The Amazing Adventures of Wonderspools

just now

2011-12-09T11:01:00.000-05:00

this muffling quiet of softly
falling snow
all around lazy white
flakes, plump and solemn, steady
and unhurried, untroubled
by wind
untrammeled by unthinking
boots, cars, snowmobiles...
anything
except, perhaps, the tiny, delicate
steps of birds
saucy cardinal or little tufted titmouse
or bright-eyed chickadee

gone the robin, gone
the red-winged blackbird, gone
the noisy squawk of summer
winter comes soft
and quiet
and chill

dim interlude

2011-08-31T15:02:00.000-04:00

haunted by memories
     ghost touches
your hand
     on my shoulder
your breath
     against my cheek
memories, only

only memories
     without substance
without shape
     without warmth
cold, alone
     I shiver

call for an exorcism
     bright sunlight
and fresh breeze
     and soft, soaking rain
banish these ghosts
     again again again

snooze

2011-08-08T12:46:00.001-04:00

I kissed you last night
in my dream.
You were strong, and sweet,
and loved me like fire loves flame.
I felt the pieces come together—a new whole
from our whole halves
an interlocking
mind, soul, flesh
together
ignited with just a kiss.

And then somehow I was careening down a zip line toward a giant pile of sheep and the new girl from my department was there and we were singing Christmas carols and there were Nazis, somehow, and that hot guy from Band of Brothers though I could have sworn we were in Canada and then my alarm was going off and I
woke up.

beginner-level love haiku

2011-06-16T14:06:00.000-04:00

1. dream

walking down the street
holding your hand. around the
corner, happiness

2. interlude

summer sun shining
leaves shimmer, gold-edged and green
cool shadows shelter

3. reality

I have smiled your way
seven hundred times, but you
never take notice

twin cycle tour

2011-06-03T10:54:00.000-04:00

I wanted to write
you but now
I’m not quite sure
why.
Come home.
Yes, that’s what
I wanted
to say.
Come home, come
home.
The words churn
circles
spinning their wheels
in my
heart.
No logic behind it, no
concrete
reasoning, just come
come home, come home, come home.
Have I said that
before?
Perhaps.
Perhaps
I am not as good at moving on
as I think I am. As
you are.
You are always
moving
on.
My wheels just
spin.
Come home, come home,
come home
and solve this mystery
with me
once and for
all.

stories, legends, and fairytales part II

2011-04-26T10:25:00.000-04:00

Thanks to those who joined the conversation—you sparked some good thoughts. I realized something I hadn’t before. Robin Hood stands uniquely in my mind for another reason.

I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.

But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.

Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.

Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.

Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).

Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.

So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.

So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?

I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.

Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

for me, from no one

2011-04-21T13:05:00.000-04:00

I love you all the time.

I love you with dirt on your hands and under your fingernails—smudged on the knees of your gardening pants. I love the bits of twig and leaf stuck in your hair.

I love the way you drink conversational coffee, cradling the mug in both hands, looking not quite at me across the booth as you string thoughts together. I love the way you talk, intelligent and whimsical and humble and just plain interesting.

I love you when your feet can’t help but tap to the music, when you groove in the car—how you twirl down the hallway when you think no one’s watching—how your eyes light up when I ask you to dance.

I love you all the time.

I love you in the kitchen, apron-clad, both hands busy but not frantic, singing with the radio as you roll out pie crust or chop carrots. I love the way you offer no excuse when you lick the beater—and the bowl—and the spatula.

I love you when you laugh—at yourself, or any other hundred things—your grin wide and unashamed, or lopsided and wry. I love that it is so easy to make you laugh.

I love you with cheeks blooming pink with exertion, sweat trickling down your temples, gathering in wet patches across your back and belly. I love the way you lay it all out—as if you missed the memo on how to play like a lady.

I love you all the time.

I love you lost in a story, your eyes fixed on the words before you but your mind far from the chair you sit in—sideways, legs across the arm, head leaning against the plush, curved wing.

I love you dolled up and sweet-smelling, wearing a dress of your own making. I love the way you hold your head high, the erect bearing of your shoulders—your walk, how it subtly changes gears when you slip on your girlish shoes. I love that you still look like you, dressed up or down—always, always simply you.

I love you when you cartwheel sloppily across the lawn, climb a tree, scramble over the boulders. There is poetry in the way you run headlong down the big dune and straight into the lake.

I love you all the time.

faraway land love poem

2011-03-31T11:04:00.002-04:00

I will meet you in the wilderness.
I will join you as you walk into the dancing river,
your skin pale and rough as a birch’s bark,
your legs as long and straight as its trunk.

I am coming; wait for me.
Let the cool water refresh me also,
though I have not your grace, your way of moving
as smooth as shadow, as quiet as light.

We lie in the sweet-scented meadow,
in the golden green,
until the benevolent sun dries us,
until the heat of the day fades.

And in the long light of summer evening
we learn each other by touch, and taste, and smell,
that even in the darkest night
we will know each other by heart.

