living for the mountain

Last night I had the wonderful opportunity to hear from my friends Laura and Bryant, who recently finished the amazing feat of hiking the Appalachian Trail (or the AT, as they say) which spans 2,179 miles from Georgia to Maine.  They literally walked from one end of the country to the other, enduring torrential downpours, fierce winds, and the broiling sun along the way.  They slept in tents or wooden shelters.  They met countless insects, a rattlesnake, and beautiful, kind hearted people of the mountains.  Last night we gathered as people who love Laura and Bryant, people who were here all summer in our air-conditioned houses, wondering about the adventure our friends were living out on the AT.  Laura and Bryant put together a slideshow of pictures and video from the trail, and all of a sudden the adventure we had read about and heard about came to life before our eyes.

As the slideshow reached its dramatic finale, we watched a video clip of Laura and Bryant's final steps to the top of Mt. Katahdin, the last point on the Appalachian Trail.  As the hikers climbed, the sun also climbed the sky, spreading its warm golden red rays across the peak.  It was hard not to feel like the whole universe must have been dancing and shouting and celebrating with them, and it was hard not to feel the joy that contagiously swept across the room.  There, in a little church, a group of people got lost in Laura and Bryant's story.  When the lights came back on, we wiped the tears that had gathered in our eyes.  I think if you had invited us then to hike the AT, we would be on the next bus to Georgia.  This is what it means to be inspired.

There was one thing that Laura and Bryant said that I'll always remember.  They talked about how on the trail, you've got to be totally in the present.  You can't afford to think too far ahead or too far back.  Every day you wake up with miles before you, and a pack to carry.  Each day is its own adventure.  At any point, something could happen to bring your journey to a halt.  Snakebite.  Ankle sprain.  Infected blisters (I know, gross.)  So even though L & B had an amazing goal in mind - hiking the entire 2,179 miles to Mt. Katahdin - they knew that if the trail ended for them tomorrow, every step would still be worth it.  I couldn't help but think of the many plans I've made, the finish lines I've raced to, the carrots I've dangled in front of my face to push me on and forward.  I wondered, am I walking merely to win? Am I living for the mountain peak, the end of the trail, the accomplishment of my goals ?  Laura said she realized that if she had only been hiking to finish, she would have missed the beauty of life everyday on the trail.  When our eyes are only on the future, we miss the adventure of right now.

My friends inspired me greatly.  They inspired us all, and not to actually hike the AT.  No, last night, we were encouraged in a deeper way.  Laura and Bryant didn't want us to chase after their dream, but to pursue our own.  They challenged us to peer into our own selves and find those things that are engraved inside of us, the truths and the passions and the desires that make us come alive.  It was incredible to watch my friends in the middle of their great story, and to realize that my own story is unfolding before my feet.  So here's to blisters and rattlesnakes, shooting stars and sunrises, and all the valleys and peaks of life's journey.  I'll get to that last mountain someday, but for now, I think I'll enjoy the view from here.

a moment of silence

Life is really noisy.  We are both driven by sound and drawn to it.  An alarm clock on my phone wakes me up every morning.  ( Dun-nun-nun-nun dun-dun nun-nun-nun) The gurgling of boiling water for making coffee reminds me its time to pour my cereal.  I crunch on my Weetabix flakes while I browse my subscriptions on Google Reader, the latest Brooke Fraser album playing in the background.

I climb in the car and the engine vrooms.  For a reason unknown to me, it sometimes takes another turn of the key to get it to really start.  These days, I like NPR in the mornings, whether its commentary on US foreign policy or a side-splitting interview with David Sedaris.  I like to listen to other people's stories.  I pull up to work where the bells on the door handle jingle at my entrance...followed by hellos and friendly greetings from people huddled over paintings and craft projects.  They are chatting boisterously and listening to "Stand By You" from The Pretenders.  The printer is thinking (loudly) and the phone rings occasionally - it will be this way for the next several hours.

On the way home, the high school marching band is practicing in the parking lot.  The drumline plays a cadence as I pass, and I feel almost regal.  Remove your hats, ladies and gentleman, the president is driving by.  The dog is barking in the neighbors' yard and friends are laughing and visiting in the living room.  Even in my room, where it's only me, the fan that blows in the cool breeze from the window is putting in its two cents...click, click, click, click.  If I'm lucky enough to doze off into dreamworld, I will wake shortly to a lawnmower's roar and the blades of grass protesting their violent demise.

Later, at my parents' house, the television is on, in both the kitchen and the den, so that it's possible for Mom to watch SVU reruns and whatever awful thing being broadcasted on Headline News Channel.  The cat wants to be let out, the conductor of the nearby train is bragging of his arrival, and dinner is being prepared on the stove, where cooking onions sizzle and pop.

It's 2010 and quite possible to spend every waking moment with some kind of sound, noise, talk, or music filling your eardrums.  The world is sometimes a giant Abercrombie & Fitch store shoving a paralyzing dance beat down our throats.  Did the universe not get my message today?  Did no one read the memo?  I am looking for a little peace and quiet.  I'm on the hunt for a moment of silence, but like an endangered rare bird or mythical creature, I'm not really sure that it even exists. 

security blanket

I love the cold.

Clarification:  I do not love to BE cold.  I like knowing that it is cold outside while I am sitting or sleeping somewhere comfortably buried under layers of clothing and mountains of blankets.  I like to become a caterpillar in a cocoon of soft fabrics.

Almost everyone I know is like this.  We live in a country where one of the top selling products is something called a "Snuggie."  So why is it such a joy to the human soul to be all bundled up?  Is it a journey of sorts back to that place where we are infants and we want to be swaddled and held?  I recently watched a movie called Temple Grandin that features a LOT of cows.  I learned that there are these crazy places in America called farms, and on those farms, they have these machines that "hug" the cows and calm them down.  You would think that constricting an animal would set it off, but just the opposite.  

I can't even fall asleep without crawling under the flat sheet.  I need that magic force field that protects me from the mysterious night around my room.  When I was little I was certain that a hand or foot that slipped out from the covers would be susceptible to attack from closet-dwelling monsters (or Ursula who I knew lived in both the Little Mermaid ocean and underneath my bed).  

