notes.

2) Onto said sticky notes, write encouraging phrases, like: "You are beautiful EXACTLY as you are" or "Hey hottie, you look GOOD!" or "You are worth so much more than just your reflection. Beauty starts inside of you. And girl, you've got it going on." or whatever you would like someone to say to you while you're bikini shopping.

3) Take your PostIt army and deploy it onto mirrors in public places where women, or men, might see a PostIt in an insecure moment: dressing rooms, school bathrooms, other bathrooms, department stores, etc.

4) If you want to, take a picture and send it to Caitlin at www.operationbeautiful.com. She'll write back to you, even, which is neat. Definitely visit the site for inspiration.

5) Remember that the words you've written to encourage others also apply to you. Remember that you were created to be who you are, not who you could be airbrushed into. Remember that you are a work of art. Wear yourself proudly. Go forth and be beautiful.

love.

In Other Words...

2010-08-16T23:36:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my silence for the last several days. Turns out I took a week off of blogging for my birthday. Not really on purpose. Sorry. Moving on...

For today's other words, I'd like to direct you to a blog belonging to my friend Joy. Joy spends her days researching the relationships of those in the 18-35 age bracket and, as a result, she has some very interesting and entertaining wisdom to offer. I love this girl's spirit. Go check her out.

Joy's Fabulous Blog

love.

In other words...

2010-08-09T17:34:00.000-07:00

Our pastor shared this poem with us a while back. I think it's beautiful, so I'm sharing it with you.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

love.

True Story.

2010-08-04T16:35:00.000-07:00

I want to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was very stubborn girl. This girl spent a lot of time being sure of things: sure that she knew what was best for her life, sure that she knew how to get it, sure of her decisions, and sure of herself. She walked in the right directions, she made good choices, she gave sound advice. Things went pretty well for this stubborn little girl for the longest of long times.

But the problem with being sure is confidence alone won't keep you from failure. After awhile, the girl found that the choices she had made weren't as sound as she thought. She realized the foundation she'd built for herself was full of holes, far from level, and sinking fast. And like most any stubborn and prideful child stuck on sinking ground, she did the only thing she could think of to do: she panicked. She tantrummed. She fled.

There is another important piece to this story. This girl, this stubborn, prideful girl, she was loved. She was fiercely, wildly, permanently loved. And when she finished panicking and tantrumming and opened her eyes to find herself miles and miles from everything she had been and everything she knew, that love swooped down and picked her up like a paperdoll and surrounded her like a cocoon and rewrote her story.

It's a revolutionary experience, being rewritten by love. Suddenly, the things the girl had taken for granted or believed were rightfully hers became treasures, became gifts, became physical shards of a powerful grace. The stubborn grip that she'd kept on her plans and her ideas loosened, then slipped, then released altogether, and she was still loved. She learned to close her eyes and walk blindly, to run barefoot in the sand, to trust in promises and learn to laugh at her restless little heart, and was still loved. She traced the outlines of all her weaknesses onto cardboard and carried them like a banner through the streets of all her relationships and was still loved. She lost her cool and yelled like an idiot and got mad and got even and got hurt and failed hugely and was still loved.

She learns every day. She is sometimes disappointed, sometimes overjoyed, always blessed, and always, always, always loved. And that love, the love that bore her, that saved her, that keeps her and makes her, is the only thing of which she is sure. Which is how she prefers things, nowadays. :)

God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good.

Cheap Thrills: Textapalooza

2010-08-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, today's cheap thrill is actually free if you have unlimited text messaging, and if you don't, a lot of plans will allow you to upgrade to unlimited text messaging for (say it with me) five dollars! Hooray!

Here's how to use your powers of text messaging to annoy/encourage your friends and laugh hard and feel great about life.

Annoy

This gag requires you to be in the presence of at least one other person. Annie and I are masters of this little game. You can be a master too, with a little practice. For the purposes of this blog, I'll use Annie and I as the two involved in the prank. Shocker. Kyle will be our target. Typical. Here's what you do.

1. Choose a target (why do so many of my blogs involve choosing a target?). Someone you know well enough to know that they won't hate your guts for messing with them. We choose Kyle.

2. I (you) send a text to Kyle (target) that says something like "Hey Annie, are we still on for coffee tomorrow?" Kyle now thinks I've sent the text to the wrong person. Which is not too far fetched, really.

3. Let the fun begin. Annie sends a text to Kyle that says something like "Yep. Coffee with Karyn is my favorite. What time?" Now Kyle is confused... and you, if you're like me, are collapsing into fits of giggles.

4. Choose your own adventure. Have an entire conversation, play dumb when Kyle texts you back asking what is going on, accuse him of eavesdropping, try to convince him you can conference-text, whatev. This is an expecially fun game to play if you're waiting in line for something or waiting for a show to start. For bonus points, involve a third or (gasp!) fourth person in the madness. Oh hilarity! Oh silly silliness!

Encourage

Now that your friends are good and annoyed with you, it's time to remind them that you love them again. Time for text bombing! This works especially well for job interviews, big tests, bad days, or emergency situations. The process is very simple:

1. Text everyone in your phone that knows your target and ask them to send an encouraging text to your target at 12:15 (you can choose anytime you want). Send your own text at the designated time.

2. Sit back and enjoy the knowing that your friend has just received 20 something texts of encouragement simultaneously. Cheap, easy, day-making fun. Gotta love it.

Take back text messaging from the teens, friends! Use it for good!

love.

In other words...

2010-08-02T23:58:00.000-07:00

My friend Rachelle and I were talking about my height today and how she hadn't really noticed I was exceptionally tall until about three months ago. Not the first time I've had one person feel like I'm shorter than I am while random strangers continue to stop me on the street to ask if I play basketball. I suppose this height thing is all about perspective.

Speaking of perspective, I love Arianne Cohen's on the subject. At 6'3", she has a good solid three+ inches on me, but I relate to a lot of what she has to say, and her story is an interesting one... all about being a giraffe and a human exclamation point.

You may read it here.

love.

Two Months.

2010-07-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

you make me happy.

On Beginning

2010-07-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

6/6/10

i cannot speak to the you that you have been
cannot witness the unnumbered hours you lived
well before me
they are not and will not become mine to point to
and the pages and volumes that make up your once was
i can read only in fragments
scraping up sentences and coveting chapters
i may never see

but here, in this you and me standing
my face and your fingers
your laugh and my eyes
these few pieces of you are mine and mine only
your words and my hoping
my arms and your smile
they are only nothings, the smallest of moments
but into them i will start to carve my picture of you
upon them i will build my earliest knowings
the things in you i am sure of
the most in you i can see

these pieces of you i will use to begin it
add them to seconds, and somewheres, and time
and watch as the spaces that loom in my learning you
crowd up with memory
render you mine

love.

Dive! Dive! Dive!

2010-07-28T22:21:00.000-07:00

I'm the victim of a relentless, painful, and humiliating attack. I am the target of unrelenting harassment and completely unjustified, but remarkably specific, vengeance. I'm being violently subjugated. By crows.

Three out of my four workdays find me trying to be a good Portlander and use the wealth of public transportation with which I have been provided. For the last year, I've hoofed the uneventful blocks between our house and the MAX station without a care or a second thought. I've enjoyed the pretty trees and the self-proclaimed "sexy coffee" stand that sits delightfully halfway to my destination. I've walked in rain and storms and almost snow, and it's never really been that bad. Until...

Until I did something to anger the local wildlife. About three weeks ago, I was walking along, minding my own, when from behind I heard the jarring "caaahhh caaaahhh" of crows. Two crows. Two seemingly angry crows who seemed to be aiming their anger squarely in my direction. "Strange," thought me, " I wonder if they have a nest or something. Oh well." I proceeded then to turn back around and continue along my way. Worst. Idea. Ever.

Turns out crows are the minions of Satan. They are evil little buggers who wait until your back is turned to unleash their dive-bombing fury on your unsuspecting head. You know the dungeon levels in Super Mario games with the ghosts that only move if you look away from them, then sneak up from behind you and kill you dead? Based on these crows. The moment my back was turned, I heard the swoosh of wings and the unnerving sound of a "caaaahhh" closing in and fwaaaack! Crow wings to the back of the head. Not even kidding.

At this point I become a rather sorry version of my former self, the self that loves all creatures and fears no beaks or talons. The new me is ducking and inching down the sidewalk, completely terrified and completely without a clue as to why I've suddenly become the target of choice for the crow militia. It took everything in me not to pound on the door of the nearest house and seek sanctuary until they went away. Instead, I sort of hop-ran until I made it to the MAX shelter where they finally relented. Four blocks. They hounded me for four blocks. Bullies.

