Vie en Couleur

One very cold January 28th was commemorated five years later in sunny 80 degree weather in the presence of the pacific! Our anniversary was so special and fun. We spent the day Patrick and Noël style, playing a game that we fondly refer to as "You pick, you pick." The day is celebrated as we take turns choosing each successive activity. The result was a whale watching trip, lunch downtown Newport at The Crab Cooker, a hike and several mile walk along the beach in Crystal Cove State Park, grocery shopping at Trader Joe's, then barbecued tri tip, kale, oven-roasted potatoes, a champagne toast, and Sprinkles cupcakes for dessert. We both had to cool mild sunburns so we sat indoors with the breeze billowing in and watched I Love Lucy to conclude our wonderful day.

We began a tradition that we hope to repeat every five years, exchanging new rings. Patrick lost his original ring in China, and as often as people look to our rings to verify or marital status, we thought it would be important to have the wedding ring signify a bit more than eternal unity (the original significance behind a wedding ring). Preserving the significance of our rings, for us, means amending our vows symbolically every five years.

Patrick's ring is a replica medieval posy ring with the Middle English inscription: Feare God Oneli

He chose a simple, beautiful pearl ring with diamond chips for me.

We are delighted by the commitment and value reinforced and strengthened in two material symbols.

Come TO ME

I recall meeting a young woman two weeks ago in church. She was passing by the bar that The Garden Church inhabits on Sundays, and a greeter invited her to come in for some food. Her face remained placid and she didn't reply, only turned abruptly into the doorway ahead of me and maneuvered through a light crowd of people to the table with assorted brunch items. I thought nothing of her, only felt a surge of pride that our little community was making a difference in her life today by feeding her, the hungry.

My observance of her vanished, and I bit my lip upon entering the larger space devoted to the gathering, sought some familiar faces, and moved to my place beside close friends. A few minutes later, however, I saw out of the corner of my eye that she was sitting alone in the back row, still staring, but eating vigorously.

I feel uncomfortable at times, by myself, so I went back, invited her to follow me to a seat next to me, and then I began to talk with her.

My first question, which I struggled to find, since I had no idea what to talk with a middle-aged, homeless woman about was, "So, do you live in Long Beach?"

She nodded, eyes straight ahead.

"In which part of the city?"

"All over." Her eyes bore into me.

"Oh, interesting." Feigning ignorance, "How do you live all over?" I tilted my head to the side looking at her curiously.

"I'm homeless." She repressed a smile, stuffing another vigorous bite into her mouth.

"And, how is that? Do you like it?" At least it was an authentic question, albeit silly.

She laughed, not with me. "Sure."

"How do you get food, and work? Isn't it cold outside since it's winter?" Again she covered her smile with a bite, swallowed 1/4 cup of coffee, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and said, "I get plenty to eat, I don't have a job right now, and it's not too cold."

I was silent.

She interjected, "Where do you work?"

"I'm a teacher."

"Of little kids?"

"No, adults mostly, college age."

She looked at my hand, "Oh, and you're married."

"Yes. My husband Patrick," I pointed across the room.

"Kids?"

"No. Not yet. I'm not sure if we will have kids."

She nodded, her face betraying nothing, "I have a son."

"You do? Does he live with you?" Dumb question.

"No, but I'm trying to get him back."

The music began, signaling the start of the service. She turned slightly, "I'm going to go now."

For weeks I have thought of her, realizing how ineffective our communication was. I am the typical middle class young teacher, married, without kids. My questions for her were about material comfort and security, features of human life that she has clearly balked for one reason or another. The tone of her smile was not mocking. In fact, she was fine to let me be, but couldn't her questioning have turned...

"So, you're a teacher, and you live in Belmont Shore. How is that? To quarantine yourself from the bulk of humanity and spend your time, energy, and money conforming to what the next person says, does, and looks like, to be constantly afraid that your monetary, personal, and social value is slipping, and to depend on doing, striving, and becoming to be told that you are worth something?"

Yes, she smiled, because she knows that we are two people on orbits that will not ever touch, so different are our world-views and value systems.

This morning I was reading Søren Kierkegaard's Practicing Christianity and came across this passage. Please, please read it:

"To invite them to come to one, that cannot be done; then one's entire household and way of life would have to be altered. It will not do, when one is living in abundance oneself or at least in joy and gladness, to reside together in a house and live together in a common life and in daily association with the poor and wretched, with those who labor and are burdened. In order to invite them to come to one in this way, one must oneself live in the very same manner, poor as the poorest, poorly regarded as the lowly man among the people, experienced in life's sorrow and anguish, sharing the very same condition as those one invites to come to one, those who labor and are burdened. If someone wants to invite the sufferer to come to him, he must either alter his condition and make it identical with the sufferer's or make the sufferer's condition identical with his own, for if not, the contrast makes the difference all the greater."