Even the bravest of us are no strangers to this truth.  Policeman wear a bulletproof vest.  Deep-sea shark hunters bring a cage and an oxygen tank.  And skydivers don't jump without two parachutes on their backs.  We all have our security blankets, things to wrap around our head and our heart when we feel a little chilly, when we're heading out into another brisk fall evening, walking toward the great unknown.

take me out to the ballgame

Bust out the beer and popcorn...tonight the Texas Rangers take their first ever trip to the World Series to face the Giants of San Francisco.  Something just feels right about the Rangers this year, especially because the Series is going down in Arlington.  I love baseball, and I LOVE championship games.
 
Here's to Cliff Lee, Elvis Andrus, and Bengie Molina and the rest of the boys that have quickly become America's favorite underdogs.

Go Rangers!

race day, in pictures

Every good race starts with a song.

And then the gun goes off,

 You most likely start out feeling good,

 and sometimes you have to go it alone,

 but there's a light at the end of every tunnel.

(Especially when the finish line is in view!)

 Rule number one: apply ice.

 And don't forget to celebrate with friends :)

notes on a marathon

The marathon is over.

I had been thinking about October 23rd for a very, very long time, imagining myself running along the 26.2 mile course, picturing my arms outstretched in victory at the finish.  I read a giant book about marathon running.  I asked my runner friends a gazillion questions.  I flipped through each month of Runner's World religiously, hoping to gain some help, some insight, some advice to accomplish my goal.  I followed my 18-week training schedule by the letter, never missing even a 3 miler.  I obsessed over what kind of food to eat, and when, to run my absolute best.  I went to bed on Friday nights at 9:30 and woke up on Saturdays by 5 AM.

There is no doubt in my mind that all of this tedious preparation certainly helped to usher me across the finish Saturday morning in 4 hours, 6 minutes, and 8 seconds.  But there is one ingredient in the marathon recipe I haven't mentioned yet, one that's absolutely imperative for survival.  In hindsight, I recognize that despite my discipline, regimen, schedules, and rules, what really carried my legs for 26.2 miles were the dear friends along the way.

And I do mean all along the way.  This race didn't start on October 23rd.  It started months before that.  The day I decided to train for the marathon, a whole new world opened up to me, one full of people that were on my team, that were rooting for me, that wanted more than anything to see me finish, and to finish well.  My team has all kinds of people on it, people who cooked for me, prayed for me, cheered for me, and people who listened to me talk incessantly and obsessively about running...and then of course there's the people that actually ran alongside me.

So a very loud, special, hands-in-the-air shoutout to these phenomenal folks-

• To Mom, Dad, and sweet brother Cullen for being the best race day crew I could have asked for.
• To Jeannette, Ruth, and Carrie for cheering me across the finish line!
• To Scott and Susan, who opened their home and encouraged me endlessly over the last few months.
• To my yoga class for all their well wishes, for helping me to open my heart on and off the mat
• To David, Scott, and the other guys for all the morning runs from the park.  You made me faster!
• To Team YL and  the best flipping water stop in marathon history!  (Really, who makes a tunnel?  Awesome!)
• To Janie and Allen for loving me and coaching me through in every way.  I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see them at mile 22.  Janie even ran the last miles of the marathon with me.  I wanted to stop, to cry, to collapse in a heap on the road but you helped me to breathe and to keep going.  My legs wanted to quit, but you wouldn't let me.  I will never forget it.
• To other friends and family for all your prayer and encouragement, for believing that I could do this very monumental thing.

This race does not just belong to me.  It belongs to you guys, the ones that have been with me every step of the way.  I will never be able to give you the gratitude you so deserve.  Much love to my very big big family.  Here's to the race that's behind us and to the ones still to come!

*I'll post pictures of the grand event as they become available :)

the great magnolia

Another short story attempt.  As you may know, I have a slight obsession with trees. Enjoy.

The Great Magnolia

She was leaning over the steel kitchen table, the cool metal a welcome relief from the choking heat of summer.  The girl stared down the hallway and through the open front door, propped open in hopes of inviting a breeze inside.  From here she could see across the street to the neighbor's lawn where two boys were playing catch underneath the great magnolia.  The girl had often wondered at the life of this tree, planted long before any of the homes in the neighborhood had been built.  She liked to imagine it then, a striking pale beauty against the lush greenbelt, its strong slender arms beckoning people to come and live.  On many occasions, when she passed the house, and if no one was in the yard, she would climb just high enough to pick a flower from the lowest branch.  She would hold it there in her cupped hands and gaze into the soft translucent petals.  There was an old book upstairs in her room full of her sketches of the tree in every season, but she often ripped her finished drawings furiously into tiny shreds.  She watched them fall through her fingers and and settle like pink snowflakes into the carpet.  What she wanted to capture more than anything was the way the magnolia smelled.  There was the scent of course, the subtle citrus that hovered in the air along the quiet suburban drive.  But it was more than that; it was the smell of going home, it was the fragrance of her entire life, or the parts that mattered most.  She had read in an article once about the fascinating connection between the senses and memory. She imagined a direct line from her button nose to that soft, sentimental spot of her brain where she kept her most precious images safe - her mother snapping green beans at the sink, her father tediously picking out Johnny Cash songs on his guitar, her older sister brushing out her honey-brown hair in front of the long mirror.  All she knew was that when she smelled the magnolia, her life was beautiful, frozen perfectly in time like the great tree itself.  The girl stood from the table and stepped out to the front porch.  The boys had grown bored of their game and left their baseball in the grass.  They were flying down the street on their bicycles, traveling full-speed toward their next afternoon adventure. It was quiet now.  She crossed the street and, glancing cautiously to her left and right, scaled quickly up the magnolia.  There was a spot in the very heart of the tree that felt like a chair built just for her.  The girl sat there and clutched the pink flowers in her hands.  She buried her nose deep inside until the sweet aroma became her breath, and she knew then, in the safety of her throne, that everything would be alright.  She stayed there a very long time.  Dusk came and cast an amber light on the walls of her childhood home, and she listened to the great magnolia tell the story of the girl who had grown up inside.

room for new souls

There is no heart in the universe too full.

When my life will not allow the entry,

A larger grace makes room for new souls.