Traumatic though the experience was, I chalked it up to crazy timing and freakish coincidence, until it happened the next day... and the next. It was then that I started to notice the crows weren't attacking other pedestrians. Call me crazy, but those jerks were waiting, and watching, and targeting me. This is unfair for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the amount of time I've actually devoted to rescuing birds of all kinds. I've fed their abandoned kindred, plopped babies back into nests, shielded wayward waterfowl, and for what? To be abused by a couple of lousy ne'er do wells who seem to think we're on the set of a Hitchcock film? Uncalled for, I say.

I'm not sure what to do about this crow problem. They don't seem to be tiring of the fun in the slightest. I have a theory that involves a strategically timed umbrella opening, but so far the presence of the umbrella in my purse seems to be the only thing that will keep the attacks from happening. They're nowhere to be found on days I'm prepared for the ambush, but on days like today, when I finally decide they've moved on and boldly leave my umbrella at home, they're back in force. Three of them this morning. Thunked me on the noggin. Made me miss my MAX. Uncalled for.

Please tell me I'm not the only person this has happened to.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Comfort Food

2010-07-27T23:29:00.000-07:00

I didn't go to Home Community tonight. Instead, I took a dog and a book and a blanket and a sandwich and sat myself down on the lawn at Mt. Tabor and enjoyed just being outside and peaceful for awhile. Which was lovely. But if I had gone to Home Community, I would have needed to bring my favorite food for the "Favorite Foods" potluck. And I would have brought this:

Oh, Haagen-Dazs vanilla raspberry swirl frozen yogurt - I love thee with a love that is more than love.

Now, make no mistake, this frozen yogurt isn't good for you. Its list of ingredients, though refreshingly short, has both sugar and corn syrup (not really any better than its high fructose cousin) in the first four spots. But it isn't terrible for you. And if you're going to eat ice cream, I mean, come on. We'll settle for "not terrible."

Calorie wise, if you eat this whole pint, it'll only set you back 510. Which is, ya know, a meal, and though you probably shouldn't eat the whole pint if you can help it, (though you may not be able to help it. I understand.) it still beats the heck outta the 1000 calories you'd be downing in a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

And for crying out loud, this isn't a blog about nutrition, it's a blog about cheap happiness. And at around $3, a pint of this will make you super happy on a hot summer day. Because it is super, super yummy - just the right blend of vanilla and berry to achieve total summery bliss. It's pink, it's sweet, it's cold, it's just about perfect. It might even be perfect. Whatever it is, it's too darn good to be yogurt.

Yum.

love.

In Other Words...

2010-07-26T20:48:00.000-07:00

Donald Miller's blog has gone to the dogs. One dog in particular. Her name is Lucy, and she's lovely, and delightfully insightful, and Caper has a big crush on her. You should read them all, but this one made me smile:

How to Love and Be Loved

I saw Donald Miller at the Doug Fir the other night, but didn't say anything so as not to be one of the hundreds of Blue Like Jazzers clambering to inform him that we'd probably be best friends because he just soooo gets it. But I will say: Good taste in concerts, Don Miller. And way to let your dog take over your blog.

Hope you had a good Monday, friends. Go forth and love and be loved.

love. ;)

A little link lovin...

2010-07-24T16:44:00.000-07:00

I didn't blog yesterday. You can be mad at me if you want to.

Here are some lovely things I've seen this week:

I want to make these tables and put them, well, I'll figure that out later.

Coporate prayer nights are one of the many things I love about Imago. Here's a good argument for why you should come.

I mean, the man is a genius.

Oh Winona... you're my favorite best friend I haven't met yet. And this post made me smile.

My friend Rachelle has a beautiful soul.

These t-shirts made me drool just a little...

Shameless plug: I heart Claire Pettibone, and whisper sweet nothings to her in this post.

Speaking of souls, if mine has a color pallette, this is it.

I hope you have a beautiful weekend!

love.

A long, long time ago...

2010-07-22T23:35:00.000-07:00

Vintage poetry today...

10/29/06

you who has been always, and nothing...

you appear here in lines yet unwritten
offering a vocabulary i couldn't have anticipated

the heart of me knows what follows
it recognizes in you the ancient-once it has loved equally -
curiosity, undeterred by self-preservation, requests you

mildly

just behind my eyes
so subtle, your arrival there at the front of all daydreams
quietly quickly and
firmly denied

there are risks my body still cannot fathom
parts of my heart it can no longer trust, and justly

i who have broken you always, and never
can't be selfless enough not to risk you again

an improbable proposition - yours is the safest rejection, all silence and miles
would you hate to know there are parts of me that still wake up with your name

my lastly well-loved boy, imagine...

i may be sonnet to your prose
you, all irreverent language
i, always, the fear to oppose

love.

On time and the lack thereof...

2010-07-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

I've been reminded this week that we're mortal, each and every one of us - broken and breakable, fragile and flawed. As reminders go, I can't say this one is my favorite, but I think it's important.

I like to pretend I'm going to live forever. As long as I can remember, and much to my mother's dismay, I've been relatively unconcerned about my own safety. I'll gladly jump out of a plane, or climb that treacherous rock, or wander around dark neighborhoods at unwise hours of the night. I like to believe that I'm wandering through life in some sort of protective bubble, impervious to evil or accident or fate. I wear my confidence in a good God like it's physical armor instead of spiritual, as though faith alone can save me from tripping and scraping my knee.

But faith doesn't guarantee safety - in the Bible and in many parts of the world it has almost the opposite effect. God doesn't promise safe passage for my physical person along with His permanent destination for my soul. I felt the weight of that this week as I counted my father's heartbeats when I hugged him on Sunday and rested in the rhythm of his newly reset self. I witnessed it in the words of a wife who sat and prayed open-eyed at the end of her husband's hospital bed, kissing his feet through the blankets and smiling, beautiful and brave. I watched her, I hugged my father, and I remembered that these moments that we have here are fleeting - they are nothings, echoes, beginnings, vapor, dust in the wind. We have only the time we're given.

You know I believe in heaven, and I believe that when we leave this place we go back to our home, our God, our wholeness. I wish I could say I was anxious to get there. But always I remember all the things I want to do still, the words I want to say, the things I want to feel, and I can't help but hope I'll have the time to live them. Because while we're here, this thing we're doing is beautiful... it's violent and messy and hard and lovely and human, but it's our story. Today I'm reminded that I need to live every day as though the story is concluding- every hour the potential climax and every conversation the potent last that will be remembered. It's good to remember that fear is a liar, that we should be a little wasteful and extravagant sometimes with our words and our feelings, that we should shower each other with truth, with heart, with sappy praise, with helpful thoughts, with words of love. Because we were born already beginning to run out of time.

Don't hold back, friends. Don't hold back, self. Do that thing you've always wanted to do, tell that person you've been wanting to tell, try that impossible something you've been avoiding all this time. We are fools not to harness these moments. We are fools not to saturate them with joy.

love.

Cheap Thrills: Start a War

2010-07-20T23:39:00.000-07:00

The following is my all time favorite cheap thing to do on a random weeknight. I'm fairly convinced that 90% of what is wrong with the world today could be solved if grownups would simply remember how, and find time, to play. This week's thrill is offered with the intention to ignite that dormant spirit of playfulness. Go forth and be goofballs.

Here's your plan:

Step 1: Choose a target. Ideally, an easy going friend or couple or collection of friends who live near you, have a front door with at least a few feet of yard in front of it, and might be willing to engage in some shenanigans.

Step 2: Choose an accomplice. Who wants to run around in the middle of the night on a school night making mischief by themselves? Plus, having an accomplice doubles your buying budget.

Step 3: Head to your local Dollar Store. If you don't have a Dollar Store, a Walgreen's or Fred Meyer or Rite Aid will usually do. Find the toy aisle and locate the army men - you know, the cheap little plastic ones kids used to play with way back before Nintendo DS. At the Dollar Store, you should be able to purchase a package of 100 army men (or firefighters or police officers if you're the pacifist type) for $1. Buy five. We're maxing out the budget on this one. If you have an accomplice, this would be the best time to use them and their five dollars and buy 10 packs of army men.

Step 4: Giggle a little. This whole thing is very silly.

Step 5: Don't miss this step: OPEN ALL THE PLASTIC BAGS OF ARMY MEN and put them into one big, soft, canvas bag. Crinkly plastic negates any and all efforts to be sneaky.

Step 6: Go time. Wait until you suspect your targets are sleeping and set up a battle in their front yard. Aim all the men at the door if you want to be belligerent, or create two armies and have them war with each other. If it's windy, curse a few times as you fail to get the darn dudes to stand up on their own. Get creative. Put them in mailboxes, suspend them in midair, line them up in patterns or spell words. Let the spirit move you.