stories, legends, and fairytales

2011-03-30T09:21:00.000-04:00

Do you remember your favorite childhood story? Was there one book, one character, one storyline that captivated you more than others? I like to think so.
Now, I'm not so much talking about stories you liked as a toddler or preschooler; I'm talking about stories that you just seemed to gravitate to as an eight or ten year old, when you were old enough to have (a tiny bit) of discernment, but young enough that your imagination still ran rampantly wild.
For some of us, it may be a fairytale, one of the familiar classics like Beauty and the Beast or Cinderella or the Prince and the Pauper or Jack and the Beanstalk. For some, it may be a broader story, a cultural legend mashed with history like Paul Bunyan or Davy Crockett or Annie Oakley or King Arthur. Maybe it's a staple of classic literature, like Huck Finn or Oliver Twist or...you get the idea. I hope. I hope you're resonating with this. Either that, or you're thinking I've gone 'round the bend (again).
Whatever your story, it affected you more strongly than any other--it seized your imagination somehow. You dreamed it, played it, asked for dress-up outfits...
And if your attachment was particularly strong, you still find a corner of your adult brain reserved for that story. It is part of the hundred things that shaped you into the person you are today.
What is my story? I bet you're wondering, by now. Fine. I'll tell you. It's Robin Hood. (Is anyone surprised?) I don't even know the first time I heard the tale.
You know what gripped me? Not Lady Marian, not the Norman/Saxon dispute, not even the robbing the rich to feed the poor. No, when I was about ten, it was all about two things: the forest and the archery.
And now...now I find it still holds me. All of it--all the hundred different retellings and variations and anomalies. If it's a movie, I see it. A book, I read it. It is a rich tapestry of legend, still growing and changing after however many hundred years. Action, romance, beautiful scenery, more action, smart alecks...what is possibly missing? (maybe personal hygiene, but whatcha gonna do?)
I'm still wondering what this all means, why it matters to me that I have a story, or why it matters to all of us to have one. I could throw out fancy words like archetype or collective cultural experience, but I'm just not in the mood. I might come back to this later. In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
What's your story?

a small midwinter rant

2011-02-14T12:54:00.000-05:00

The choices I make—am I timid, lazy, or shrewd? Why is it that so often my behavior could fit any one of those categories? You’d think I would always know which I was being—but it’s just not so. I have an itchy feeling that it’s not usually the last—at least not nearly as often as I hope it is. Shrewd is just fine, but whatever I’m about, I sure don’t want to be lazy and scared.

How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?

But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.

Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.

But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.

There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.

So who am I?

And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.

And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.

But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.

Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.

a poetry study

2011-01-21T12:13:00.000-05:00

A.
How to get
to this place how
to get
here
you are
slow
dancing with me
I rest
my head
your fingers
ghost along
the bare
nape of my neck

B.
How to get to this place?
How to get here?
You are slow.
Dancing with me, I rest.
My head!
Your fingers!
Ghost along, the bare nape of my neck.

C.
How to?
Get to this place.
How to get?
Here you are, slow dancing
with me.
I rest my head.
Your fingers ghost along
the bare nape of my neck.

D.
How to get to this place, how to get here. How to get here, you. Here you are, slow dancing with me. Dancing with me—I rest. I rest my head, your fingers ghost along. Your fingers ghost along the bare nape of my neck.

polar opposites

2010-11-11T09:09:00.000-05:00

Does anyone remember a certain post of mine from '08 on the dialectical swing of the universe? Here. It's not a very good post--I just reread it--but it was interesting to me, because the concept is still very much on my mind. Things throughout history swing back and forth--action reaction--tick tock, tick tock.
But lately, I have been seeing how this applies to me, personally--to the workings inside my lil' head.

I work, earnestly, to tell the truth--not only to everyone else, but to myself. And that can be hard, if not nearly impossible. To tell the truth, you have to know what the truth is. I've noticed my thoughts about myself swing between two opposite extremes. In a nutshell: yes, I'm awesome, and no, I'm not. Some days I'm incredibly unique, hyperactive, brightly shining and off my rocker--other days I'm dull, scared, plain, sunk so firmly into normal that I barely have a pulse.

Those are both lies.

I think I've got a handle on it, now. Whenever I'm thinking something so extreme about myself--it's a lie. The truth is somewhere in the middle--perhaps not so easy to polarize and define, but blended. Perhaps a little bit of a paradox, now and then. Not high or low, but midrange. Not hot or cold, but fair. I'm a little bit of a lot of things. An alloy. Stronger than any one pure metal.

The more I can realize that--the more truth I can tell myself--the more balanced I become. More honest. More me. None of this wild swinging from one mutually exclusive extreme to the other.

Maybe that's how everyone's mind works. I don't know. Maybe it's a little bit of the devil--he seems fond of encouraging extreme swings. I'm so thinking C.S. Lewis right now, and his statement about the "opposite and equal errors" people make about the devil. Either way, the thoughts are mine. And I'm giving them the boot.

What thoughts about yourself are rattling around inside your little head? Have you ever taken a look at the contradictions? Stop. Think. Reject the lies.

most awkward scenarios ever, part II

2010-11-08T12:45:00.000-05:00

The company Christmas party. Yes, it’s just about that time of year again.
Office Christmas parties can be rough, even if you work with decent folks. There’s just endless opportunities for awkwardness. Example: bringing a date. Do you? Don’t you? All of the married folk will bring their spouses. Who wants to be number seven at an eight-seat table? Awkward. But so is bringing a random date to fill that eighth seat. More awkward. There is bound to be a bit of inquisition, especially since he is not a committed significant other. The best solutions I’ve come up with thus far are to a) bring my mom, or b) join forces with other single gals at the office and claim our own table.

But what if we went for a third option? What if we took the awkwardness up a few more notches? Instead of a regular date with an acquaintance—how about a blind date? Oh boy. Nothing says “doomed to fail” like a blind date at an office party.

Even better—how about all of the single girls in the office all bring a blind date? Now we’re talking pain. All of us could writhe in agony together.

But we’re not quite done—there’s one more bit of awkward joy we could add: each girl brings a buddy of hers as a blind date for one of her coworkers. We could draw names, like Secret Santa.

And the awkward bus has arrived.

So next time you’re at a company Christmas fling, single ladies—remember it could be worse. Much, much worse.

most awkward scenarios ever, part I

2010-11-08T11:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it’s good to give yourself a little perspective—realize that whatever happened (or didn’t happen) isn’t, perhaps, quite as bad as you thought. Take a step back. Reduce the level of self-induced drama.

One of the most enjoyable ways to do that, in my opinion, is to imagine how horribly it could have gone.

