Really. Does it get any better than Van Morrison? Hmm. For now, let's go with no.
I said goodbye to The Carlton yesterday afternoon (approximately 4:23 p.m., PST). I took pictures (front of The Carlton, Rachael in The Carlton, Rachael's feet in The Carlton, view of Lake Union from #204, etc.) It is the first time since I graduated that I felt sad about leaving a place. I loved, loved, loved living alone. It was, by far (and so far) my favorite living experience.
So now. I live in Ravenna/Sandpoint and have three roommates. They are fabulous and the house is huge and lovely and I have a near perfect room with white wood-paneled walls and windows and a separate dressing room/closet. There is a silly dog and huge kitchen and a fireplace. It is far more quiet and I no longer have the bright lights of the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance spilling into my apartment at all hours of the day. I don't have a water view, but I am within walking distance of Third Place Books and don't have to use sticky-tack to hang artwork up. All good things.
So, while I am a little heartbroken from having to leave my adorable little studio with its exposed brick walls (perfection) and hardwood floors, I am already feeling very at home at the new house. I am surrounded by my 500 books, the best-smelling and softest bedding in existence, and Van Morrison. That, and I've already entertained twice: dinner and brunch. Not something that is easy to do in 416 sq. feet of space.
So, here's to moving. And saving money. And communal living.
Cheers.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
This is what it means to say, “I’m home.”
How strange it is to feel at home in yourself. In the past, there have been times that I’ve been so struck by this feeling -- to feel alive and complete in the blissful aloneness of the self –- that it makes me light-headed and disoriented. As I’m always on the hunt for adding corniness to my life, I would say that this feeling causes me to stand, with open arms, and say, with a breathy sigh, “This is life.” What is life, really? Serendipitous moments of glee and heartbreak, a weather-beaten journey of loneliness and love and the discovery of peace.
It is awful sometimes, this life. We break and burn and starve our bodies in order to somehow obtain a level of physical satisfaction that someone, somewhere told us was not only obtainable but a necessity. We toil and twist our souls, our minds so that they reflect a perfect balance of decisiveness and open-minded reflection. And for what? So that we can fit in. Find a group of people who make us feel comfortable and safe and not alone. What does it mean to be at home in yourself and then (!) seek out those fellow seekers of the truth that sets men and women free, and of the peace that passes all understanding? What does it mean to say, “I’m home.” to yourself? To the creative spirit that was gloriously made in the sight of the Trinity?
These moments, which I look back on with the same longing I have from never going to sleep-away summer camp, are miss-able. They buzz past you, thisclose, just touching your left ear, like the summer dragonfly. If you listen closely, you can hear the buzz of past happiness, of past comfort, with the scent of home lingering on your shoulders like a freshly-washed beach towel wrapped around the torso. (My home smells like lilacs in mid-May.) Here, after the fall, the miss-ability of “at home” moments is excusable, rather than craved. It is far, far, far too easy to tell yourself that you are lucky to experience the fleeting moments of a fullness of peace. My personal motto is, “Why settle for glass-half-full when you can have free refills?” Indeed. Why must we settle for second-rate happiness? For happenstance and every-once-in-a-while joy?
At what point along the road did we allow ourselves to settle for second-rate living?
This weekend brought forth several moments that are beautiful in their ability to force one to consider this “at-home” notion: Skipping down the street with friend in Pioneer Square, our stomachs full of Krispy Kreme donuts, talking about God and men and hope. The unconditional love of a dog, a pure example, albeit a very small fraction, of God’s love for His Creation. The face of my Mom, gorgeous and rested in her skin, watching me as I drove away from my childhood home. My mom is the ultimate example of what it means to call yourself “home”. To be fully vested in the relationship one has with Abba, Father and the relationship one has with herself. She is a miracle.
I wonder -- at what point during the creation of man did God decide to give us the ability to love? From the minute amount that I know about the Father, I can only imagine He was crying through copious laughter, knowing what He was getting us into. The ability to love – and be loved (not to sound like the dénouement from Moulin Rouge) – isn’t that enough to have us ache, crave first-rate living? To seek innocence (more on this later), joy and freedom? And, love, of course. Love is what started it all. And love is what allows us to feel at home in ourselves. To be comfortable and at peace in the skin, blood and bones that God provided for us.