Step 7: Stand back and admire your work. Take a picture in case a squirrel or cat knocks the whole display over and you need to prove how awesome and artistic your original concept was.

Step 8: Try not to say anything doofy to your friends the next day like: "So, how was YOUR morning? Anything unUsual happen?" so as not to have the spotlight of suspicion aimed squarely at your forehead. Though, if you're me, you're the first one they'll blame anyway.

Step 9: Sit back and wait for your target to retaliate. Reduce, reuse, and recycle those little guys. Spread the love through your social circle. Attack each other. It's what friends do.

Go play. And send me pictures if you do. :)

love.

In other words...

2010-07-19T23:58:00.000-07:00

Not quite sure what the format will be for the Monday post just yet, but today, since the day has gotten away from me and there are only two minutes left till Tuesday, we'll start with e. e. cummings. Because I've never loved anyone else's words more consistently than I've loved his.

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secret of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

-e. e. cummings

I think I'll let this be my mantra for the week. What's yours?

love.

A Friday Game for You

2010-07-16T01:35:00.000-07:00

Ah, facial perception- the exciting and useful ability to recognize faces and read the emotions on them. Are you perceiving faces at your best possible level? You may test your skills and/or practice and refine them by guessing the emotions my handydandyassistant Favorite and I are portraying in the following photos. To the victor go the spoils (or "to the person who guesses the most correctly go the bragging rights")

Good luck.

love.

Thursdays I'm a poet.

2010-07-15T08:32:00.000-07:00

7/13/10

some nights i believe i've only ever written what i fear
only ever recorded the ends or beginnings of feeling
the lost and the losing
the broken and the unclaimed
written only the empty space born of loving alone
of the restless elation that accompanies your hand on my shoulder
of the silence that follows the abrogated beating of breakable hearts

i am constantly to wonder if theses thoughts and the fears that bore them
are merely dog-eared pages of someone else's novel
tadpoles in the widest river
a wriggling army of identical echoes and photocopied emotion
my mind here written only the same drumbeat
heard by a thousand others a thousand times before

some mornings i believe i've only ever given what i lack
only ever offered empty vases and blank pages
the vague and the unworthy
the hopeless and the unnamed
given only the shadows of things you have left me
a woebegone recital of pieces i've cherished
a slapstick production of a symphony i can't begin to claim

i would have you dance where i can see you
in rooms where you have always played me songs
i would wrap your stories around my fingertips
and squeeze them into pencils
and rejoice in knowing i have nothing left to say

love.

In which Solomon basically says "Just Do It"

2010-07-14T11:04:00.001-07:00

In my beautiful friend Jodi's Bible, Proverbs 4:7 reads:

The beginning of wisdom is this: get wisdom.

Helpful, right? Does anyone else feel like Solomon seems a little snarky here? Our group reaction to this last night at Home Community was essentially "Gee, thanks a lot for the tip." I mean, it's a lot like saying "The way to be cool is to be cool" or chirping "Remember to ____" exactly 30 seconds after someone tells you to remind them of ____ later - accurate, sure, but not exactly helpful. This passage, standing all on its lonesome, seems to require a basic understanding of what wisdom is and how to get it. Which requires wisdom. It's sort of one big biblical catch 22.

But maybe, just maybe, the beginning of wisdom, or in my Bible, the recognition that wisdom is supreme and worth giving up your life for, starts with discussion. Because as confusing as this little verse is, it did bring up some pretty interesting talk about what wisdom is and how we go about pursuing it.

Through our talk, I decided I like to use the word "perspective" as a synonym for wisdom in this chapter of Proverbs. I think that we as a culture tend to define wisdom as knowledge, as having all the right answers and knowing what to do in all situations- the ability to apply a wealth of accumulated information to the making of good decisions. I'm not sure that's the whole picture. I think it's worth thinking about seeking God's wisdom and understanding as seeking the ability to see the world, your situations, other people, with God's perspective. Maybe wisdom isn't learning all there is to know, but learning to become of one mind with the Master, and in doing so, beginning to embody all of the character traits that come along with that - humility, grace, mercy, compassion, love, virtue, honesty, general strength of character. Peace and humility are so closely linked to wisdom in my mind- I think the people I believe are closest to the heart of God are the first to admit that there is a lot they don't know for sure, but are still somehow able to approach the world with the God lens in place, receiving it with patience, with kindness, with understanding and love.

I'm certainly not saying that I think the quest for knowledge is a bad one. I think the Bible is pretty clear that we should use the resources we've been given to search actively and desperately for the truth. However, I think after last night I'm looking at wisdom differently. I'm seeing it as a way of being, a way of viewing life, instead of as an encyclopedicreferencemanuallike eight ball of answers in your brain. The idea of pursuing wisdom as trying to become part of the mind of God, seeing through His eyes, approaching the world with His almighty, just, and perfect perspective - that's a goal to which I'd like to aspire. That's a journey I know I'll never complete, but one that I'm happy to be on.

My prayer for you, and for me, today is that we are able to get a few steps closer to seeing our world, our God, and each other with His wisdom, His perspective. May you look with God's eyes and love with His heart, and may you be seen by others as He sees you - whole, holy by grace, and wholly loved.

love.

Cheap Thrills Tuesday, Inaugural Post

2010-07-13T16:33:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I'm not usually the sort of girl who gets all married to beauty products, as in "OMG, this moisturizer is life changing" or "I have not lived before this mascara." If anything, I'm sort of fickle... I gravitate toward whatever is new and shiny and on sale at Target and very rarely maintain any sort of brand loyalty. I'm fairly certain that most eyeliner is created equal. However...

I love, love, love, love, LOVE... Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers.

I know this isn't the first time you've heard about the magic or DPLS- I've heard many a celebrity rave about it and read about it on other blogs- but just in case you didn't believe it then, I'm telling you now. Holy cow, Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers will change your life. It tastes good (not really like Dr. Pepper at all, but good) and is perfectly pink (in an "I'm not wearing anything my lips are just naturally this sexy and kissable" way) and perfectly subtly shiny without being any stickier than Chapstick. I got some for Christmas several years ago and ignored it for awhile, but I'm telling you, I didn't know what I was missing.

Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers will cost you exactly $1.75 at the Lip Smacker website, which is where I lifted this picture. That $1.75 will buy you at least a solid month of satisfaction that won't dry out on your lips, make your hair stick to you, or smear all over your significant other. Trust me on this one.

Of course, this could be just another step in my lifelong journey to become Felicity:

I'm obsessed with Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers too, it's been my guilty pleasure for years! - Keri Russell via lipsmacker.com

You be the judge.

love.

Suppose we added a bit of structure to this thing...

2010-07-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

So I like Tuesdays. Tuesdays are currently the first day of my weekend, my Saturday. I generally don't try to get much done on Tuesdays, apart from planning what I'm going to get done on Wednesday, which, let's face it, often doesn't wind up getting done at all. Today, for example, I've done a lot of cleaning and laundry (productive, but sort of stress relieving and restful in its own way) and a bit of knitting and dog loving and now I'm thinking about blogging. As in, what do I want to do with this blog? How do I be better at paying attention to the blog? How do I make this a regular part of my day?

I think the answer is structure. I follow a lot, I mean, a LOT of blogs, and most of the ones I like best are just a little bit predictable. I'd like to be the sort of girl who blogs something five days a week (ohhh, ambition), and I'd like to have the sort of blog that follows a pattern of sorts. Here's what I'm thinking:

Mondays will be the day for other people's words. I'd like to use Mondays to link to other articles I think are interesting, or post other people's poetry, or invite friends to write something. Plus I won't have to think much on Monday. Not that Mondays are all that difficult for me, but still.

Tuesdays, I want to post things I like. More specifically, cheap things I like. Many of the fashion and lifestyle blogs I follow are constantly telling me that I can achieve happiness by purchasing $300 dresses and $45 mascara and $1500 pairs of shoes. No offense, fashion blogging masses - I adore you, but let's face it. Buying those shoes will not make me happier in the long run. Buying those shoes will make me poor. So, on Tuesdays, I'm going to present you with one silly, superficial, short term way you, yes you, can buy a little happiness for $5 or less. The perfect price for a temporary retail high. :)

Wednesdays I'll try to write a good God observation for the week, as has been my usual routine so far.

Thursdays will be poetry days. Mostly to force me to write.

And Fridays I get to do whatever the heck I want. Cause that's what Fridays are for. Knitting, or linking, or rambling, or lists, or fun things to do in PDX... Friday is choose my own adventure day.

What do you think? I'm going to give it a shot, anyhow... we'll see how well we do.

love.