Example: you spill half a glass of red wine on yourself at a party. Sad. But it could have been worse. You could have spilled your glass on another woman (perhaps your boss or pastor), and while floundering to help her clean up, you trip on the shag rug, accidentally grope her, and catch yourself on the wobbly end table—which has candles on it. The candles fall, and the alcohol-infused rug bursts into flame. You put it out, but burn your writing hand. You will now spend at least the next two weeks in awkward, pain-filled misery.

See, spilling some wine on yourself wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?

just another Saturday

2010-11-01T08:57:00.000-04:00

This Saturday, my dad came over to help me limb the giant tree in my backyard. Not only is it just a bit too shady in the summer, it was also threatening my power lines and my garage. Here's a couple pics after we'd made our mess. The big branch on the driveway side is the most obvious difference, but the difficult part was on the power line side--we had to take the branches down a tiny piece at a time, mostly with a pole saw, trying to drop the branches neithr on our heads or onto the power lines. Good times. And...here's a couple pics after cleaning it all up. Happy sigh. Doesn't it look great? And I may even have enough firewood for half of next winter already.

living room

2010-10-11T14:22:00.000-04:00

With the advent of a functional fireplace and new curtains came a distinct need to rearrange furniture. Take a peek!

Ah, the warm glow of a fire. Tasty. Yes, my brown chair is missing. It's been relocated to the bedroom--where Clifford is enjoying it pretty much 24/7.

Who can tell what's different about this wall? Ok, there's more than one thing different. It's called fire. But technically, I've only hung one more thing on the wall...

And, of course, the awesome vintage suitcase set I got for my birthday. Too good to store in a closet somewhere.

the kitchen continues

2010-09-24T09:27:00.001-04:00

On those days when I feel like I'll just never get done with the kitchen, I take a look back, and see how far I've come...

At possession, July 2009. About five minutes before we started refinishing the cabinets.

April 2010, with new appliances, counter, and tile. Awesome linoleum remains.

September 2010, outlet covers done and window trim refinished. Curtains to come. And then, the kitchen will be "done."

the refrigerator manifesto

2010-09-23T15:35:00.000-04:00

There are two words that can send an icy stab of horror into the most dauntless heart:
community refrigerator.
Ahhhh!

Sorry about that. I lost control for a moment there.
But having just spent waaay too long rummaging through the industrial-sized company refrigerator for my (very brightly colored and distinct) lunch bag only to find it astronomically removed from its previous location, I'm a little...out of patience. It's time to do something. Something...drastic. And somehow, this feeling is...familiar. It's time for the return--the return of...

The Kitchen Nazi!

Not since the hazy golden days of Stryker Cottage '03 has this fearsome creature truly been beheld, standing proudly--sword in one hand and spatula in the other--with her iron-fisted policies of cleanliness and order clearly posted on the wall behind her!
But it might just be time for her return. At the very least, time for her to write a few new rules for the company refrigerator. Harsh? Perhaps. But effective. As always.

The Refrigerator Manifesto

Whereby all personnel who utilize the company refrigerator do so through a wish to keep their food at the appropriate temperature, in sanitary condition, and conveniently accessible:

1. Each individual must use a designated food container to hold all of their items. This container may not be generic (as in a plastic Meijer bag), insulated (seriously--those keep your food cold without a fridge), or incapable of being moved about without spilling its contents. Clearly labeling each designated food container with the name of its owner is also strongly suggested.
2. All food must be properly contained. No open packaging. Not even in your designated food container. If you periodically cannot eat the whole fruit cup in one sitting, keep a ziploc bag in your food container to tuck the cup into until your next nibbling. And get a bigger stomach, for the love of all that's holy.
3. No loose items such as pieces of fruit, tubs of margarine, or bottles of salad dressing will be tolerated. All items must be fully contained in each individual's designated food container.*
*The only exception to this rule is large items such as two-liters of soda and large cartons of milk or other beverages. These may be left on the bottom shelf--provided they are clearly labeled and unexpired.
4. Large, appropriately sealed, and clearly labeled takeout containers will be tolerated temporarily--provided they are not fish, and are removed within six hours of their arrival to the community refrigerator. If they are fish, and left for more than two days--God help you.
5. If it becomes necessary to move another individual's designated food container, it is expected that the mover will do their best to return the container to its original placement. If this cannot be done, a grid system will be initiated, with each individual's designated food container receiving a number that corresponds to a section of the shelving. "Parking tickets" will be issued to all who cannot respect the grid system.
6. "Community" does not mean "communal." Whether an item is labeled or not, if you eat or drink it without explicit permission, you are stealing.* If you are stealing, you're a jerk. If you're a jerk, we get to lock you in the supply closet overnight.
*I can't believe this one even has to be listed, honestly.
7. The community refrigerator will be scrubbed down once a week. All legitimate items will be returned to the shelves; all illegitimate items will piled up in the parking lot, doused with gasoline, and lit on fire. Or thrown away. Whatever.

And remember: if the Kitchen Nazi ain't happy, ain't no one happy. But if she is happy--she bakes! It's a win-win. Sort of.

the day of birth...once again again

2010-09-17T08:42:00.000-04:00

I remembered blogging about my birthday last year. I wondered if I had managed to do it every year since I began this beast...and the answer is yes. Wow.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.

pressure? what pressure?

2010-09-10T11:09:00.000-04:00

Somehow, I’ve been working on a little more young adult/teen material than usual this week, and you know what that does? It make me think about my own spent youth—who I was, who I am, where I’m going—how my life and personality have been shaped. Things I’ve done—and things I haven’t done. Things I have barely been tempted to do, that seem to drive so much teen trouble.

Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.

Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)

Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.

But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”

Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.

But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.

The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.

Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”

Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?

Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.

words I like that start with C

2010-08-25T08:30:00.000-04:00

charred chemistry
competent
caress
circumnavigation
culottes
cherry
capability
cinema
catawampus
cracker
chivvy
culpable
cardamom
calendula
cork
creosote

Rain or Shine Purses

2010-08-18T12:45:00.000-04:00

NEW!
Rain or Shine Purses

Worried about a wet wallet? A soggy cell phone?