I have not yet reached the limits of love

Nor do I dare to dream that I might

On this side of the river.

thirty days

Thirty days is a long time.  It's time enough to form a new habit, serve jail time with Lindsay Lohan, or grow your hair out half an inch.  In thirty days the earth will spin around thirty times, and you can sample a month of Amazon.com Prime membership (with free 2 day shipping!) at no charge.  Thirty days can turn a losing team into a winning one, a dying plant into a thriving one.

Despite all the things that can happen in a month's time, we're all aware of just how quickly the calendar's page begs to be flipped once again.  A month is nothing!  Which explains my excitement but also my anxiety when I realized yesterday that October 23rd was only thirty days away.  For those of you who have dared not to fervently follow my agenda, this date has been in my brain for most of 2010.  On October 23rd, at 7 AM, someone will fire a gun into the air and I will proceed to run for 26.2 miles.  I haven't lost my mind, but I have decided to run my first-ever marathon (which some would say are equivalent statements.)

I've been running for exercise off and on over the last 2 years, but at this point I've been specifically training for the marathon for 14 weeks.  It's been fourteen weeks of early mornings, side stitches, tight hamstrings, aching knees, blisters and hideous toenails.  But it's also been fourteen weeks of beautiful sunrises, refreshing rains, riverside trails, new friends, and surprisingly honest conversations.  It's been three months of growing stronger, running faster, trusting that the long mileage scheduled for me each Saturday morning will not only be doable, but even enjoyable!  And so my feet, which two years ago could run no further than two miles, can now carry me for at least twenty.  And in thirty days, they will carry me across a finish line that has become so much more than a mark on the road.  The summer passed before I could even wish it well, and the next month will only fly even faster.  But as I look back, I can't help but smile for how much that's happened, for how much ground I have covered.  And I know that in thirty days, when those fearsome 26.2 miles are behind me, I will have the strength to keep going, to keep growing, to keep running ahead.

to be a tree

A tree is not afraid to grow.  Beginning from a single, tiny seed, with time she towers over the world beneath her.  She puts down roots; she stretches out her legs deep underground to say, "I'm not going anywhere."  A tree is strong enough to hold climbing children and wooden forts, but flexible, yielding,  willing to bend with winds and rain.  And if she is lucky enough to have some, she doesn't cling selfishly to her fruit, but lets us pick apples from her boughs, dropping a few to the ground for hungry squirrels.  A tree is a shelter, a home to nests of bees, badgers, and birds, a safe haven for a stranded picnicker.  Her skin is tough, for she lives in the wild, you see, but underneath the defense lies soft, tender wood.  She flows with sap and water, her branches are coursing with life.  A tree doesn't raise her voice, but gently whispers with rustling leaves to her family around her.  How I would love to be like the trees that grow outside my window!  To live with grace and dignity and patience, a true observer of the natural world.  To take everything in stride without complaining, whether rain or its lack, scorching heat or chilling winters.  To know that even when my leaves are changing orange to red to brown and falling down I am beautiful beyond measure.  To stand bare and vulnerable before God and the universe for a whole season, with branches unprotected but still reaching proud and strong for the heavens.  A tree never ceases gazing upward, never hunches her shoulders.  She remembers always the green promise of springtime.  She knows she is the Queen of the woods, the backbone of the forest, the foundation of the earth.  Even when  attacked by weather or by men with axes,  she doesn't fight the death that comes to all of us.  With open arms she gives her life away, and she lives on in our dining room tables, in the soil to which she returns, in the memories of the children and lovers who danced beneath her branches.  A tree is not afraid to die, because she has known the beauty of a life truly lived.

a clean start

If you ever come over to my house, there are some things you'd learn about me right away.  You would see that while my small TV looks  like it hasn't been turned on for six months, I have books and magazines everywhere.  You'd learn that I may be the only girl on the planet with only 10 pairs of shoes.  You'd notice that I really like folk music and that I should probably dust more often (or ever).  But in all of this hypothetical inferencing, please don't let the slightly-larger-than-average pile of dirty clothes in my hamper lead you to believe that I dread doing laundry.  

The truth is, I anticipate laundry day with a subtle giddiness reminiscent of the moments preceding an Easter egg hunt.  I use this particular analogy because we all know that an Easter egg hunt isn't always profitable.  Sometimes your spoils include those real-live hard boiled eggs that have been sitting in the sun now for a few hours and have recently been discovered by ants.  Or even worse, you get the plastic eggs full of some awful candy like black licorice or the large, cheap jellybeans that may have at one point tasted like something resembling fruit.  

But then there are those sweet, rarer finds like eggs with Reese's peanut butter cups or the good jellybeans (duh, the Starburst kind) or when I was younger, the ever elusive 'golden' egg that was tediously hidden and whose contents almost always included a wadded-up twenty dollar bill.  Twenty dollars is a lot of money when you're a kid whose major purchases have a $5 ceiling.  Heck, two decades later, twenty dollars is still a lot of money...for me, anyway.

So when laundry day rolls around, there is this moment, you see, that has the potential to lift my spirits to the skies for the rest of the day.  It comes at the end of the dryer cycle, when my clothes have been tumbling around in a whirlpool of air and warmth, when the buzzer sounds and summons me from my cozy spot on the couch where I've likely been reading some intriguing story, like the one I've been devouring this week about a guy named Eustace Conway who literally lives in and off of the wilderness. After I've removed my clothes from the dryer piece by piece, tossing them into my small white basket,  I take the lint catcher from the dryer, crossing my fingers, and if I'm really lucky, then I get to do it.  I get to peel that glorious, warm, blue-grey lint from the filter in one giant piece.  It only counts if it ALL comes off in one go.  There's no going back to clean up your work.  But when this happens, I can't even really describe to you, I'm just happy.  Perhaps I'm a simple soul.  It doesn't take much to make my day.  All I know is this: there are not many things in this world that come to such a neat and tidy end.  Things get broken and shattered and people spend all their lives cleaning up the pieces and working things out the way they want them, sometimes settling for a mug that has been superglued together, though it still looks much like the original.  Sometimes we get rotten eggs and cheap jellybeans.  But every once in a while you can go to your dryer and you can peel the lint off the filter in one swoop, and for that moment it feels as though everything has always been and will always be clean, fresh, simple.

ready, set, go.

