the name game

Finally, after months of talking about it, I have committed myself to... (drumroll)

Opening my own store on Etsy!  (insert cheering here)

Yep, that's right. We're taking the crazy fun online. But I need YOUR help to do it. Really. I need help coming up with a name for my store. Who doesn't like to name things? C'mon, jump on in with a suggestion!
I'll be starting with a small inventory, until I can see how things go, focusing mainly on items made from repurposed fabrics. Namely, awesome purses made from vintage tablecloths and scraps of old upholstery fabric, and even more awesome necktie skirts.

Name ideas I've had so far:
Cherry and Dill: Peace, Love, and Repurposed Fabric (getting a little groovy, baby)
The Button Box (who doesn't like alliteration? but this might be too cutesy)
Spools! (if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? but I'm kinda bored with it)
[blank] Salvage Co. (this one I like...if I could find a word or two to fill the blank)
Good Morning, Glory (does this scream 'grandma'?)
The Old Bag (makes me laugh, but not sure if everyone would get it)

Please, jump on in with an idea! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

a thoughtful thursday

You know that feeling, when you’re just trucking along through life and then something…crumbles. And just like that, things fall apart. Not everything. Just something—enough to make you feel off balance and aware of your terrible fragility. A bad news story. A relationship gone awry. An accident. A death.


I hate that feeling. I wish it never happened—or at least, only happened every once in awhile, like during an F-5 tornado. No one would feel wrong for falling apart after a friggin’ F-5 tornado. It’s simply what happens. And it’s not your fault—seriously, blame the giant life-sucking whirlwind of doom, man. There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t lose it.

But…that’s not how it works. We’re crumbling at the corners nearly every day. From things both small and large. I am beyond wishing never to crumble. Sure, it sounds good, but sister, that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m human. Everyone around me is human, too. Perfectly wonderful (wink) though I am…I’m a disaster area. Just like everyone else.

And here’s the rub for me, as a Christian. Logically, I know that I’m supposed to be ok with falling apart. I know that I can’t hold myself together, and I know that I’m really not supposed to, even. Broken is supposed to be ok. I’m supposed to live all messy and let things hang out and trust in the grace and mercy of God—that he’s got me in hand, and all will be well. Whole in my brokenness, saved by the paradox of Christ. Right?

And when trouble comes, and I feel part of my heart crumble like a stale cookie, I wish…I wish…

I wish that I truly could be ok with it. I wish that I could really let go. I wish that I could stumble through life not caring in the slightest if I have all my crap together.

Is that so strange? Am I wrong for thinking this?

the bedside notebook

The blank page beckons,
waiting to be filled with everything
I couldn't say,
all the half-formed phrases
tearing at my heart.

All the fluid, semi-shapeless dreams
and desires--
ambition without legs, genius without arms.
A mind without its own melody.

     And once again,
     I stood beside you
     and could not speak.

My heart is bleeding.
Patch it with paper;
stitch it with pen.
Rock it to sleep with this lullaby of looping, curving
letters and words and lines and