In such bliss, yet with an absolute knowledge of pain, comes not necessarily a new way of life, but, and perhaps more importantly, a new understanding of the senses and what it means to use them to their full extent.
To you all, summer is the perfect time to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It infuses the power of sight unlike any other piece of prose I have ever read.
Summery, blissful blessings to you, my dear friends.
It is awful sometimes, this life. We break and burn and starve our bodies in order to somehow obtain a level of physical satisfaction that someone, somewhere told us was not only obtainable but a necessity. We toil and twist our souls, our minds so that they reflect a perfect balance of decisiveness and open-minded reflection. And for what? So that we can fit in. Find a group of people who make us feel comfortable and safe and not alone. What does it mean to be at home in yourself and then (!) seek out those fellow seekers of the truth that sets men and women free, and of the peace that passes all understanding? What does it mean to say, “I’m home.” to yourself? To the creative spirit that was gloriously made in the sight of the Trinity?
These moments, which I look back on with the same longing I have from never going to sleep-away summer camp, are miss-able. They buzz past you, thisclose, just touching your left ear, like the summer dragonfly. If you listen closely, you can hear the buzz of past happiness, of past comfort, with the scent of home lingering on your shoulders like a freshly-washed beach towel wrapped around the torso. (My home smells like lilacs in mid-May.) Here, after the fall, the miss-ability of “at home” moments is excusable, rather than craved. It is far, far, far too easy to tell yourself that you are lucky to experience the fleeting moments of a fullness of peace. My personal motto is, “Why settle for glass-half-full when you can have free refills?” Indeed. Why must we settle for second-rate happiness? For happenstance and every-once-in-a-while joy?
At what point along the road did we allow ourselves to settle for second-rate living?
This weekend brought forth several moments that are beautiful in their ability to force one to consider this “at-home” notion: Skipping down the street with friend in Pioneer Square, our stomachs full of Krispy Kreme donuts, talking about God and men and hope. The unconditional love of a dog, a pure example, albeit a very small fraction, of God’s love for His Creation. The face of my Mom, gorgeous and rested in her skin, watching me as I drove away from my childhood home. My mom is the ultimate example of what it means to call yourself “home”. To be fully vested in the relationship one has with Abba, Father and the relationship one has with herself. She is a miracle.
I wonder -- at what point during the creation of man did God decide to give us the ability to love? From the minute amount that I know about the Father, I can only imagine He was crying through copious laughter, knowing what He was getting us into. The ability to love – and be loved (not to sound like the dénouement from Moulin Rouge) – isn’t that enough to have us ache, crave first-rate living? To seek innocence (more on this later), joy and freedom? And, love, of course. Love is what started it all. And love is what allows us to feel at home in ourselves. To be comfortable and at peace in the skin, blood and bones that God provided for us.
In such bliss, yet with an absolute knowledge of pain, comes not necessarily a new way of life, but, and perhaps more importantly, a new understanding of the senses and what it means to use them to their full extent.
To you all, summer is the perfect time to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It infuses the power of sight unlike any other piece of prose I have ever read.
Summery, blissful blessings to you, my dear friends.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
oh me, of little faith...
so much for sleeping. (although. fortunately, skagit finally settled down and stopped trying to lick my face and he's curled up against my leg. love it.)
a couple of weeks ago, we had a "sharing sunday" at church. slightly annoying, but for the past 2 years, i haven't been able to keep my mouth shut and not say something. i shared psalm 30, which, for me, is about restoration of spirit--of learning of mercy and grace and love, over and over again, after suffering. i found it at the very end of 2007, which is fortunate, because i don't think i would have appreciated it had it come to me earlier in the year. (although finding it sooner would have been difficult, as i spent most of the year a selfish brat that didn't go to church or read the Word.)
psalm 30 is included below, for your reading pleasure.
in my mid-teens, i had this beautiful, simple, pure faith. i was intricately united with the trinity, and was truly aware of faith and what it meant to be faithful and a lover of Christ and the bride of Christ. now, i have no clue where my faith is. or what it stands for. don't get me wrong: it's there, i'm sure of it. and it stands for Christ, but in a way that i can no longer describe or pinpoint. i think stumbled along for too long, took far too many wrong paths, without ever really wanting to be found again (that's the kicker), that it's difficult, internally, to get back to faith. what does it mean to call God "Father"? what does it mean to have a Savior? what does it mean to go beyond words and not only believe it, in the soul, head and heart, but live it?