No more!

Check these super-cute, water-resistant purses. Made of fabulously fun oilcloth, each tasty bag is fully lined and features a protective front flap and secure button closure. Clutch has a zippered closure and a wrist loop; small and medium bags have shoulder strap.

Small (6 x 9; modelled by the lovely Gladys): $12
Medium (9 x 12): $16
Clutch (10 x 6 x 4): $22
Simple Snap Wallet (4 x 4): $10
Prints Currently Available:

Forever Strawberry on Green (shown)
Paradise Blue Lace (yes, it’s as awesome as it sounds)

Throw me a line for orders/more information!
Custom requests welcome.
Note: all proceeds on this project go to benefit the Madison Square Church Making Room Campaign. For more information, please visit www.madisonsquarechurch.org

Speed Dating, Spoolstra Style (for Liz)

2010-08-10T16:34:00.000-04:00

The lighting was low, meant to be intimate—but in reality, the room was just dim. Looking at the row of small booths, she felt her gut twist with apprehension. Bad idea. I knew this was a bad idea. Two or three people mingled near the registration table. The man sitting behind it saw her, and smiled with hearty shallowness, like a car salesman. She squared her shoulders. You’re here, and you’re going to do it. Buck up and be brave. She smiled back, albeit less intensely, and took the last half-dozen steps to reach the table. If her hand shook with adrenaline, it was subtle enough that she was able to hold the marker steady as she filled out her nametag.
A few minutes later, she took her seat as directed in one of the small booths, feeling as if the small lamp on the table only lit her to the chin. I probably look like I have old lady jowls. The absurd thought startled her into a genuine smile. Around her, the other women also took their places. The men were shadowy figures spread across the dim room, and at the chime of a bell, each picked a table and sat down. Four minutes, and then the bell would ring again, prompting them to shift down the line of women. How anyone thought that such a shallow game would ever germinate a meaningful relationship, she surely didn’t know. You’re just here to practice conversation. No pressure. She reminded herself.

The first man took his seat at her table without introducing himself first. Strike one, she thought, most uncharitably. He was tall, but slight, and the false blonde highlights in his hair stood out even in the crummy lighting.

“Hi,” he said, a little too loudly.

Be nice; he’s probably just nervous, she scolded herself.

“Hi,” she answered.

“I’m Steve,” he said, shifting on the vinyl seat.

“Lindsey,” she answered.

One too many buttons on his oxford shirt was unfastened, and the collar had been popped. Lord, save me. The next four minutes will be an eternity.

And something in her…blossomed to life. And with it came an idea that she could not resist. Instead of shaking the hand he awkwardly offered, she propped her elbow on the table and lifted her hand in a clear invitation to arm wrestle.

“Let’s cut to the chase, ey?” she said. “If I beat you, you’re gone.”

“What?”

She felt a mischievous grin stretch across her face.

“Arm wrestle,” she said. “Let’s go.” She waggled her fingers.

He laughed nervously.

“That’s pretty funny.” He shifted on the seat again, and made no move to grasp her hand. “Is that your ice breaker? It’s a good one.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m serious, Steve.”

She beat him.

The next guy refused to take her up on her challenge.

The third guy almost beat her, but she still had three or four inches to fall when the bell rang, so they declared it a draw.

She beat the fourth guy. She beat the fifth guy—left handed, to give her arm a break. The sixth guy also refused to wrestle, and spent three of his minutes texting on his cell phone. That was fine with her; she felt the first beads of sweat trickling down her body, and used the break to drink some water and cool down.

The seventh guy grinned and beat her within thirty seconds. He had a beard she did not like. To pass the remaining time, she went best of seven, and held him off from total victory long enough for the bell to ring.

She went left-handed on the eighth, to rest her arm again. She beat the ninth, but it was a tough match. The last man looked strong, and she almost abandoned the game, but she couldn’t make it this far and quit. When she offered the challenge he took it. He held her off for a long time; she realized he could beat her, and was simply waiting. She did not like that, and told him so. He looked surprised—the pressure on her hand eased, just for a moment. Quickly, instinctively, she slammed his hand down. He laughed, and shook out his fingers.

And then the speed dating nightmare was over. Everyone else gathered around the bar to mingle and enjoy a complimentary drink. She wanted to leave, but she was also quite thirsty. She stayed in her seat and drained her water glass, and contemplated refilling it at the bar. Before she could decide, a waiter appeared with a carafe and offered a refill. She accepted gratefully.

“By the way,” he said, as he filled her glass. “I just won fifty bucks. Thanks, lady.”

“What? How—”

“I bet on you,” he said.

She laughed, loud and freely.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said, when she could speak. “Glad I could entertain.”

He smiled, and faded away into the shadows. She finished her water and left, quietly. No one else accosted her, and in five minutes she was outside, breathing in the free air.

pictured rocks!

2010-08-10T08:28:00.000-04:00

And...I'm back from my lovely week-long backpacking stint up at the delightful Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore with the awesome Christ Church youth group.

This was our sunset on Tuesday night...the first one we noticed. Monday night might have had a sunset, I think...but pretty sure I was in bed. Or close to it. We started our hike on Monday afternoon in the rain...which fortunately let up after about an hour. We did about seven miles that afternoon, and were all pooped. Tuesday, I was sore but in good spirits. And on Wednesday, I finally got my pack dialed in to the "perfect" fit. I do believe I danced a little jig. With pack on.

And this was our Wednesday campsite...

(sigh of delight) And our Wednesday beach....

Lovely! I actually didn't bring my camera (gasp) but I wasn't worried. Everyone else did. Check my fb for the complete albums taken by some of the kids on the trip. I just hiked and enjoyed the scenery, and they gave me pics like this...

And this....