For the last two Fridays, I've been taking care of two little boys in San Antonio.  It's actually been a while since I had a babysitting gig, which is funny, because I can remember a time when it's literally all I ever did.  I'm pretty sure I was making more money at it than I do now, too, but that's another story.

The boys and I decided the only thing possible to do on a near-fatal, triple-digit high, summer day like today was to hit the pool.  So, I took them to their grandfather's house where they could take turns doing cannonballs off the diving board.  My only rules: no running, and don't kill each other.  When the boys had their fill of breath-holding competitions and seeing who could touch the bottom, we sat in pool chairs beneath large shade trees.  Their grandfather's house is near the airport, so every few minutes a giant jetliner roared over our heads and off to some unknown destination.

"Where is that plane going?" I would ask, to which Nick replied, "Mexico!"
"And that one?"  "Australia!!"
Our game continued, and as we listed off exotic and not-so-exotic (such as Nebraska?) destinations, that little cauldron of restlessness began to stir within me.  I found myself wishing I was onboard one of these great, silver birds, off to start a new adventure in a place I've never been.  I imagined a different existence for myself, that I was some illustrious jet-setter, skipping wildly from continent to continent like some giant game of hopscotch.  A citizen of the world, the edges of my passport frayed with use, its pages giving clues to the scenery of my life.  I allowed myself to get lost in this dream for a while.

But like all dreams worth having, I faded slowly back into reality.  The boys had grown bored sitting in chairs and were now begging me for the ice cream that had been promised to them.  "Now can we have ice cream, Taylor?  Now??"  Their dream was so much different than mine, and so much more attainable!  If only world travel were as easy as reaching into the freezer, scooping up a foreign language here, a new culture there, with all the sights and sounds and smells sprinkled wonderfully on top...

Yes, I feel ready for some kind of journey.  Though I feel mine will traverse the human spirit rather than the globe.  The miles I travel will not take me overseas but into new territories of the heart.  There will still be customs to go through, and I will surely get lost, frustrated with myself, even overwhelmed at times.  But every voyage worth taking is difficult (thank God!) or else we'd return with pretty pictures yet no stories,  with suntanned skin but an unchanged heart.  I want to discover real beauty, the kind that pierces you, disables you, then transforms you from the inside out.  I've already left, you see, and I'm on a plane of a different kind.  I'm taking off into a hot summer day, my engines roaring loudly to remind restless citizens below that we were all born to fly.

P.S.  Check out this song by Andrew Peterson called "World Traveler."  He says it much more beautifully than I do :)

breaking news

I shall take a break from my usual fare to announce that I have already decided what I'm going to be for Halloween 2010 and it's going to be EPIC.

Well, I don't know if EPIC is the right word, but certainly sensational.  Google Images is an incredible costume-planning tool.

Carry on,
Taylor

take off your shoes

Sanctuary (n): a consecrated place; a center of refuge and protection.  Derived from the Latin word "sanctus" which means holy (sanctus is the word that the angels, upon seeing the very glory of God, call to one another in Isaiah's vision.)  A sanctuary, then, is literally holy ground, a place belonging to the Divine, a spot where heaven and earth kiss one another.

I'm remembering now a handful of places I've had the pleasure of visiting in my lifetime - places, which seemed to me then and even now, to be holy ground.  One is a small summer camp off River Road, where as a kid I spent one week every July that I dreamed about for the other fifty-one.  A rock on the coast of British Columbia where you can watch real bald eagles swoop down to catch salmon out of the inlet.  A sprawling, lush green field beneath the red brick clock tower.  A café in Paris where I spent hours and hours with three friends I will cherish for a lifetime.  One is a house that's always full of children, teenagers, college students, and a lot of other people who come in and out on a regular basis.  And one is a simple room with hardwood floors, the windows open like kind eyes to the river and town below.  

These places are not sacred to me for aesthetic reasons, though some possess beauty beyond description.  It seems to be much more about what happened within.  They are the setting for my story and the context of my growing up.   If life is a play, then the script gives meaning to the scene, and not the other way around.  And so my sanctuaries are bowls full of rain that hold the things important enough to remember, to cherish, to cling to.  Without the water, all that remains is an empty piece of clay. 

I like to come back to these places sometimes when I'm lying in my bed or driving my car or waiting in line.  I like the power of remembering that I have felt real Glory and Wonder, whether in the deep blue of staggering mountains or a warm conversation with a beautiful soul.  I have called out, like Isaiah's angels, to the world around me - holy, holy, holy!  I have stood in awe.  And while I am sometimes saddened that I will never physically return to some of my old "sanctuaries", there is also the sure promise that my feet will again tread on holy ground.  I'm not done taking off my shoes, not even close.

a rude awakening

Today I opened my door to the rising sun, my legs ready to carry me down to the park, but my plans were soon interrupted (and most violently.)

The very thing that took the sleepy smile from my face was so small, it's laughable now.  A wasp, a wicked yellow jacket bent to ruin my first waking hours...he was just a few inches long, easily crushed with a deft maneuver of a tightly rolled newspaper.  But I did not have a newspaper.

Nor did I even see him coming, me emerging from my house, and he from his - a sand-dollar sized nest hanging from the door frame.  I am convinced the act may have even been premeditated, so swift his nose-dive to where I stood below, so calculating his attack just below my right eyeball.

My first thoughts:  I am now blind.  My eye is gone and only pain is left where it used to sit so nicely in my head.  Cue obscenities.

My next, less dramatic thoughts:  "How rude!"  And I do feel it was quite inconsiderate.  After all, I had noticed his nest before, but having heard that wasps are the natural predators of other annoying insects, I left it well alone.  I resolved to live in my house and let he and his friends live in theirs.  It was very progressive of me.  Despite my compassion and open-mindedness, that little stinker still stung me.

And that's when it hit me.  Sometimes I am sweet as can be, and I still get stung.  I might sow kind words, good deeds, positive thoughts but reap a rude gesture from a stranger, a painful wound from a friend, or a harsh "no" to a simple request.  I don't always get what I deserve.  Thank goodness for that, because it goes both ways.  Most often if I look hard enough, it turns out I'm usually the yellow jacket...stinging when I shouldn't, becoming aggressive and defensive toward people who aren't a threat to me at all.  But I wake up every morning and the sun is still shining and I still have friends who choose to be near me and a family who somehow still claims me (though they are most often my victims).  There is still the life-changing, heart-breaking truth of knowing that even though I'm a wasp, I'm surrounded on all sides by love.  I float in an ocean of it - a deep sea of grace in which my poison is powerless.