Springtime Love Song

2010-07-01T22:08:00.000-07:00

6/30/10

i will begin, as always, with words already written
unqualified, i, to redefine spring
but today portland is the sun-hungry skin of Your body
that something always that glistens justly
and i am
glad for the prick of grass blades on bare ankles
tempered by the nearly violent sting of midday on the back of my neck
composed of only lazy almosts and flirtatious possibility
cradled merely by a swaddling of wildly vibrating mazarine sky

i am captive to the birth of hand-drawn freckles
arriving on my shoulders like a signature
like stars

every miracle is You and You only
there is he, there is spring
and i am for You wholly
i will place Your songs in evaporating puddles and watch the city breathe them
i will write Your name on the pavement
i will wear You home

There's a hope in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza...

2010-06-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

I'm doing that thing again where I stubbornly sit outside and try to use my laptop, even though I can't really see the screen, because it finally feels like summer and I don't want to go inside and be practical, dang it. You'd laugh if you could see my stubborn squinting face.

I was watching late night TV last night/this morning, which I haven't done in years, and wound up catching a bit on Nightline about The Secret and the booming self-help industry. I don't know much, but I'm pretty sure that The Secret isn't really a secret at all. The idea that positive thinking, creating a vision for your future, and believing in the possibility of success will help you to accomplish your goals is as old as religion, as old as logic, as old as dirt. Now, granted, I believe in a God who actively intervenes in our lives, and The Secret is more about quantum theory and mind over matter and self-fulfillment than seeking the will of the Almighty, but it all (prayer, intentional thought, a good attitude, visualizing success) boils down to the same idea: things are more likely to happen if you believe they will happen. If you have faith. If you have hope. If you speak the words and put the idea out there.

Which is why I like bucket lists. There is something powerful about writing down the things you'd like to see happen, about having them visibly before you. I'm more likely to accomplish goals when they are clearly laid out for me. I like assignments, and really, that's what a bucket list is: life homework. Things to do before the deadline, pun intended.

I've been extremely blessed to have had the opportunity to check a lot of big things of my list, which causes me to rethink and restructure and rearrange my priorities so as to always have a goal to push toward. When you aren't a particularly career-driven kid, it's easy to become sort of, well, stuck. Bucket lists are a little magical for me because they give me something to aspire to, and some idea of what I really want to be when I grow up.

So here's my list, as it is today: incomplete, ever evolving, and completely unrealistic - exactly the way I want it to be.

Bucket List

Learn to sail. Not in a onetimelessoncutelittletourist way, but in an allowmetotakeyououtonmysailboat way
Get paid to write something/have something published
Become a competent seamstress
Set foot on every continent except Antarctica. I have no desire to go to Antarctica. Walk the streets of Santorini, ride a gondola in Venice, order a beer in a pub in Limerick, wear a beret in Paris, dress like a Harajuku girl in Tokyo
Do something to serve someone else at least once a day
Write a knitting pattern that becomes an internet sensation
Give a wildly extravagant gift to a stranger
Sleep under a bridge
Do a perfect cartwheel
Learn to cook like a grownup. Know my way around a kitchen. Season things with confidence.
Have a baby
Practice yoga every day for a whole year
Get married for keeps
Stay here
See the Northern Lights
Ride on a dog sled
Go backpacking. Leave the mascara at home (one small step for man, one giant leap...)
Return to my natural hair color
See Burning Man. I don't necessarily want to stay there, I just want to see it.
Learn Swahili and/or sign language. Practical, no?
Participate in a flash mob
Read War and Peace. Seriously.
Grow something edible
Stop biting my fingernails once and for all
Adopt a child
Become more comfortable being uncomfortable
Give James Taylor a high five
Create something new - a new kind of business, a store, an idea, a non-profit- discover a new way to do something that's been done a thousand times before. Have an original idea, and follow through on it.
Successfully eliminate high fructose corn syrup from my life. :)
Memorize at least 100 Bible verses
Sit in a hot spring in Iceland. So what if I got that idea from The Bachelorette?
See the Waitomo Glow Worms in New Zealand
Get scuba certified
Play a team sport, regularly, on an actual team. Be not half bad.
Open an Etsy store
Sing an original song at an open mic night

And for good measure, and to feel that deep satisfaction that comes with knowing I've actually checked a few things off the list, here are a few of the things on older lists that I've managed to do:

Go on safari in Africa
Ride a horse in the ocean
Skydive
Get a tattoo
Visit the Globe Theater in London
See Bill Cosby live
Swim with dolphins (and stingrays, which was better)
Climb a waterfall
Graduate from college
Learn to knit well enough to make whatever I want
Have the lead in a play
Eat a snail
Participate in a serious race
Live in a tourist destination city
Make a decent bucket list. ;)

Alrighty, kids. I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.

love.

Words to speak...

2010-06-15T23:35:00.000-07:00

Y'all know this little blog is my soapbox... just remember that these are only my thoughts. Turns out I don't really know much. I just like writing to you.

So tonight I'm thinking about words. I've had a life long love affair with words, written, spoken, twisted, loaded, crafted and sculpted words. I love particular words (believe, lovely, gazebo, ethereal, remedy, whimsy, kismet) and particular collections of words (the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses, the ravages of generosity added to love, miles to go before I sleep). I commit them to memory, keep them, replay them in my mind, sneak them into conversations. I carry them. Words are sticky- they ride with you, become part of you, and remain.

I can also remember with alarming accuracy so many of the words other people have spoken to me- words that stung, words that healed, words that lifted. I've fallen victim to the damning weight of well-intended words from the mouths of people who truly wanted to help me, to offer wisdom, but forgot that our calling is to speak love before correction. I've rested in the confidence placed in me by a few well spoken words of encouragement, and been shaped by guidance offered gracefully and with carefully chosen words. There are words that were thrown at me thoughtlessly that still echo in my head whenever I face certain situations, and words that were given to me intentionally that I cling to when I need to be reassured. I can map my life in words.

Words are powerful. I think we owe it to each other to remember that power, to acknowledge the responsibility we have, to choose our words carefully and know when to speak them. In truth, I have very little of value to say - my experiences are limited, and viewed through my own tainted lenses and obnoxious biases, and I am often wrong and I am often afraid. But I have a big God, full of flawless words, who every now and then will give me the opportunity to speak, the words to use, and the confidence to say them. My understanding is, well, lame, but His is perfect. I'm a selfish kid, and what I see when I look at you is often as much about me as it is about you, but what He sees is someone loved. If I can speak with any small bit of that love, if I can be a vessel for words that will encourage, will build, will strengthen, or challenge through love, then I hope I have the emotional wherewithal to say them.

I guess my prayer is that our intention is always first to love. I pray that as we are figuring out how to live in community with each other, to speak into each others lives, we are given the wisdom to differentiate between our opinions and God's truth, our feelings and His love, our thoughts and His will, and that we choose our words accordingly. If we can focus on loving each other with the sort of love that is patient, kind, doesn't envy or boast, isn't proud, doesn't anger easily, keeps no record of wrongs... I trust that God will follow through on His promise to continue the good work he began, use us to strengthen and sharpen each other, and grow us as we live this thing out.

I absolutely believe we should continue to lift each other up and tell each other the truth, and I hope we remember to do so with an extraordinary amount of care and after having quadruple checked our intentions. I hope I can seek God first in my relationships, and remember to pray first and act second. I'm often pretty lazy about that. There is a load of good advice floating around out there, and some of the best I've been given looks like this: Words are powerful. Choose them with your whole heart. When you can, encourage the good instead of pointing out the bad. Seek to build. Love each other.

love.

On Spring, Flutter, and the Magic of Community

2010-05-18T10:31:00.000-07:00

I spent nearly nine hours on Sunday in my new friend's beautiful backyard. It was one of those perfectly Portland days when the forecast is all doom and gloom but the reality is warm and mostly sunny and very nearly perfect, and I spent hours watching people come and go through gates and doorways, chat on the lawn, meet, catch up, learn, laugh. These aren't my usual folks, these Sunday night dinner gatherers, but they are lovely, and I love the chance to watch them and talk with them. I love figuring out the pieces we have in common, the birth of inside jokes, and the stirring of potential. Sometimes I think I'm happiest in these spaces.

The more I run with this crazy, ever-evolving crowd of Imago-ites and Mosaic-types, the more aware I become that we aren't living life under the usual circumstances. Here we are, some of us single, some of us less so, but not one of us is alone. We are, old friends and strangers, wrapped up in and with each other, and we form this unbelievably beautiful tangle of vastly varied ideas, lifestyles, and hopes, knotted by one common love. Which results in my sitting on a blanket on a backyard lawn, laughing and watching relationships form and marveling at the gift we've been given. Because I have to believe that this is how we are intended to live, how we were created to live- of and with each other, around and for each other, speaking love into each other's lives and helping one another draw closer to God in inches, in conversations, hamburgers, hoolahoops, laughter, in grace.