And finally, here's a pic of us frolicking at our last swim in Lake Superior.

more kitchen

2010-07-27T07:57:00.001-04:00

Well, for anyone who was wondering if I ever got the outlet covers put up in my kitchen...

Yes, yes I did. Of course, you may note, it was not as simple as it "should" have been. First I had to remedy my design flaw (gasp! a mistake! surely not!) and knock out some of the little glass tiles and replace with bits of subway tile, so that the covers could lie flush. Some of it was fun--I do like to tile. But I do not like recutting the same piece three times. Oh, well. It's done.

Here's some action footage. On this outlet I just had to lay a new piece on the top edge. It was pretty simple. Except it broke when we were tightening the outlets back up, so I had to do it again. Sigh. The second time, I slid little bits of tile under the bottom "ears" as well, which helped a lot. Then I had to mix up an absurdly small amount of grout. Hence the use of the baked bean can. Which I thought was awesome.

ever wonder?

2010-07-20T12:58:00.000-04:00

You can tell a lot about someone just by studying their hands.
At least, I think so. Ok, so perhaps it's not entirely accurate--no one can change how big their hands are, for example. But otherwise...well, it's interesting to think about.
As it just so happens, I have a pair to study. Mine. (Of course, the sample size is a bit low, and biased, but cut me some slack. I'm ruminating, here.)
I have big, strong hands--for a girl. A dairy farmer would quickly put me to shame, but mine are good enough to open 89% of all jars on the face of the earth and that's something.
My nails are short but not ragged or gnawed, and my cuticles are the victims of benign neglect. They've never seen a manicure and would probably laugh at the very idea. Several of my nail beds have clearly been jammed in at one time or another, which you can see if you compare left to right.
Small scars from nicks, and cuts--all minor--and one pale streak on the back of my left pointer finger from my first experience with a chisel. Most of the women I know have smoother (and smaller, but that's beside the point) hands than I do. A little beat up, a little used. As they should be. What are hands for, if not use?
However, you can tell I'm not that tough from my lack of real calluses. My most pronounced callus is from writing. But it's on my ring finger because I'm weird like that.
So, what does all this say? I can draw conclusions because I know the answers. I know I work in an office and write a lot and...well, what else? You tell me.
Are these hands of mine special? Unique? Or all too ordinary? Yes to all of the above?

On a tangent: thinking about hands makes me think about handshakes. I got nothing but respect for my male counterparts...but I've shaken hands with a few "scholarly type" guys with hands like silk, and I just can't trust man hands like that. When I'm afraid I've hurt the guy with a healthy handshake...there are issues. Sure, you work at a desk...but does that mean you never, ever wield a shovel? A canoe paddle? Anything?
Hmm. That's a whole 'nother ball of wax. I won't go into that today.
And if you are a smooth-handed man, don't fret. We can still be friends. But...you may want to apply some sandpaper or something before asking me out on a date. I'm just sayin'.

the name game

2010-06-28T08:58:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-24T08:31:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-04T11:09:00.000-04:00

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

may and I

2010-05-17T13:42:00.001-04:00

slow to wake, this
body of mine. slow to catch
fire
after cold solitude, all energies turned
inward for survival. no
more.
and it feels good to feel
good.
and it's impossible
to feel impossible.
here, now, when I cannot speak in
words,
when I can barely
move a
muscle, my only
hope of an interpreter
is the vigorous
pounding of my heart.
this moment is
everything.
and nothing.
slow burn. blue fire. hazy
day.
leaves unfurl. the cherries
blossom.

deep thoughts and one-liners, v.4

2010-05-11T08:14:00.000-04:00

I spend half my time lost in my thoughts...and the other half finding myself in them.

the old lady's still got it, part II

2010-04-19T09:23:00.000-04:00

So the new season of ultimate frisbee has begun. Ok, actually it began last Sunday, but it wasn't a super good game for me; we were all shaking the rust off. It was still great to be outside, of course. It was sunny and warmish and everything I could ask for in a spring day. But yesterday...

Yesterday rocked. The weather wasn't quite as nice--in fact, it got down right windy and cold, the last quarter hour or so. But I was running on all cylinders and it was a glorious thing.

Now, I'm not trying to complain, because I certainly have no right to. After all, I did it to myself. No one made me fling myself through the air again...and again. I'm just trying to tell it like it is: I laid it out good and hard, quite a few times. I landed so hard once I actually hurt my butt. I was in a good half-dozen midair collisions. (I think I only won two, but the guy had much better ups than me--what could I do?) When I got home, I was so stiff it took conscious effort to get out of the car, stumble to the house, and climb into a hot shower. I went to bed with a hot pack on my quad. This morning, I vaguely feel like I've been hit by a bus.

It was great. No--it was magnificent. Of course I didn't play perfect--I botched a couple catches, for sure, and had trouble getting my long passes to fly right. I got tired on defense. But it doesn't really matter. Because there were moments when everything worked right, when my body and mind seemed to be in harmony, when I acted without hesitation, without fumbling, without thought for what I was about to do.

The play of the day: We were only about a half hour into the game, so I was all warmed up but not yet tired. I charged down the sideline, sprinting to shake my defense, then I obeyed an instinct and began a cut toward the center, looking back over my shoulder. It was a long bomb; I saw it coming. I shifted direction to make the catch, saw the disk curve, lose height. Without thinking, I slid on my hip--a lusciously beautiful softball slide, the well-groomed soccer field turf was dry and just what I needed--and caught the disk a handsbreadth from the ground. In that moment, all was right with the world. I popped back up with ease I couldn't have planned if I tried.

It didn't hurt that from there I was able to throw for the score. Admittedly, the story wouldn't be quite as sweet if I'd been so excited I tanked the toss. Not that I would ever do that...ahem.