I don't know what happened to the yellow jacket who stung me.  If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him that I get it.  I, too, have wounded without reason.  I'd tell him to be thankful that we don't get always get what we want, or what we deserve.  For though we say we want a world of justice, what we both want more than anything, is mercy.

into other houses

I am often overwhelmed at the great privilege it is to really know another human being.  It's to hear someone's stories, to look through a person's eyes as if they were windows into other houses.  When I listen to the hearts of my friends, it's as if I get to see the way they've arranged the furniture there inside.  At first, I notice how distinct it is from my own -- the differing colors, styles and uses of rooms.  Some homes are far finer and more lovely than mine.  But then, I catch a glimpse of something shared.  It could be, perhaps, a book which resides in both our libraries,  a dress hanging in both our closets,  a smell from the kitchen of my favorite food cooking or a familiar song playing in the background- a tune I thought that only I loved.

This is the place where real friendship is ignited.  We discover at first a mutual love of some thing, some hobby, some place.  And before much time has passed, we realize that what we have really come to love is not just a person's intersecting interests but the very person herself.  

I have much to be joyful about tonight.

"Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one."

C.S. Lewis

elephant tales

This morning, my friend Ray told me a story about elephants.

He said that when an elephant is very young, its trainer tethers him to the ground. Small and weak, he is unable to break the hold of even a simple rope.  He struggles and struggles against it to no avail.

Spending his entire youth pulling and fighting a rope that won't give, the elephant becomes adjusted to his life in captivity.  As the years pass, he grows much bigger and stronger.  He towers over his trainer.  He is a fierce and mighty creature.

But though the elephant now weighs several tons, though he possesses the power to trample everything around him, he remains tethered to the ground.  He remembers the years of struggling against his rope, knows too well the feeling of failure that accompanied his every attempt to break from captivity.  He will never run free.  He will never exercise the sheer power he was born to display.  He could be a force to be reckoned with.  Sadly, the elephant looks to his feet and sees a rope that is stronger than he is.

By now it should be fairly obvious that we have much in common with our elephant friend.  If we look to the ground, we will see the fears that keep us "tethered" in place, incapable of moving forward, blindly unaware of the great strength and purpose for which we were designed.  We are wild animals!  We want to play in rivers, run through plains, and let out our savage trumpet calls for the world to hear.  But with powerless chains around our ankles, we settle for the peanuts thrown at us when we perform our cheap circus tricks.

It seems the only answer is to never stop struggling against the rope.  There will be times when it will seem to defeat us, or moments when the memories of our failings weaken our resolve.  But I know in my soul the victory that awaits us when we believe more in our futures than our histories.  We will feel the strength in our legs and the grit in our hearts.  Here's to the struggle my friends, and here's to that place we will meet together one day, where elephants go to do all of the things elephants should.  Where we will run and shout and holler and be free and wild.

morning mantras

The clock sounds at 6:15 AM...the infrared blinking brightly into my vision.  The harsh tone of my alarm is unforgiving, and the only thing in my life that is never running late.  I splash water in my face and throw on track shorts and a T-shirt.  I've done well if I've laid these things out the night before.  Otherwise, I stare at my dresser for a solid 3 minutes before my brain connects to my hands to tell them where my clothes are.  I lace up my shoes, throw my hair blindly into a messy ponytail and I am out the door.  By now, it's 6:30.  The soft, natural light of the new morning makes everything right.  There is a a pink sun in the sky spreading warmth into the night's dark blue that coaxes my sleepy eyes to attention.  There is a song floating above the trees, a symphony of bird calls and cicada rhythms falls softly on my ears.  My once-aching legs quickly fall into step.  As the sun climbs higher to its perch overhead, my heart lifts upward.  I look forward to the sight of my neighbor who will be out walking her three dogs and the gentle roar of the springs feeding the river as I descend down the hill.  Any notion that I am the only one sweating it out this early disappears as the park is already full of cyclists, joggers, swimmers, and walkers that have all gathered here for the same purpose.  We are all singing the same morning song.  We are celebrating that mysterious wonder of these early hours when all seems possible.  The day is open to a thousand destinations.  We have put yesterday's hurts behind us to embrace a refreshed heart and a renewed spirit.  With every stride, every stroke, every leap forward on the path, we are shouting in unison that Yes! Today, we will be different.  We will listen more.  We will love better.  We will raise our voices in song instead of anger.  We will lose ourselves in true Beauty instead of vanity.  We will read the books waiting on our shelves, plan the trips postponed for several years and call the old friends whose familiar hellos can soothe our souls.  This evening, with our televisions turned off, we will eat our suppers to the sound of stories from our family.  And yes, we might leave our dishes in the sink.  We might realize an errand we've forgotten to run.  We might not avoid every annoyance, every pain, every wound that the world can inflict.  But as the moon hangs in the nighttime sky, long after we have returned from the path that brings us together this morning in the park, we will rest in the knowing that yes! Today, we were different.

love on yourself a little

A few weeks ago, I took a trip to Naples, Florida.  I've flown so much that I hardly pay any attention to the pre-flight safety schpeel from the attendant, but I always find myself pondering the oxygen mask part.  Should the air situation in the cabin become a bit dodgy, and should I find myself seated next to a small child or some other being needing assistance, I must ensure that I attach my own mask first.  Then I can go ahead and help my little buddy next to me.  Now, wait a second, this doesn't seem to fit my idea of an act of selflessness, heroism, even.  I'm confused.  Shouldn't I think of others before myself?

Last month I posted about a particularly wonderful day that I had...one in which I got to do nearly all of my favorite things.  Today I find myself in a similar posture.  Today I've enjoyed a jog with a great friend, my favorite drink from Starbucks (Americano with a splash of half & half, please!), and the purchase of a few new additions to the wardrobe.  Now, I find myself resting with a magazine on a ridiculously comfortable couch, and feeling above all things, thankful.  I've noticed on these days when I'm a little kinder to myself, I seem to have more kindness left to give to the people living life around me.  Rather than scraping the bottom of the jar for sweet words to say, it feels as though they come spilling over the top.  The more I love on myself a bit, the more inclined I am to love on my family, my friends, my neighbors, even strangers.