Spring, and community, and I am a blessed and happy girl. These spaces, these very nearly perfect Portland days, I will be grateful for the gift that is God being alive and so flawlessly evident. I will rejoice in His being easy to spot in blue skies, in flower-petal rain and clear nights. I will watch the beginnings of magic in first conversations, in new friends connecting and old ones checking in, in eyes-meet moments that make my heart skip and group sing-a-longs and simply being glad to be. I will be thankful for BBQs and backyards and blessings. I am wishing the same for you.

love.

We Have Got to Pray Just to Make it Today

2010-05-12T01:13:00.001-07:00

I seem to be having a lot of conversations about prayer lately. We can talk about the theme-y nature of my life later - for now, let's focus on the prayer thing. Would you think less of me if I told you I think I only really figured out how to pray this last year?

I mean, I've prayed through my entire life. I memorized prayers as a child, we prayed over meals, I prayed in Sunday school and in church. My parents and grandparents prayed with me at bedtime, I prayed for things I wanted or needed, I prayed for my friends. I went to camp and had prayer-filled mountain top experiences, I showed up for "See You at the Pole" in high school, and, on my more spiritual days, I woke up early and prayed over Bible passages. I went through a serious crying out phase, where I begged, argued, and pleaded in prayer, which led to a praying for forgiveness phase, during which I also begged, argued, and pleaded. Then came the years of praying to forget the life I might have had, praying for contentment, for new purpose, for resolution. And finally, I began to pray in gratitude, prayers of thanksgiving, prayers of praise, prayers that were maybe just a tiny bit less about me.

Yet in all of that praying, I'm not sure I ever felt like I was accomplishing anything. I spent years treating prayer like a monologue in which dramatic little me laments or just generally carries on about something and sure, I believed God could hear me, but it never felt like taking action. Prayer felt like the thing I did when I couldn't think of anything to actually do. I could never really wrap my heart around the idea that praying, just praying, was better and more effective than any action my feeble brain and body could perform.

There's a sermon I love by John Wimber of Vineyard Movement fame in which he shares the long, angsty story of his journey to Christ. In one part of the story, he's estranged from his wife, and winds up on the side of the road desperate for answers. He's not been a believer up until this point, but he prays "God, if you're there, help me." If I'm remembering correctly, there's a message from his wife when he returns to his hotel, asking him to come home. "And I thought," he says, "Hey! I'm in touch with a supernatural!" That's sort of the way I've felt this year: in touch.

Because this year, I've been looking for answers. I'm not sure why this piece never clicked for me, why I've spent so much of my life believing that God is great and good and still throwing out random words and never expecting much to come of them. This year, I've vowed to pay attention. I've started to pray with intention, to write down the words, and to actively look for the response. Here's the crazy, news flash to Karyn and obvious to everybody else part: God is all over this prayer thing. I love going back through my journal and reading past prayers and marveling over how perfectly and specifically those answers showed up. Before this year, I could probably count for you on one hand the number of times I'd noticed God really answering a prayer. They're great stories, don't get me wrong, but I wasn't listening. God was always answering, but I wasn't actually seeking answers so much as just throwing out ideas and complaints to the greater universe. It was as though I kept posting questions on some sort of cosmic message board and never coming back to check for a reply. Lame, lazy, irresponsible, and typical... but awfully easy to do.

Here's the thing: I'd been treating prayer as though it were passive instead of active, as though it was the alternative to action instead of an action in its own right. I love that, after 27 years of being in this relationship, I'm still figuring out the basics, and I do mean basics, of life with God. This year, I'm trying to remember that prayer is a conversation, and that I have follow-up to do. The fantastic part is, when I do follow up - when I revisit my past prayers and spend some time thinking about how they were answered - I get to see how I am being heard. Heard! I mean, that's sort of amazing, right? I'm in touch with a supernatural. Time to start acting like it.

It is good to have a God who listens, who responds, who engages. It is good to feel like prayer is action, and powerful action, and to watch it work. It is good to be loved, and good to learn to hear.

love.

So let me tell you about my mom...

2010-05-09T01:04:00.000-07:00

When I was a freshman in college, I decided to dye my hair the hottest hot pink possible. Though there is simply no way my mother could have been in favor of this less-than-stellar decision, she set up a chair for me on the backyard lawn of our Los Gatos home. We laughed as she gently transformed the dirty blonde that had traveled genetically through generations, from her father's head to hers and then to mine, into the most unnatural of comic book magentas. She worked the pink in patiently by hand, being careful not to drip or smear, warning me to keep my eyes closed, mindfully avoiding coloring my ears. We rinsed the dye out with ice-dagger water from the garden hose, giggling and shivering in early fall, because there was no way she was letting it get anywhere near the house.

This is the most perfect picture I can paint for you of my mother: her laughter and easy, judgment-free assistance in a project she can't possibly have been behind combined with her quietly practical ability to never let my messes get too out of hand. From the very earliest of my memories, my mother has loved me and celebrated me for exactly who I am. Through successes that made her genuinely proud and failures and bad ideas that extend far beyond flamingo hair color, I have been first and always hers, a truth she has never allowed me to forget. I am aware that not everyone has been loved in this way. I wish that wasn't true.

My mother has always treated me like an equal, like a friend whose opinion she values and whose company she covets. There has never been a secret too dark to tell her or an announcement that has kept her from loving me fiercely, relentlessly, and unmistakeably. She has made being our mother her life's work, and she has done it with grace, creativity, beauty, and a whole lot of style. And I have had the privilege of growing up with a mom who has always shown up, always seen me through, and always been the person to whom I can return from any circumstance and be received with love.

I have been so very, very blessed.

The older I get, the more I am able to recognize the gift I've been given. I listen to stories from friends who rarely speak to their moms, or brides who can't handle the pressure their overbearing mothers are applying, and I mutter prayers of gratitude under my breath. Gratitude because I will never understand what it feels like not to have my mom on speed dial, to have her be the first person I want to share news with and the only one I want to call in a crisis. Thank God, because without her, I have absolutely no idea what I would do.

I kept the pink hair for a few months, and most people I knew eventually got around to asking: "Geez, what did your mom say?" How I enjoyed telling them she had dyed it herself, with laughter, under a tree in our backyard, because I am loved in an extraordinary way. I hope she knows how loved she is in return.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You know there aren't enough thank yous. But thank you all the same.

love.

Happy May 6th

2010-05-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say this was unusual behavior on our part... but...

Well. Typical.

Photos by the incomparable Will Campbell.

Happy May 6th, everybody!

Once More, With Feeling

2010-05-03T16:52:00.001-07:00

My co-worker Jennie is the most authentically enthusiastic person I've ever met.

For most of my life, I've been the girl that is on board for just about everything. I've been the kid that everyone is telling to calm down, quiet down, simmer down... and Jennie puts me to shame. Jennie makes me look mellow. Jennie makes me seem downright dull.

My other co-workers and I love to watch Jennie work. She is so relentlessly herself, and greets our brides in crazy voices with accompanying arm gestures in ways that often cause them to be momentarily stunned. When she first started, I think we all worried that people would be a little, well, concerned by her excitement. We're idiots, because our customers fall in love with this girl. And it isn't because she's goofy, or funny, or full of character voices and inappropriately loud sounds and dance routines (though she is all of those things). It's because she's genuine. That enthusiasm, that big ball of hoopla that she chucks without hesitation at everyone who comes through the door, that's the real thing. She is simply that happy, that happy in general and that happy for you, and brides and everyone else around her can't help but drink it up.

What I love about Jennie is a quality that I doubt she recognizes. I suspect that, when considering her own personality, Jennie would tell you she's a little much. What I doubt she realizes is that "little much" is one of the most fantastically Christ-like characteristics I've encountered. Jennie is a little ball of light because she sees reasons to rejoice all around her, and more importantly, in the people she interacts with. She looks at someone, anyone, and sees pieces that are beautiful and worth getting excited about. I wish I could snag a little of her magic. I can see great things in folks, but I don't know how often I let them move me to the level of committed enthusiasm in which this girl lives her every day. People fall in love with her because she makes them feel loved.

I can't help but think there's a little bit of Jennie in our Creator (or, more likely, a whole lot of our Creator in Jennie.) Because, when we come before our God, I don't think he phones it in or goes through the motions. I don't think He's bored, or annoyed, or tired from His big long day. I think He looks at us and sees the beautiful that is Him in us and us with Him, and I think He gets excited. I think He meets us with every ounce of His almighty enthusiasm, delights in us, and invites us to jump up and down along with Him.