Christ's invitation in the verse "Come to me all who are labored and burdened," is his own crying out, as the one who can help, for those who are "poor" (in every sense) to come to him. SK reveals that it is often the seeker of help who cries out, not the physician, the priest, the counselor, the friend, the father, crying to the one who is broken, "Come, TO ME."

I do not call the broken to myself; when or if they come, asking, I do not receive them to myself. Instead, I offer this or that piece of knowledge, wisdom, material article, food, money, but I do not say with warmth, welcome friend, come to me and be here.

I am not Christ, who first uttered these words. However, the same spirit who raised Jesus from the dead lives IN ME. The same spirit that moved in him when he spoke these words lives IN ME.

But am I ready to receive those who I would invite to come? As Kierkegaard writes, to receive, "one must oneself live in the very same manner . . . sharing the very same condition as those one invites to come to one."

My Name is Hope

Some day I will share my story, but it isn't time yet because I don't know where it's going. In the meantime I have made an acquaintance whose own life and story has come alongside my own. If you have ever struggled with anxiety or depression, I would suggest that you listen to John Mark Comer tell you his encounter with hope after a journey in darkness.

Link to a video and audio download of his story pt.1 and pt.2!

Crazy wonderful idea!

The trend of bringing the outdoors in has been around for a while. After nearly every girl fell in love with the indoor fort from The Holiday, images of delicately feminine forts have circulated blogs and pinterest a time or two.

And there are other less-conventional, I would argue strange options, like this indoor slide.

But after seeing a picture, and question on decor8 blog, I did some research.

Indoor swings have to be the coolest most wonderful idea. Who doesn't love rocking, gliding, and twisting on a simple rope swing. Sure it detracts from the elegance, but if I were fortunate enough to visit someone with an indoor swing in their living room, that is where I would plant myself, and I might be tempted to tangle myself up and stay!

And for a final picture. I feel like this suspended bed is kind of yoga (I'm making that an adjective). It makes me think that someone would enjoy this as a place for meditating on the transcendental, spiritual nature of existence. Nothing wrong with that, but it isn't quite my style. I still think it's cool.

My favorite season

My mom asked me a question, "What is your favorite season," with the additional comment, "I really want to know." That was the email that I woke up to.

Why?

I haven't asked her why she wants to know, she just does. Okaaay. I learned early on to respect my elders, so here I will post my reply.

This is how the sun says good morning on PCH

When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned like a child...

Winter began on December 10th, or thereabout, when we bundled and loaded into the van to find "The perfect Christmas tree." During the outing I danced and squiggled shapes with my toes in piles of fallen pine needles, assessed proposed trees as "lopsided," "that has a hole," "I know just where I can lay my angel ornament (that was stuffed, and porcelain, too big for a hook, but lay perfectly on a branch with a light shining on her petite face), on this branch; it's perfect!!" And most of the time we had ice cream cones on our way home because it wasn't really that cold.

The tree-trimming, Christmas pageants at school, abounding presents brightly arrayed under the tree, stories of Jesus as a baby, Disney's Christmas cartoon sing-alongs, and trips around the neighborhood to see lights cemented that winter was absolutely wonderfully filled with anticipation.

But, for me, better than sugar cookies, holiday music and dresses, presents, and sacred, hushed church services was the fact that I had two weeks off of school!!! And when I returned, the school year had plateaued over the break and was a swift downhill. I saw January and February figuratively as the largest mound of fresh, powdery snow, perfect for a sled run. Each presidential holiday and inservice day took away at least four Mondays combined, and then there was spring break --before I knew it, end-of-the year assemblies would be wrapping up another lamentable school year.

Fireside, sweaters, dark, early nights to snuggle in bed, mittens, my minnie-mouse umbrella, and sloshing in black rubber boots through the muddy, sticky, "forrest" acre behind our home all highlighted a season that was just delightfully balanced with adventure, comfort, activity, rest, and hope.

...But when I grew up, I put away childish things. (1 Corinthians 13:11)

I have not necessarily put away childish things. As a school employee I still maintain the anticipation of the end of the year that winter months bring. In fact, Monday is an inservice day (yesss!!).