It seems that the same rule that applies in the cabin of an airplane applies in the little town in whose streets I jog around, go to work, do my shopping, etc.  While I can't get a pedicure every week, or always have time to take a long stroll to the coffee shop, it helps to nurture myself every once in a while. Even if it's just a moment in the busy day to stop.  And breathe.  I've got to remember, like I do in mid-flight, that if I have any hope of bringing life to the people around me, I've got to let it come inside my own lungs first.

caught in the downpour

About two times a week, I go to yoga class pretty close to my house.  That being said, I often enjoy walking the 1.5 miles each way.  The stroll gives me a chance to clear my head before all that stretching...by the time class is over, the sun is setting and I head home in the coolness of the summer evening.

On this particular night, I emerged from our practice feeling quite refreshed - strong, tall (which is a big deal for me) and my heart open to the night before me.  I could see that some dark clouds were looming in the sky a ways off, but still I turned down several offers for a ride home.  "I like the walk," I answered, and set out for home.

A few minutes down the road I heard the first rumbles of thunder.  I lifted my gaze upward, where the dark clouds had drifted directly over me.  I lengthened my stride and quickened my pace, certain that I could beat the impending storm to my front door.  A wind began to blow fiercely, carrying with it the scent of wet pavement.  I knew then that I'd lost my race with the weather.  I didn't even make it down the hill before the clouds opened up, dumping sheets and sheets of soft, cool rain.

 Sometime in the thirty seconds it took to soak me to the bone, I started laughing.  It was the sound that comes from a place of authentic joy, not a chuckle meant to please a friend, but a real, genuine laughter.  I turned my palms upward, collecting the rain falling all around me.  In this moment, each drop was a gift from Heaven itself.  Cars zoomed by me, no doubt questioning my sanity as they raced to their warm, dry homes, yet I walked on.

If I had paid attention to the signs, I might have stayed dry tonight.  If I had checked the weather, listened to the thunder, let a friend drive me home from class, then my shoes would not be now sitting on the front porch filled with water.  But I also wouldn't have remembered how to really laugh.  I wouldn't have seen that the dark skies which should frighten me brought instead a moment I'll never forget.  The rain tonight was not unlike the blessings that shower us most days, when Love hangs over our heads like clouds ready to burst.  I suspect that they are up there whispering to each other, praying to find us with our guards down, our umbrellas tucked away at home.  It's my hope that you and I, walking around this world of ours, will get caught in that downpour.

back to my roots

If I am getting back to my roots, I pray deeply that this is the tree that is growing.

an advent

upcoming moments I'm excited about, in order of chronology and not greatness:

• the fourth of July, picnics and classic New Braunfels fireworks
• celebrating Meghan on her birthday
• celebrating our friends at RCA with their very own party
• singing with Janie on the sidewalk for First Friday
• watching Molly and Brent tie the knot
• visiting my sister and her beautiful family in Florida
• trip to Boston (and finding boat shoes to accent my crisp white button down and Wayfarers)

It has truly been a "summer of action."  I am loving every second of spending time with new buddies and dear old friends.  Living the way I (and many others) have been, seizing the opportunity to turn ordinary days into forever memories -- it's contagious and addictive!  Here's hoping that the action continues, long after the leaves have fallen from the tree outside my window.

critic or creator?

Today I keep having these moments where my own hypocrisy slaps me in the face, a figurative kick in the stomach that knocks the wind straight out of me. As a man I deeply respect says often, "It seems I want mercy for myself, but justice for my enemies." I want to be forgiven when I screw everything up, but I want everyone else to get their act together. I want to be loved the way I am, but expect my friends and family to be moral superheroes. What's with me sometimes?


It's much easier to be the critic than the creator. One sits back and judges the works of men, the other actually holds the stuff of life in his hands. He shapes and forms and directs, animating words on a page or colors on a canvas to become a powerful medium of human truth and emotion. There is no risk for the critic, no one threatening his eagle-eye view. He's not making anything, after all, and at the end of the day no one will hold him accountable for his opinions. For the creator, however, a great deal is at stake - career, reputation, integrity, and probably most vulnerable of all, his sense of worth of an artist. Yet for the same reason that the creator has much to lose, he also has everything to gain.


Most of us are skilled critics, full of scathing reviews and unforgiving evaluations, longing all the while to make a great masterpiece of our own. And as it turns out, when we try our hand at being the creator, taking the "stuff of life" in our hands, we become kinder to those doing the same. And at night, that time of day when our heads used to swirl with words of judgment, they now sink like anchors to our pillows. We sleep, and we smile, because today we have made something. We have risked it all, and tomorrow we will do it all again.

gravestones roll to the rhythm and the sound of you

why don't I live here?

Manarola, Italy

bon anniversaire

I like birthdays. A lot. I triple love love love them.  And why shouldn't I?  It's an occasion to celebrate!  It's one day out of the year when we think a little less about what we should do and more about what we really want.  Maybe it's selfish of me, but on my birthday I'm a little more likely to answer a phone call from an old friend, take the long way to work, accept a compliment, and linger over a nice dinner. Something in a birthday makes me feel as if each moment were a penny in my pocket.  I like to feel the weight of them all in my hands, hear the sound they make as they rub together.  These moments are waiting to be lived like my pennies are waiting to be tossed into fountains, each with a wish on my lips.  What if we grabbed on to every day this way - as if it were my birthday, and yours?  Would we celebrate each other with kind words and thoughtful gifts?  Would we splurge on dessert?  Would we wake up to realize that living, and truly living, is the best present we could have ever asked for - the opportunity to enjoy our beautiful world, to genuinely love all who dwell in it, to adventure into unknown territories, and to become the people we've always wanted to be?

i dare you to sing as loud as you can

This day is one for the books.  I'm staying this weekend at my dear friends' house, who have entrusted me with their home and two lovely dogs.  Even though it's just down the road, I decided I'd let myself do nearly all of my favorite things and write it off as a summer va-ca.