I'm so grateful for Jennie, and for her constant reminder to celebrate who we are as individuals and the individuality of those we interact with every day. She challenges me to put more of myself into my conversations, and reminds me that there are things, so many things, worth getting excited about. Because the fact that we have a big God who gets bigtime amped up about hanging out with insignificant, lousy, lazy, smelly, barely average us is sort of a miracle. We are idiots with a magnificent, all powerful supernatural who knows our names, who delights in us. And that, my friends, is worthy of a little enthusiasm.

"The Lord delights in those who fear Him, who put their hope in His unfailing love." Psalm 147:11

love.

Doing Oprah proud...

2010-05-01T17:40:00.001-07:00

...by making over my blog. Still squinting a little from the brightness of the whole thing, but I think I dig it. Thoughts?

You are lovely, the lot of you, and I hope you know how very thankful I am for you. I'm praying that blessings abound for you today. I hope God knocks your socks off.

love.

Spring Manifesto

2010-04-29T16:54:00.000-07:00

It's raining, Portland. It's raining, but don't be fooled.

Spring is coming. Heck, spring is basically here.

Here's the plan:

This spring and summer, I will remember that these days, the perfect ones with the breezes and the sunshine and the irresistible flowertreesmell wafting around all poetically, these days are numbered. I will take advantage of them fully. I will frequent parks and swingsets. I will dance on my patio, I will play my guitar under stars in the backyard, I will build campfires. I will seek out the ocean and jump in it. I will go barefoot. I will drink iced tea.

I will take advantage of the amazing resources at my fingertips in this city. I will explore. I will learn new neighborhoods, take long walks, and blaze new trails. I will hike, bike, blade, skip, and paddle my way through every piece of nature I can find. I will go to the zoo and get ice cream cones. I will ride carnival rides. I will try to remember that cotton candy smells better than it tastes. I will eat it anyway.

I will be taking my meals on the patio, thankyouverymuch.

I will remember that the best things in spring are free. I will sit on my front porch with good friends and glasses of wine and watch the world go by. I will invest in long, lazy conversations. I will get to know strangers and start to call them mine. I will attend BBQs. I will wear cotton dresses and twirl my little heart out. I will sleep outside. I will make peace with mosquitoes. I will campout. I will stage midnight jam sessions with kidnapped friends in my parents' big backyard. I will soak up the sun.

Who's with me?

love.

Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way

2010-04-26T19:46:00.000-07:00

When you're 13, and easily a foot taller than all of the girls and almost all of the boys in your middle school, and you're in theater, you are pretty dang likely to wind up playing a dude in the school play. Which is exactly what I was doing almost fifteen years ago - playing one of the mighty forest rangers in Rolling Hills Middle School's production of Little Mary Sunshine. I'd been called back for the romantic female lead and lost it to a cuter, shorter, girly-er girl named Katrina. To add insult to injury, I had a huge crush on the male lead, and instead of being conveniently, theatrically thrown into his arms, I was cast in my usual role as his buddy. But I digress...

I found myself remembering Little Mary Sunshine last Saturday night. My friend Annie, who is fantastic in ways that merit description in her very own blog post and simply cannot be squished into this one, had a birthday party with a Great Gatsby theme. And though I didn't have to dress as a dude, I did have to dance like one. Swing dance lessons (continuity check?) and a shortage of men put me back in my eight grade position - on the wrong side of a partnership, trying to reverse everything my body naturally wants to do and lead.

Men, we owe you an apology. We give you a lot of flack about not stepping up into your leadership roles. We complain about how you never want to get married, you never take initiative, you don't ask us out. We whine and whine about the lack of strong, capable men who want families and responsibility and picket fences. We lament our singleness, praise each other for being patient and strong, and completely fail to consider one major detail: leading is hard, man. Seriously hard.

I mean, there I am, doing absolutely nothing that even resembles difficult on the dance floor, and I'm stressed out. What do you mean, I have to make a decision? I have to know I'm going to turn her how early? I'm losing my mind trying to keep my feet moving while thinking two steps ahead and attempting to decide what our next move is going to be. And the whole time, this girl across from me is just looking at me like "Hello? Anytime! This is painfully boring and you're taking for-ev-er and just make a move already!" I'm caving from the pressure, and this isn't real life. This is just a costume party in somebody's living room.

Men, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because the task you have before you is not an easy one. I'm sorry for the times I've been impatient, or belittling, or just plain whiny in your general directions. But you should know, we believe in you. That girl across from you, the one looking at you like she's never seen anyone more clumsy or awkward in her whole life, that girl has total confidence in your ability to make a good call. She's on your side. She and I have probably spent hours talking about you, and you always come out on top. We won't fight you if you try to turn us, and we won't think less of you if you step on our toes in the process. We want this whole thing to go well, too, and we'll help you out in any way we can. We're not expecting perfection- hell, we're bored to tears by perfection. We just want to dance. Even with, especially with, two-left footed, overwhelmed, directionless, charming, fearfully and wonderfully God-designed you.

I'm glad, ultimately, that I only have to play a dude in musicals and at dance parties. Because as lame as it sometimes is to wait, as frustrated as we sometimes get, every once in a while we get to let someone spin us around and around. And that's pretty great.

Go tell the men in your life you appreciate them. Pray for them. Say yes if they ask you to dance.

love.

More or Less

2010-04-17T22:38:00.000-07:00

Girls grow up constantly comparing ourselves to other girls.

All day, every day, we are trained to size each other up - on streets, in magazines, our classmates, our celebrities... a constant weighing of who is thinner/blonder/tanner/prettier/bustier/better. We learn that, in order to win this never ending competition, we need to identify flaws: "Oh, that haircut is wrong on her," "Those pants are so unflattering," "Ooo, sister, can we say overplucked?" Eventually, this looking for error becomes so second nature that we stop seeing whole pictures and start noticing only the pieces we think should be airbrushed away. And then, when we've analyzed everyone we pass, consciously or otherwise, we return to our homes/spouses/families/dogs/emptyapartments, turn our critical eye to the mirror, and tear our own reflections apart with a venom that should be exclusive to mean girl characters in teen movies.

But thankfully, finally, at different ages, in different ways, and hopefully before too much damage is done, we do grow up.

There are things I wish I could say to the girl I was, the one who was always more or less of something than the person standing closest to her. I wish I could tell moreorlesser me that I see bodies every day, and nobody, no body, is perfect, and therefore everybody (every body) is as perfect as is necessary. I'd love to tell her that every woman I meet is more of something and less of something, but every one of them is loved, and everyone has a beautiful something that is uniquely her own. When the size of your paycheck depends on finding and emphasizing that beauty, you stop seeing extra pounds or acne or wide hips or cellulite and you start identifying fabulous curves, pretty shoulders, tiny waists, and killer smiles. And when you start seeing those things in clients, you start seeing them in every girl you meet. And eventually, you confront yourself in the mirror and realize you've been seeing the wrong picture from the beginning.

I wish I could lend other women these rosy glasses... I wish I could take the damning words out of the mouths of friends, mothers, and voices in their heads and replace them with affirmations: You are art, don't you see? You are fearfully, wonderfully, beautifully made. You are no more or less than you need to be. You are as you were intended. You have been always, always, always loved. Now work it, girl. Go turn the world on with your smile.

Sigh.

I wish I could see, just for a minute, what our Creator sees. I'm going to guess it's a pretty different picture.

love.

The Lesson in the Letdown

2010-04-07T00:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just constantly missing the point.

I'm usually the sort of person who gets what she wants. That sounds weird to say, but I'm persistent, and friendly, and optimistic, and generally I can combine those elements to make the things I want to happen, well, happen. Every once in a while, though, something I really want will just plain elude me. Which sucks, obviously, because it sucks to not get what you want. But I can't help but wonder sometimes if the desire for something God simply isn't going to give me right now exists not to torture me, but to prove something to me: God is still good, even when I'm not getting my way.

I know, I know, it's the most basic Sunday school lesson in the history of time, but it's also one of the hardest things to really drive into your heart. God is great, and greatly to be praised, and that is true if the sun is shining and I'm dancing in the street, and it's true if I'm frustrated or angry or disappointed. It's true when I'm waiting. It's true when I'm crying out. It's true when everything around me seems silent, and it's true when the things I want are simply unattainable.