Christmas traditions, colors, lights, sounds, presents, and the story of Jesus are different, more meaningful,but perhaps less exciting, because I know what to expect from Christmas lights, pageants, Santa is no longer "real" to me, and I have to regulate my own intake when it comes to treats, but I'm not always the best at self-control so I suffer a few stomach aches from mint M&M's, caramel corn, and cheesecake.

Those elements remain nearly the same for me, but as I've grown up and live away from the central valley I appreciate the winter months for their lack of wintery frost, chill, fog, and fireplaces. The winter in LA is beautifully crisp, more defined by the beauty that a mountain backdrop and the endless ocean originally lent to this area than by smog, haze, and seasonal tourists clogging PCH, etc. Also, the temperatures are warm as the sun has less to penetrate in the way of June gloom clouds, but it's a fresh, cool heat unlike Autumn's smoldering temperatures that mingle with dense air. Winter provides some of the best beach days and coastal hiking weather.

I feel silly mentioning this, but I have to. Being prone toward modesty (some have accused me of being prudish), I LOVE that it is appropriate for me to wear clothing from head to toe, and that others do the same. Summer fashion all-too-often makes my jaw drop in disbelief.

Other notable features of winter: soup, mugs of steaming drinks, spontaneous outdoor activities, leaving the front door open, my camellia trees in bloom, the bunnies getting a winter coat of fur and becoming extra-fluffy, it's lemon season, Patrick's birthday, and our anniversary.

Camellia tree

Fresh squeezed lemons

Cappuccino in a mouse mug

I hope that this nearly exhaustive explanation satisfied.

Doppelganger

I've always been amused by some of Patrick's look-alikes. Moses, Disney rogue-tured-prince Flynn Rider, and less exciting, but still quite similar is Lady Antebellum musician Dave Haywood. I thought that I would share, since I just finished watching Tangled.

Dust

Under my bed, on EVERY surface, between books on the bookshelf, at the bottom of my closet, behind my couch...clumps of hair, dust, and lint! I have wood floors, which I love, because if I didn't, all of this grime would sift down into the carpet along with mites and what are those awful wrigley silver bugs? Yuck.

I vacuum and dust at least once a week, often twice, which takes about 10 minutes since my house is so small (a happy thought to having a small house!), but still it collects in massive amounts.

I know that there isn't a magic, anti-dust solution to this problem. However, I like to think that the less stuff I have then the more easily I would be able to move and vacuum. But, living in a small house and sharing a normal to small non walk-in closet with Patrick, and not having a linen closet, I use my available space for storing my journals and writing (this takes up two large bins under my bed), blankets/linens, purses/P's backpacks, luggage, sleeping bags, and random things that get lost under there between cleaning episodes. I can't throw all of this away, but every time I pull it out I want to toss it all. That would be a hasty idea, mostly unwise, since it isn't extra and it all gets used (even the old journals) on a rotation.

I guess for a few more times I will just dust it all off and slide it back under, and cross my fingers that I get into grad school justifying a move that would add a few extra square feet and a dog.

The good thing is that I generally find my pointe shoes when I thoroughly clean!

Taste test

Oh coffee... In spite of being overly cautious when it comes to some things, my sense of adventure isn't usually far behind, and it manifests in the most unusual ways. For example, I have abstained from drinking coffee for nearly six months, since the caffeine in even decaffeinated coffee is known to aggravate anxiety, ADHD, and other prevailing symptoms that challenge my life daily. Tuesday morning I wandered into Sprouts, and on a whim chose to buy a small amount of flavored decaf coffee. I glanced for less than a second at my favorite flavor, Hawaiian Hazelnut, and then, for an unknown reason I began to fill my bag with dark chocolate something (see, I don't even know the flavor!). When the scent began to waft up from the bag after the first few beans were deposited I was affronted by the almond/cherry essence, but rather than stopping the cascade I mentally shrugged, justifying that it might, hopefully would, grow on me.

So, my impromptu purchase of coffee for the first time in months turned into a flavorful adventure, and in the end I think it's horrible. I can hardly stand to sip it, yet I find myself continuing to believe that each new taste, followed by cringing, might just be THE one to finally delight my pallet. Until then I will sip, and wince, until it is finished.

Cheers!

P.S. While sniggering at a PTA meeting occurring at this moment just outside of my office, complete with "Mrs. PTA Mom would like to propose a motion"... "Any seconds," "All in favor say 'I'," resounding "I." "Motion accepted," I took a drink of my coffee and poured it all over my face and down the front of myself, while many were watching. You could say justice was served.