1. Woke up early to coffee and the New York Times (I had my pick, too.  These guys have more printed pages than the Library of Congress)
2. Jogged through the park to an early class at Villa Sartain.  I hate to sound so new agey but yoga is seriously changing my life.
3. Walked Churchill to the NB Farmer's Market where I filled my tote with portabellas, sweet blackberries, and a summer favorite- peaches.  It's easy to 'bite off more than I can chew' at the FM...good thing I only had a twenty.
4. Enjoyed a lunch and iced tea in the kitchen as the afternoon light danced across the table.
5. The alone time gave me the rare opportunity to play my guitar and sing my favorite songs at an unreasonable volume. Have you ever sung something as loud as you possibly can?  Recommended.
6. Afternoon siesta. No alarms, no problem.
7. Now I'm blogging, which is a newer joy...who knew this would become a place I'd love to visit?

Soon I'll pick up some hamburger buns and head to my parents' up the street.  Tonight we're grilling burgers (and of course the portabellas!)  I'm glad for this kind of finale.  Even on a perfect day, when I get to do all my favorites, it's good to hear the sound of other people, with their own lives, and their own favorite things.  I like how we mix together in this wonderful Cobb salad kinda way, tossed around until you couldn't imagine the ingredients in any other combination. I think I'll make them play Scrabble.

I'll have the wisdom for lunch, with a side of urgency

Chewing on this today:

"Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours." 

C.S. Lewis

“Do not think that love in order to be genuine has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired. Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.”

Mother Teresa

Bon appetit.

wake up, oh sleeper

I believe that beauty can wake up a sleeping soul.  Art can move the waters of a still spirit.  Our physical senses are magically connected to our hearts within us, so that the reversed image of a sunset on our retinas brings peace to the mind.  The smell of onions cooking in a pan reminds us we have a family.  And when we lean in and listen to the stories of others, it awakens the enduring Story, the one that started long before we began to breathe and will continue long after we've stopped.

The three videos I've posted below help me find the place where I'm most alive.  They are life-giving, inspiring, beautiful, and sometimes sad.  I hope you'll "lean in and listen" to the stories they tell.

road trip!

Headed to Phoenix for a week.  Triple-digit highs.  Controversial immigration reform.  A recently defeated top scoring NBA team.  What's not to love?  This will be my first time to Arizona, and it will take quite some willpower not to roll all the windows down and crank "Take it Easy" down I-10.

See ya later, alligator.

un morceau de nostalgie (piece of nostalgia)

One year ago I awoke in Paris-
The city of lights.
I can still smell nutella crepes
And roasted lamb rising
From tired street vendors.

I still hear the metro's bells and
The excited chatter of
Schoolchildren with a summer before them.

I am still lost in winding alleys and magnificent avenues.
Still standing on stone bridges
To see if perhaps,
I dropped my heart in the Seine.

of tin roofs and thunderstorms

Tonight, the sky fills my eyes with the brightest flashes of lightning.  With every deep, deliberate roll of thunder it seems to be clearing its throat, begging for attention.  A tin roof has always been the perfect stage for raindrops to play, and I find myself somehow lying in bed with an orchestra seat.  Yielding to the great storm's majesty, I shut my book and switch off the lamp.  Its soft glow flees slowly from my room.  The evening takes over.

The night, already mysterious, becomes almost magical in a summer thunderstorm, as if somewhere in the hills a young magician had stumbled upon his father's workshop.  I always enjoy the results of his fortunate discovery, the blinding cracks of lightning, the thunder's earth-trembling response.  Each exchange instills in me both fear and wonder, and I am a little girl again.  Tonight, the gentle rain is my mother.  She sings me a lullaby that only the two of us know, and at once we are dancing - she on the rooftop and I in half-dreaming.  She is a far better dancer than I but applauds with every twirl and leap I attempt.  She takes a final bow and her hand covers my face to coax my stubborn eyes to close.  Somewhere in the hills, the little magician must have heard her song and drifted off.  Perhaps later, his father came in and found him there sleeping, his little fingers still clutching his toys.  As he walked to his workshop that night he had imagined how he would scold the boy, how he would punish his childish rebellion.  Now he only looked down at his little son and wondered of his dreams, scooping him up in his arms to carry him back to his safe, warm room.

The night settles in, the earth becomes still.  In the morning, sunlight will dry the traces of the evening's masterpiece.  I will rise to receive the gift of another living day, and somewhere in the hills, the little magician will plan his next performance.

skin deep

I never judge a book by its cover, but almost always a wine by its label.  Saw these two very cool bottles today at the Huisache when I picked up my spinach salad to-go.

a borrowed vessel

There is no frigate like a book 

To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page 

Of prancing poetry.

-Emily Dickinson-

One of life's simple pleasures is a visit to the public library - the smell of yellowing books, the quiet whisper of pages turning, old and young alike absorbed in the Great Story, their bodies sinking into chairs in an act of surrender.  Today I am looking for one work in particular, that being F. Scott Fitzgerald's renown tale of love and the American Dream.  Today I will stand in line waiting for the beep of the librarian scanning my membership card.  I will tell her thank you as she gives me fourteen days to get lost in the Roaring Twenties, the era of The Great Gatsby.  Flapper skirts and economic prosperity - this will be my world until I return my treasure or extend the vacation another two weeks.  As I let my heart and mind set sail on a borrowed vessel, I know I am bound for deeper waters.

destination: hamburg | be the composer

Across the sea lies the city of Hamburg, Germany, home to 1.8 million people - the second largest city in Germany.  A mecca of breathtaking architecture and cultural sophistication, Hamburg is also home to 2,302 bridges - more than than the city of Venice.

Though I've never ventured within its limits, my recent travels on the world wide web have pulled back the drapes on the window to this fair city.  Sounds of Hamburg, an interactive site that uses Flash animation and an impressive system of live webcams, challenges YOU to be the composer.  You can assign different instruments (strings, woodwinds, horns, etc.) to spaces, vehicles and people on Hamburg's bustling squares and roadways.  

Altogether, it's a beautiful and creative way to experience one of Europe's real treasures from afar.  (And certainly a more constructive use of time than Farmville.)  Go forth, young Beethovens, and let Germany become your orchestra.

life in "colour"

Knowing what is right is like deep water in the heart;
   a wise person draws from the well within. 