I used to get a lot more upset when I didn't get my way - lose my cool and throw an adorable little temper tantrum in God's general direction. Recently, though,I've been scandalously close to something I've been praying about for a long, long time, only to have it fizzle out before it ever really started. I want to be mad, really, and I went around in emotional circles with it for a while and spewed my heart out to a lot of my innocent friends and family. But ultimately, I can't help but see what I gain in the losing. I get to stare disappointment right between the eyes and realize that I'm still ok. I'm still fearfully and wonderfully made, and I'm still part of something so much bigger than I am. I get to learn that the world won't end without whatever I'm coveting at the moment, and I get to explore how to take myself out of the equation and just pray for someone because it's the best I can offer. I get to be lifted up by my amazing community, supported, loved, and I get to trust, blindly, and wait. I'm not usually good at waiting. I'm learning as I go.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish I could see the plan, understand what God has in store for me and be able to avoid the long, winding paths I seem to have to walk down to learn my lessons. I'd be superhuman if I didn't get scared, and stuck, and itchy, and worried, and antsy. But here's what I know: Whatever God's plan is for my life, it's better than what I'm able to dream up on my own. His grip on me is firm, and His love for me is solid. I can hope with confidence, because my hope is built on a promise that He isn't going to break. God is good all the time.

Doesn't that sound well-adjusted of me? Here's where the missing the point part comes in: somewhere in me is that stubborn, relentless little Pollyanna voice who refuses to stop believing, who keeps on singing and hoping and generally refusing to accept defeat. She's still convinced the whole thing could turn around at any minute, that we could still get our way after all, that anything can happen. And as much as I want to be the girl who learns, who is peacefully and happily willing to accept a closed door and what God wants to teach her, well, I sort of love that stubborn little voice. She's got spunk. She's a fool, but she's got spunk. :)

Oy. Pray for me. :)

love.

Knitting? What?

2010-03-28T22:36:00.000-07:00

The gracious Shannon Hannon and I took a little roadtrip on Wednesday, and she was kind enough to help me finally get around to taking pictures of some knits I've been wearing for ages. Here are a few highlights... forgive the awkward modeling, thanks.

Ruffled and Ruched Scarf by Pam Powers
Cascade Ecological Wool
Size 8 Needles

Springtime Bandit Shawl
Reclaimed Yarn from a Goodwill Sweater
7s? Dunno, it was a while ago...

and the infamous DROPS jacket
Cascade Eco Wool, again.
9s... fast knit, cute, and I wish I'd fastened the inner button that makes it hang straight. Darn it all to heck.

And while we're on the subject, how beautiful is Jess and Jer's little one, Lily Bean (ok, the bean part is not her given name)? Sweater's kinda cute, too...

Jasper Diamond Hoodie by Kristen Rengren
in Vintage Baby Knits
Some sort of soft acrylic baby yarn...

There. Knitting. Go figure.

love.

How sweet the sound...

2010-03-27T22:12:00.000-07:00

I caught a glimpse of heaven tonight.

So I'm at this Rock and Worship Roadshow thing, right, because I was invited and the ticket wasn't bad and I generally like David Crowder and Mercy Me...and my friends Jennie, Katherine, Chris and I are surrounded by teenagers and I'm feeling like I'm probably past the point in my life where I should be attending teeny bopper worship tours and it's noisy, which I don't usually dig, and crowded, and everything is expensive, and the bands are trying to get us to jump but I don't want to jump and I'm just a bit annoyed... then.

Mercy Me comes on. Within three words, it becomes painfully apparent that something is up with the lead singer's voice. It actually hurts my throat to listen to him. He struggles through the first song and then confesses that he woke up sick this morning. As the next song starts, he tries to sing the first verse, but it just isn't happening. So the crowd takes over. Loudly. I know crowds always sing at concerts, but what's different here is he just stops. He stops singing and hurting and he lets us take it. And the look on that man's face, hearing strangers carry the song for him, well, let's just say you could see God show up for him in that moment. He couldn't stop smiling. Tearing up, but smiling.

Community, right? I think this broke me because it's been so evident to me lately how blessed I am, how blessed we are, to have people who will carry the song for us when we don't have a voice. Without hesitating, without even thinking, people step in. I think this is when God is at His most glorious and apparent in our lives - when He places people around us who are walking, talking, tangible ambassadors of grace. Because having God is amazing and humbling and indescribable, but he's difficult to hug and not always easy to hear. So he networks with ordinary everybodies and gets the message to us through each other. Which is nothing short of awesome.

I think the lead singer guy was enjoying hearing us sing to him, because he started making requests. During the second verse of Amazing Grace it hit me that we were participating in an amazing act of grace at that very moment, and that this sound, the thousand voices singing sound, would be a pretty great sound to hear for the rest of eternity. Some days are hard, and my throat hurts, and I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm sad, but some days are full of amazing grace.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: God is good all the time.

love.

Karyn, stop writing sappy stories already...

2010-02-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

I have a pen pal in Texas. She's 76 years old and works two days a week in the Watters & Watters swatch department. Somehow, through a jumbled correspondence born of wordy swatch requests and handwritten post-it replies, Onsei and I have become the sort of friends who exchange photographs, cards, encouragement, and prayers. She writes in hesitant English, I pepper my notes with emoticons, and somehow, we connect. Our friendship is one of my very favorite things.

When Vanessa, a member of the Watters design team, was in our store last weekend, she knew all about my pen palling ways. She was also surprised to learn that I had no idea that Onsei was mother to the owner of the company. Turns out I have a pen pal in high places. I told her that I never read a note from Onsei without getting all teary, that I look forward to getting swatches like a kid waits for Christmas, that Onsei is a huge inspiration for me. She laughed and told me they love her too.

We live in a funny world, a world that is sometimes cold, often lonely, and usually rather obviously beyond our control. We can do only the smallest things, in our bumbling little ways, and watch for the magic to happen. But sometimes we can send love via fax and have it return to us on a post-it. Sometimes the tiniest points of light can be linked together and something unexpected and beautiful becomes visible. I love that. It breaks my heart.

Ash Wednesday

2010-02-17T22:55:00.000-08:00

I think when I left church this evening, it was probably with the same neat little cross of ash I saw on the foreheads of everyone else in the room. However, by the time I made it home, I'd managed to smear that tiny cross into an ugly black mess, one that invaded the borders of my hairline and dusted the end of my eyebrow. I caught my reflection in the mirror and was genuinely startled by my appearance.

Kyle and I had the privilege of having "dinner" tonight with Lena, who is fairly new to our home community. We initiated her, in our subtle little way, by telling her the no-holds-barred gorymessysinful stories of our lives. To her credit, she didn't even flinch, despite the fact that Kyle and I can both be uncomfortably transparent about our sordid pasts. She's a keeper, that one.

It certainly wasn't the first time I'd told my story to someone who is practically a stranger, but it was the first time I'd told it on Ash Wednesday, with a physical mark on my face to remind me of my sin. When I got home and caught sight of myself in the mirror, it occurred to me that I often feel like this is what God should see when He looks at me: a fairly normal girl with a giant black smudge on her forehead, marking her squarely and publicly with darkness, with failure, with regret. As I washed off the mark and the makeup, I thought about how even without that mark, I was still seeing and judging my whole life when I considered my face. I look in the mirror and see acne scars, or the beginnings of wrinkles, or the circles under my eyes. I find the flaws and imperfections and I fixate on them. I convince myself that they are all anyone can see.

Here's the point: I'm an idiot. Because when God looks at me, considers me, He doesn't see black marks or sin or scars or circles. When God looks at me, what He sees is Jesus. He sees me forgiven, and holy, and whole, because He sent His son to bridge the gap, reverse the ugly, and take my place. No matter how many times I'm reminded, I forget it over and over and over again. He sees Jesus. Isn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever heard?

And now this old chorus is stuck in my head:

White as snow, white as snow
Though my sins were as scarlet
Lord I know, Lord I know
That I'm clean and forgiven
Through the power of your blood
Through the wonder of your love
Through faith in you I know that I can be
White as snow

The Perils of Relentless Hope

2010-01-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

I've spent a lot of time trying to talk myself out of being hopeful.

Hope is dangerous. It's alive and itchy and it will keep you up nights. It's irrational and feisty and refuses to listen to reason. It'll make you look for signs in places you may not find them, muddle your brain, and tug at your heart. Hope makes you take risks you otherwise wouldn't. You invest what you might have protected. You say yes when you know it might hurt. You hold on when it would be so much easier to let go. You walk boldly into situations where the letdown and rejection are so dang likely you know you should run the other direction. But you don't. Because maybe, just maybe...

I love that we are sometimes dangerously, relentlessly hopeful. Somehow we'll get an idea in our heads or hearts and just hold on to it, blissfully ignorant to horrible odds and obvious improbability. Sometimes, despite our resistance and fear and reluctance and pleading and whining, that stubborn little spark of hope will set up camp inside us, carve its name into the walls of our hearts, and politely refuse to go away.