But why am I telling this story? I'm not sure. It's probably part of that same personality streak that makes me unashamed of my bruises. (I admit, I even show them off to my mother.) But I think, somehow, that this kind of moment is part of my philosophy of life--or at least how I wish I could live. Perhaps I cannot manage it 24/7, but at least I can lay it out once a week on the field, not holding back, not worrying about what might happen, trusting my body and my brain to take care of each other. Why can't I live like that every day? Why can't that physical abandon translate into my interpersonal endeavors, or my career? I don't really know.

Well, maybe I do. The game has very clear rules, and boundaries--and objectives. I operate within a very secure structure, with known outcomes. I can lay it all out, knowing exactly what I'm risking. And knowing, deep down in, that it really doesn't matter if I make the catch or not. My life will probably not shift direction because I threw the game winning toss or not.

Life in general holds no such easy certainty. And honestly, I doubt I could sustain the kind of energy I would need to live with such abandon. Granted, daily life doesn't generally include flying-through-the-air collisions or short, desperate sprints across the turf. (ok, ok, if you're a professional athlete, ok. shush.) But the energy drain would still be very real. More subtle, harder to gauge. And, I think, harder for me to spend. I know how to replenish my body: stretching, sleep, and hot/cold packs pretty much take care of it; but how do I replenish my mental energy? I know how to handle a physical tumble, but how do I get up after I take an emotional hit? Perhaps I'd figure it out--I certainly haven't made it this far in life with no trouble--but all that gray area makes me feel small, and shy. I've handled smallish hits, but could I handle big ones? Would I even see them coming? Without the boundaries, the rules, the objectives, the reliance on reflexes--I lose some of my fire.

Maybe that's not a bad thing. I'm not sure. I don't want to run through life with rampant recklessness. Forget hurting myself--other people get hurt that way. But I don't want to be a coward, either. As usual, I seek middle ground. But sometimes it's hard to find, and sometimes our hearts cry out to push limits.

Maybe that's why I like this game so much. I get to let all my crazy out, safely. I get to ram around and feel strong, and special, and (maybe just a little) fierce. I get to push myself. And then I get to go home.

Or maybe I just really like frisbee, and all this philosophical stuff is simply a sign that I haven't had enough coffee. Who knows?

deep thoughts and one-liners, v.3

2010-04-12T08:53:00.000-04:00

"She's like an Amazon," says the girl to her husband, as I pick up my half of the refrigerator.

backsplash!

2010-03-29T08:33:00.000-04:00

Prepping the walls...

The first little wall of tile...

The worst bit ever (check all the cuts I had to make)...

And more tile...

Pause to grout and caulk...and done!

deep thoughts and one-liners, v.2

2010-03-23T15:16:00.000-04:00

"I trust you impeccably," says Bob.

deep thoughts and one-liners, v.1

2010-03-22T12:55:00.000-04:00

I desire to be the object of your perception.

first signs of spring

2010-03-04T08:49:00.001-05:00

Check it out!

Look what's growing on the south side of my house! It's a perfect spot--the only place where the snow has totally melted, tucked out of the wind and right smack in the sunshine.

I can't wait to see what they are. I'm thinking this massive cluster is daffodils.

But these, I'm not so sure. Tulips and grape hyacinth? Oh, I hope they don't get killed off in a late cold snap. It happens. After all, we still have another month of winter. But man, it's hard not to think spring when I come home from work to a sight like this.

the same old fight

2010-02-24T08:43:00.000-05:00

Is there any sort of life out there that doesn't make you deal with the same crap over and over again? Because that sounds mighty nice. I sit back, sip my herbal tea, wish I was drinking coffee, and dream of a world where things are dealt with, resolved, and (poof!) gone.
Then I realize where most of these repetitious issues come from: me. And you just can't live without yourself, I don't care what philosophers say. I keep repeating the same behaviors, hoping for different results. And that, as we've all heard, is the definition of crazy.
I keep waiting for someone to wave that magic wand and create positive change. I keep resting on my good intentions. I keep hiding behind excuses: "that's just my personality," "it's genetic," "I can't risk it," "most of the time it's fine," "I don't know how to begin,". . . and my all-time favorite, "things aren't really bad and you're being too dramatic."
I'm not much good at trying new things. Not sure why--I've never thought of myself as a scaredy-cat. And I never, ever want to feel that I'm afraid of hard work. But maybe I am both of those things. I don't know. Compared to. . . but wait--I can't measure myself on anyone else's yardstick, remember? It's just me and the truth. And the truth stings.
I think I need to pray a very dangerous prayer: I need the status quo to be unbearable, to feel I have no choice but change. God, help me change. Make me uncomfortable. Help me slough off this pervasive, subtle laziness. Without your help, in five years I'll still be sitting at this desk in pants that are just a tad too tight, wishing I was somewhat more awesome. Again.

kitchen chaos

2010-02-12T08:22:00.000-05:00

Before...

During...
(first changes, painting walls and cabinets)

During...
(ripping out the old counter and sink...but at least I have doors, now)

During...
(new counter and sink, scraping backsplash)

During...
(counter and sink in, new corner door in, now just need to finish that backsplash...and get some new appliances...and refinish the window trim...)

a musing

2010-01-20T12:05:00.000-05:00

Wishing I could hurry up and get wise.

Well, you're looking particularly fine today--what are you waiting for?

I should sort out my sock basket. When's the last time I bought fun socks? Would my feet look better in stripes, or polka dots?

I've decided that good women aren't hard to find--we're just hard to keep. Meaning that it actually requires some effort.

I think people need a certain amount of adversity to flourish. Nowadays we're well-fed, soft, comfortable--amid floundering in painful, messy ways. Let's get more good clean dirt on our hands and drop-kick all those purse-sized bottles of hand-sani.

Can't you open your eyes and see that I, in all my backwardness, am actually ahead of them all? Ok, some. Ahead of some. I still got work to do. Who doesn't?

If it doesn't require effort, is it worth anything?