-the MESSAGE-

the long ride home

Thirty miles of smooth black interstate lie between New Braunfels and Kyle, Texas (home of the outdoor superstore Cabela's, among other things.)  I luckily had the trusted companion of my Patsy Cline Definitive Collection to fill the silent spaces of my Camry.  Two tracks in, a feeling began to sink into my bones until I could feel the weight of it.  My sleepy eyes filled with tears, and I recognized it at once as loneliness.  A bit strange, because there aren't many moments of my day when I'm not with someone else.  I'm no hermit.

I wondered if maybe this was coming not out of a lack of company, but out of a growing hunger for True intimacy.  

We saw a glimpse of this last night - the long anticipated LOST finale contained some of the most beautiful scenes of television I've ever witnessed.  I watched in awe as each character, stuck in a mediocre existence, was awakened by the touch of real love.  When face-to-face with the person who knew and loved them to the core, they were forced to realize the life they were made for and the people they were destined to become.

Priest and writer Henri Nouwen  wrote "the wound of loneliness is like the Grand Canyon – a deep incision in the surface of our existence which has become an inexhaustible source of beauty and self-understanding."  Perhaps if we let ourselves, every once in a while, explore the depth of that canyon, if we do not chase away the moments in the car when heaviness lays upon us, then we will really discover the heart in us created for relationship.  There is a spirit in each of us that yearns to be known and be loved to the fullest measure.  Yes, I think that it is only from the depth of the canyon that we can truly see the height of the mountains ahead.

you will know a tree by its fruit

Some days are like big, bright oranges.  I tasted one yesterday, which from start to finish was sweet and wonderful, perfectly ripe, and a signal that a terrific summer is about to unfold.  And if yesterday were an orange, then we didn't leave a single ounce to waste!

The recipe for such a lovely day was nothing out of the ordinary.  It started with a slow morning, drinking coffee and reading the news from under my comforter.  It's the best way to wake up.  By the time you leave to face the world, you're ready for it. I decided I was ready for action, and went for a quick run through the canyon which has never stopped being beautiful no matter how many times I pass through it.  

A visit with Meghan and Susan to the outlet mall (and my favorite store) yielded three great finds, including a dress for the summer wedding season.  We braved the unknown and tried a restaurant we had never been to- the Root Cellar Cafe - downtown.  After somehow choosing from the impressive menu (that had me wanting breakfast, lunch, AND dinner) we enjoyed our black bean burger, our homemade quiche, and our spinach alfredo.  And as you do with great friends, we sat around the table long after the last bite was eaten, talking about everything and lingering in the richness of the afternoon.  (Or were we too full to move? I'm not sure which...)

The evening brought me to Fiesta Lanes for RCA's first bowling night.  Despite the fact that I'm a lousy bowler and look clownish in those rented shoes, I had a ball (and not just the hot pink, swirly 8-pound variety.)  A great turnout of RCA family and friends plus some good old-fashioned guy-girl competition made for a huge success.  Hats off to Meghan with an impressive 134 and Bryan with a whopping 210.  We filled the bowling alley with the real, unadulterated laughter that comes from genuine joy.  

The day subsided with an evening outside.  The boys fired up the grill for a late dinner of ribs, roasted corn, and such.  And though we questioned how ribs could take nearly 2 hours to cook, I didn't mind one bit.  I looked around me and saw beautiful people I love dearly, who bring out the best in me, who have allowed me to look at the life I've built here and say, like a big, bright orange, that I want to savor every bite.  

adventures in verse, part 1

Night is Over, an original poem

Before I saw the sun, I listened to its stories

And painted best I could imagined rays

That illuminated dreaming.

I read of how the Great Light sank slowly into evening

And wept as Mary for a sleeping Lazarus

For days that would never be.

In sorrow, I did not go on

But put down the page and forgot

As the earth was swallowed up by night.

The darkness turned my hope to horror

And where I trusted grew choking thorns.

At last my eyes succumbed to fitful sleep.

I woke in seasons, not at once, to touch-

A warmth that started in my cheeks and spread

Did not leave but stayed to dwell beneath my skin.

Finally opened eyes turned up to find the spring

And soft light fell on the story's end.

The sun that I feared dead had climbed the stars;

My life lived underground now lost in golden seas.

Though mourning still his evening absence,

Each morning Love comes forth to sing.

jamie oliver hits the nail on the TED...i mean, the head

the world, it's a little one

This month, Real Simple came out with an entire issue dedicated to organization.  Thats 276 (beautifully) printed pages instructing us how to tidy up our lives.  Get rid of the clutter.  10 Steps To A More Efficient Life.  The kitchen I worked one summer had a saying, "Everything has a place, and everything in its place."  It seems the world is forever telling us that we should find a special drawer for everything, lest a pesky red sock turn all our towels a terrible pink.

I can't help but wonder if this translates to the world outside our kitchens and bathrooms.  Have we learned to compartmentalize our entire lives?  In the mornings we leave our homes to go to work or school...that's business time.  When we return we make dinner and talk about our day...that's family time.  On the weekends we might make special plans to go into the city with a group (fun time) and some of us spend Sunday mornings in a church (that's God time).  See what I mean?  Most of our lives could be graphed on a pie chart with no interaction from slice to slice.  Every once in a while we get really worried that maybe the slices aren't even the right size.  It's a problem.

My life doesn't look so neat and tidy.  The people I work with in both of my jobs are also my friends, and half of them are related to one another.  One guy who shares office space with us I've known since I was fourteen and lived with his family for a time.  If my life was a desk drawer, you'd always be looking for the scotch tape.  But its always interesting.  That's what happens when you let people out of their manila folders, when you mix the white laundry in with the dark  - you find that your life is surprisingly more colorful than you thought possible.

Today, my friend Angelina was telling me about going into what she thought was a random new coffeeshop to discuss putting up her paintings.  She quickly discovered that she had met the girl working behind the counter at a Poetry Night we had a few months ago, and that another guy there was the brother-in-law of my boss (and the son of my pastor, yes, confusing!) She laughed at the connection and said, in her beautiful way of speaking, "you know the world, it's a little one!"  It seems the smaller my world gets, the more strangers seem like neighbors and my friends seem like family.