I love the picture of God in my mind, sowing these tiny seeds of hope, winking in my direction as he whispers: "Little girl, you are going to hate every minute of this hope. You're going to fight it and doubt me and pray that I'll take it away from you and leave you to your comfort and your failure and your normal. It is going to frustrate you and grow you and make you learn, and you aren't going to understand it at all. You're going to envy the people who can be jaded or doubtful, who are never surprised when life lets them down, and feel like that might be the easier path. You're going to try to do that thing where you insist I won't bless you. But you're wrong, kiddo, because I'm going to love you like you won't believe. I'm going to plant this hope in your heart, make you scared and uncomfortable, and then I'm going to rock your world. You can trust me. You can trust me. You can hope."

So. Here's hoping.

love.

In which she asks you to take a walk...

2010-01-20T19:03:00.000-08:00

My grandfather was a walking man. Some of my earliest memories are of walks with him - exploring the campus where he taught, the streets of Chicago, the mudflats of Morro Bay, or the Elfin Forest. He'd tell me stories as we walked about his childhood or about a set of fictional characters who became as real to me as the trees or the pavement under our feet. I'm not sure if my love for long walks came from these experiences or was born into me through some sort of nomadic calling in my bloodline. One way or the other, my grandfather was a walking man. My father is a walking man. And so, I walk.

My walking habit came up in Home Community (that's Bible Study for those of you who just got a little worried) last night. This week brought us the thoughts of the fantastic Betsy and Brian, who are quite possibly one of the world's most adorable sets of newlyweds, and a rockstar leadership team to boot. Our topic was "Trials and Pain," which isn't exactly cheery, but definitely relevant, definitely important, and definitely thought provoking. Our conversation meandered its way into ideas and thoughts about coping with hard times, and I offered up my only true solution to anything, outside of unfaltering faith in God: I walk.

I walk because I fidget. I have a hard time focusing on anything sitting still, and walking occupies my body and allows my brain to relax and center. Walks are my best way to talk to God and try to listen to the answers. Years ago, when I was mid-divorce and feeling trapped in every circumstance of my life, I walked because the simple action of moving forward made me feel like I would survive. Walking makes me feel like myself, calms me down, wakes me up. I'm better walking than I am holding still.

I also like to walk with people. Conversations can be awkward in coffee shops or over dinner, shifting around and staring each other in the face. On walks, you're looking forward, there's less pressure to maintain eye contact and more freedom to be honest and real. People seem to listen better, process better, and speak their minds a little clearer... it's good.

So, invitation: I'd like to walk with you, five or so blog readers. I'd like to do this more often, because I'd like to hear your stories and see what you'll tell me when you don't have to look me right in the eyes. Because I love your company, and because we have the luxury of being honest and vulnerable with each other, and it doesn't get much better than that on this planet. Take me up on this. Please.

love.

Pay no attention to the girl behind the curtain...

2010-01-11T22:17:00.000-08:00

I finally got around to reading Don Miller's latest book today. (That move there, the one where I say "Don" instead of "Donald?" That's me feeling cool cause I know people who know him.) I like reading his books because I tend to agree with him, though not necessarily in a literal way. I guess I appreciate the way he thinks about things - his thought processes are similar to mine, so reading his books makes me feel like I have a kindred spirit out there. I think a lot of other people feel the same way, which is probably a huge factor in his success as a writer.

This particular book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, is mostly about living into the story of life, your own and the universe-wide story God is writing. He talks a lot about creating memorable moments, which I feel I've embraced pretty well in my life, and also about letting go of fear, at which I'm just plain lousy.

I've always struggled with the fear of not being liked. When I was younger, I resolved this fear by becoming everyone's favorite doormat. As I've gotten older, I've made peace with the idea that some people just aren't going to like me. Turns out it isn't really that big a deal after all, this not being universally likable. Except...

Every once in a while I'll meet someone and know right away that I really, really want them to like me. I want to be liked by a potential employer, a boyfriend's mom, that fascinating and unattainable guy, or that really cool girl who probably wouldn't have talked to me in high school. Suddenly, then, I'm twelve again... hopelessly self aware, totally stuck in my own head, hypercritical of my every move, and I sabotage the heck out of myself.

Here's how my rebellious mind and body relay my heart's desire to be liked by someone who intimidates me:
1) Maintain safe physical distance. As in, never, ever touch the person if you can avoid it. Stand farther away than any normal human would. Try not to make eye contact.
2) Try not to look too desperate. This is usually achieved by chatting up everyone else in the room, and relying heavily on tool number 3.
3) Remain as sarcastic as possible. Tell jokes. Act cynical, cause that's funny. Never mind that you're the least cynical human on the planet. That's just weird.
4) Tell, don't show. As in "I'm going to tell you I'm clever, because I'm basically unable to be clever in your presence. You might not believe me, but it's worth a shot."
5)If you can't think of something witty to say, clam up and act bored. God forbid you should have a real conversation and reveal that you're actually kinda likable sometimes.

You can imagine how well this works for me. Remarkably, sometimes people I really want to like me will like me in spite of all that. Sometimes, there's just one conversation where I suddenly relax and connect and act normal and it's all sunshine and roses. But how much easier would life be if I were able to just kill that stupid fear, to trust that a God who created me with love wouldn't set me up for rejection I can't handle? Don Miller says the great stories always go to people who don't give in to fear. I'm sure he's on to something there.

2010, the year of magical happenings. Maybe also the year I finally get over myself. Here's hoping.

love.

2010: The Year of Magical Happenings

2010-01-05T23:26:00.000-08:00

I always feel like there's a whole lot of pressure on the first blog post of a new year. Right? Ugh. Just needed to put that out there.

2010, kids. Welcome to the future. Let's talk about belief.

If you've been to my house, you've noticed the "Believe" thing. To be honest, I'm not sure when it started, but at some point in my life, I decided that word was my mantra. Somehow my friends and family got the memo, and I've been gifted everything with the word "believe" on it that any of them have encountered since. So yes, it's a bit much. And yes, I do have the tattoo. I'm sure we've talked about it, my "believe" fixation, but in case you were wondering, here's where it came from:

When I was little, I was surrounded by imaginative, creative, and playful adults. My family created an atmosphere for young me that encouraged belief in all sorts of things, some true and some less true. I was allowed to grow up as slowly as I needed to, allowed to see fairies and unicorns in forests, allowed to talk to animals and aspire to be a butterfly, and allowed to believe in magical everythings. As I grew, I came to my conclusions about reality in my own time. No one ever took the right to believe in anything away from me by telling me I was too old or it was too silly or "duh, just so not real." The adults around me respected the things I believed in purely because I believed in them.

That respect created a capacity for belief in me that I still have today. Obviously, I've figured a few things out - I'm on to the Santa thing, and I get that seagulls don't actually talk to my grandparents. But the freedom I had to believe left me with a perspective that I value above anything else from my childhood - the idea that the world is full of things I can't see, incredible possibilities, endless maybes, and relentless hope. That perspective has shaped my entire life.

I think the ability to believe is one of the most underrated gifts from a generous God to a cynical human race. We're talking about a God who is all powerful and unending, but chooses not to force Himself on us and instead maintains some mystery, making faith necessary and our option to believe the final piece in the puzzle. I don't think He set it up that way to torture and confuse us. I think He did it because believing is good for our souls and necessary for our survival. We can control belief, even when we can't control anything else. We can choose to believe, to hope, in spite of just about anything. Our belief can keep us going. It can keep other people going. It's powerful stuff, our ability to believe.

This is obviously something I can go on and on about. I'll try to wrap it up.

So it's 2010, kids, and I'm a believer. Sometimes I want to turn it off, to be less gullible, to protect my heart and not hope for impossible things all the time. The problem is, impossible things keep happening. So I'm in. This year, let's call for some magical happenings. Let's believe for the sake of believing, because it makes us better, because it works, because we're designed to hope for and trust in things unseen.

Anything can happen. Anything.

love.

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

2009-12-23T22:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-23T02:46:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-12-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-11-26T21:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

(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

2009-11-06T00:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-20T23:35:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-10-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-13T23:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-16T17:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-16T00:05:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-07-11T20:44:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-30T06:32:00.001-07:00

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...

2009-05-26T22:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-13T22:52:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-16T13:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-14T22:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-12T18:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T07:51:00.000-07:00

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

love. :).

I thank you God...

2009-04-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-03-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-03-18T16:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-04T11:02:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-03-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-25T21:04:00.000-08:00

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..."

2009-02-15T22:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-07T20:22:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-02-05T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-19T20:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Shenannigans

2008-12-28T11:39:00.001-08:00