And tupperware. I need to sort my tupperware, too. Get rid of those lidless misfits.

My left shoulder pops funny when I roll it. Why is that?

Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results?
That's crazy talk.

for Jeff

2010-01-15T10:17:00.000-05:00

It's Friday, so I'm wearing jeans.
I decided not to go to Jeff's funeral service today, because I went to the visitation yesterday. I paid my respects, I said my prayers. I cried a little. I said goodbye.

But it's surprisingly hard, today. Everytime I see someone dressed in their funeral best, it's like a slap in the face, telling me "That's right. Death happened here. Don't forget." And lots of people are going, carpooling from the office, right about...now, in fact. I hear them gather, putting on their coats. The office gets quieter.
I'm going to keep working, going to keep moving, going to keep on doing what needs to be done. Because I don't know what else to do.

But it's hard, with this funny little ache that comes and goes, catching me just when I've started to relax.

Logically, I know what to do. Don't stuff your grief, but don't dwell. Do express yourself, but don't try to drum up exaggerated emotion. Do pray for mercy on the family. Don't say anything stupid. Do be glad that Jeff's in heaven. Don't for a moment kid yourself that you don't still want him here.
Don't don't don't. Do do do.

You know what I regret the most? That I didn't know him better. Perhaps I shouldn't feel that way--after all, if I'd known him better I'd be grieving harder now, right? Logic. But logic has little place here, today. Logic can go stuff it.

Where am I going with this? I don't really know.

I suppose this is the part where I roll out some beautiful rumination on life and death, something profound, or a statement of faith. But I'd have to go shallower in my heart to make that happen, and I don't think Jeff deserves that.

He deserves me at a loss for words.

the yardstick

2010-01-08T08:42:00.000-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen (and all you other people), I have a serious confession to make:

I scamper.

I do. I scamper. And on a fairly regular basis, too. I scampered to my car this morning, partially to keep the snow from overwhelming my shoes, but also just because I felt like it. I scamper a lot around the house. The hardwood floors make it easy. I jive, baby, sliding into rooms and around corners. I also tend to dance around when I'm in the kitchen, but that's another story. (I need to get curtains in my kitchen, too, but that's also a tangent.) Today, we focus on the scamper. It's not mature, stately, sedate, poised, or any of those important grown-up adjectives. And that got me thinking--what was wrong with me? I'm twenty-eight, for cripes' sake (which is quite different than for crepes' sake, which is much tastier and more French). Who was I to be acting so juvenile?

And then I realized I was falling into the same old trap again: measuring myself by someone else's yardstick.

Who I am is who I am, and the details of that are between me and God, not me and the world. God made me special. (And "special," too, depending on the day.) I've always done things at my own speed. That speed may be "slower" than some other people, but I'm the only one walking on my road. I've got my own speed limit, baby, and no one can tell me my road isn't as good as anyone else's. I'll scamper until I no longer feel like scampering, no matter how "old" and "mature" I get. Maybe I'll never stop.

I hope I don't stop. I hope I can keep remembering that the Bible never tells me to be suave or polished. I don't need to be sophisticated--which, to me, usually just feels worldly. Wait--I have read something in the Bible about being worldly...what was it again? Oh, yeah: DON'T.

Maybe I'm gauche and naive. Maybe I run around like I'm still in a ten-year-old's body. So what? I don't want to hide behind a facade. My mind and my heart are not childish. They still need work, no doubt, but we'll never stop growing. Isn't that awesome? We're all growing up, together. In our own way, in our own time.

And yes, I did just reference myself in the plural. Suck it up, cupcake.

house!

2009-12-30T11:56:00.000-05:00

Before.

After.

'Nough said.

a study in contradiction

2009-12-28T10:29:00.000-05:00

this eager, shy heart.
so ready to jump
off into the land of make-believe,
to fly with the imagination,
get caught up in any sort
of fantasy—but so slow to
react in the real world, slow
to connect, to open, to learn.
so wild and free and
tame and imprisoned,
so big and so small, so
loud and so quiet.

simple deliciousness

2009-12-23T12:58:00.000-05:00

It's time to quit ruminating and throw out a new favorite recipe of mine: Pork and Apple Bake. There's nothing else to say but YUM!

4 pork chops (I used 3). Mine were nice and thick, and so tender they practically fell off the bone. Tasty!
¾ cup hot water, apple cider, or apple juice
¼ cup brown sugar
½ tsp cinnamon (I also tossed in a little cardamom—it was a good call!)
2 apples, peeled, cored, and sliced. You could easily do 3 apples.

1. sear pork in frying pan in a little hot oil. A little! Maybe a tsp.
2. preheat oven to 375
3. place browned chops in a 9 by 13 pan, as spread out as possible.
4. sprinkle with salt and pepper
5. layer on apple slices
6. combine remaining 3 ingredients and pour over apples and chops
7. cover with foil and bake for 35-45 minutes, until pork is cooked through
8. if you want, pull the chops out of the pan, thoroughly stir a little cornstarch/water slurry into the juicy apple “gravy” and put back in the oven for a few minutes. It will thicken up. Yes, I know. This is usually done on the stovetop, but hey—why dirty another pot? After it's thickened, pour over chops.
9. Eat. Eat it all. It’s good for you. Or at least low fat.

Tastes great with couscous! I might try it with noodles next time—but honestly, the whole wheat couscous I used totally rocked.

as dumb as sheep

2009-12-21T09:33:00.000-05:00

I don't know about anyone else, but I know I can go from hip and intelligent to decidedly dumb in less than one point two seconds. It's like a switch that I can't control, a button that gets bumped into--and bam! Stupidity.

Fortunately, for the most part I contain the toxic spill within my own brain, and offer minimal evidence to the world in general.