(side note: my cat has the softest belly. i adore him. when's he not biting, clawing or licking me, that is.)
i want it back. badly. to be free in faith. to believe so fully that, rather than being burdened by temptation, that it's there for the taking, and what you are. that's what i saw so often in malawi: this free joy and faith. watching the kids, having gone through horrific events during infancy and early childhood, singing and dancing and, in the greatest sense of the word--the the most humble and absolutely gorgeous way i've ever experienced it--praising God. they rejoiced. it was perfect. and blessed. those nights, during devotions, with the kids, were the best moments of my crazy little life. i want to go back. and i am so mad at myself for the way i have lived my life the past 3.5 years. i told myself i would be living there after 2 years. and i'm not even close to being ready. damnit.
okay. nightie night. blessings to you all.
Psalm 30
A psalm. A song. For the dedication of the temple. Of David. [a]
1 I will exalt you, O LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 O LORD my God, I called to you for help
and you healed me.
3 O LORD, you brought me up from the grave [b] ;
you spared me from going down into the pit.
4 Sing to the LORD, you saints of his;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may remain for a night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 O LORD, when you favored me,
you made my mountain [c] stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, O LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What gain is there in my destruction, [d]
in my going down into the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me;
O LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.
O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever
a couple of weeks ago, we had a "sharing sunday" at church. slightly annoying, but for the past 2 years, i haven't been able to keep my mouth shut and not say something. i shared psalm 30, which, for me, is about restoration of spirit--of learning of mercy and grace and love, over and over again, after suffering. i found it at the very end of 2007, which is fortunate, because i don't think i would have appreciated it had it come to me earlier in the year. (although finding it sooner would have been difficult, as i spent most of the year a selfish brat that didn't go to church or read the Word.)
psalm 30 is included below, for your reading pleasure.
in my mid-teens, i had this beautiful, simple, pure faith. i was intricately united with the trinity, and was truly aware of faith and what it meant to be faithful and a lover of Christ and the bride of Christ. now, i have no clue where my faith is. or what it stands for. don't get me wrong: it's there, i'm sure of it. and it stands for Christ, but in a way that i can no longer describe or pinpoint. i think stumbled along for too long, took far too many wrong paths, without ever really wanting to be found again (that's the kicker), that it's difficult, internally, to get back to faith. what does it mean to call God "Father"? what does it mean to have a Savior? what does it mean to go beyond words and not only believe it, in the soul, head and heart, but live it?
(side note: my cat has the softest belly. i adore him. when's he not biting, clawing or licking me, that is.)
i want it back. badly. to be free in faith. to believe so fully that, rather than being burdened by temptation, that it's there for the taking, and what you are. that's what i saw so often in malawi: this free joy and faith. watching the kids, having gone through horrific events during infancy and early childhood, singing and dancing and, in the greatest sense of the word--the the most humble and absolutely gorgeous way i've ever experienced it--praising God. they rejoiced. it was perfect. and blessed. those nights, during devotions, with the kids, were the best moments of my crazy little life. i want to go back. and i am so mad at myself for the way i have lived my life the past 3.5 years. i told myself i would be living there after 2 years. and i'm not even close to being ready. damnit.
okay. nightie night. blessings to you all.
Psalm 30
A psalm. A song. For the dedication of the temple. Of David. [a]
1 I will exalt you, O LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 O LORD my God, I called to you for help
and you healed me.
3 O LORD, you brought me up from the grave [b] ;
you spared me from going down into the pit.
4 Sing to the LORD, you saints of his;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may remain for a night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 O LORD, when you favored me,
you made my mountain [c] stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, O LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What gain is there in my destruction, [d]
in my going down into the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me;
O LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.
O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever
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