Unless you happen to be the person I'm speaking to when the idiot light goes on. Sometimes I clam up, and make eight-year-old level comments. No sentences over five words long. (Yes, that was yesterday.)
Or worse--I babble. Things just drop from my mouth. Silly things. Or worse--mean things. Wit and sarcasm gone horribly awry.

I almost always notice when the light goes on, and try to act normal, casual--but the button has been pushed, and the system needs a reset. It may take three minutes, it may take an hour. There's no telling how dumb I'll be or for how long.

And somehow, I don't think I'm the only one who has this problem. We all have...ahem..."issues." Some have more obvious and/or violent ones than others, but we all have them. We're all royally screwed up. It's a switch we can't control. It doesn't matter how self-aware we are, or how good our intentions are. That idiot light will always pop up.

So how can anyone live in this world and not think they need a savior? Surely it's not too hard to see that we all need to be rescued from our own junk. Especially this time of year, when the regretable, illogical paradox of what we have turned Christmas into stares us right in the eye. It's the season of loving, caring, sharing...stuffing our faces, and trampling people as we rush to seize the deal. Doesn't that just make your skin crawl?

Mine does. Because I know it wouldn't take much for me to be just as stupid and selfish, much as my pride would like to argue otherwise.

We focus on the cheap, temporary gifts, and miss out on the greatest and best and most wondrous gift ever. The eternal Gift.
Freedom from my own stupidity. Forever. Someone to set me on my feet whenever I tip over. Forever.

Happy birthday, Jesus.

control versus apathy

2009-12-04T10:50:00.000-05:00

You know what the world tells me? We’re supposed to live believing that you can control your life, that bad things eventually happen to bad people, and good things eventually happen to good people—and that if you work hard, if you smile at the right people, if you invest wisely, then things will go pretty much your way. You’ll persevere and climb the mountain. You’ll find that soul mate. You’ll land in that wonderfully fulfilling job. You are so entitled. You're worth it.

But life has a nasty way of knocking those houses of cards over. Bad things happen to good people. Senseless acts of violence occur every day. Kids kill kids. People abuse spouses, children, coworkers, the elderly…you name it, someone’s hurting someone. Including themselves. Every ninety minutes, someone commits suicide in America. Natural disasters and accidents and diseases are everywhere. Why?

There is no why, not the way we understand it. Life is out of control. People cannot control one single thing. Not even the words out of our mouths. Even our breathing occurs without our volition. Thinking you can really control your life makes about as much sense as trying to sail the ocean in a paper boat.

Well, since we can’t control anything, what’s the point? Why should we do anything? Why should we care? Why should we act? Things will never change. Just sit this one out. No matter how hard you fight, or prepare, or save, it can all be knocked away in a moment. No matter how many people you try to help, there will always be a million more suffering. No, thank you. Opt out. Choose not to choose. Step away from the cruel coldness of life. And cover your insecurity and fear with snarky criticism. Get sarcastic.

If not control, choose apathy. One or the other. Those are your only two options. That’s what I hear in both ears, every day.

Bull.

That is a false dichotomy, a sinful lie that has been spread so thick we can barely breathe without inhaling it. And so many of use relax into its embrace. Brilliant young adults coast through life, making selfish choices.

And let me say, that makes me want to kick and scream and swear, and wish that it were possible to beat people into right thinking. But you know what—there’s a better answer than my stick of justice.

When we ask why, when we seek either control or its inverse, apathy, we miss the point. We’re asking the wrong questions. Complete understanding and control are not ours. They are God’s.

In the book of John, chapter 1, it speaks of the light (Jesus) shining in the darkness. And the darkness, depending on your translation “could not understand it,” or “could not overcome it.” When we want to fully understand God, when we want to absolutely know how and why—that is when God would no longer be God. A god that can fit so neatly into my pocket is no kind of Creator or Savior. A god that I can comprehend and therefore conquer is not God.

Book of Job. Love it. Because when God shows up, he doesn’t answer Job’s “why” questions. He doesn’t justify the tragedies that occurred. He doesn’t give a reason. He just says, “You’re asking the wrong questions, Job. You’re focusing on the wrong stuff. I am God. ME. Consider my majesty and redirect your thinking.” And Job says, “I see now—I’m so wrong. You’re so right.” And he praises, through the pain.

Job grieves. Job suffers. Job has crappy friends. Job gets shafted. Job endures with no foreseeable benefits. God does not dismiss that, nor does he provide a pat answer.

“Redirect your thinking, Job. Focus on me. Don't miss the point. Grieve, but grieve in my embrace. Struggle, but know that there is a reality so far beyond your struggles that expecting me to swoop down like a fairy godmother is ridiculous.” (Ok, so that's not really a direct quote from the Bible. Picky, picky.)

Bad things don’t diminish God’s transforming power. He is sovereign. Whatever this crazy world throws at you, he can and will use it for good. Sometimes a good so great you cannot even recognize it from your limited perspective. An ant standing in front of a mature oak tree doesn’t see a tree—he sees a limitless wall. And so it is with us, and life, and all the crap we’re stepping in.

You know what—crap is crap—and it is also fertilizer, over time. It stinks, but let nature work it, and it will help you grow.

Does a plant know it’s growing? Maybe. Maybe not, until it bears fruit.

I am out of control. I will grieve and I will hurt and I will wonder why. And I repudiate apathy and it’s cause—fear. I repudiate helplessness. Sitting still is for sissies. God built me for purpose, for action.

And yet—my life is not a sum of what I do. What I do is the effect, not the cause. My life is who I am while I’m doing it. What is true, what is real, is my relationship with God, wherever I am, whatever happens to me.

God does not call us to sit on our keisters and let life go by. Opposite! God calls us to strive, to work—to run the race, as Paul puts it. There’s no arriving. And that thought should bring not fear, but joy. I cannot control the path. I don’t have to control the path. I am released from that burden. My path will be smooth, rocky, hilly, muddy…

And always an adventure.

Run. Breathe. Don’t quit. Turn a deaf ear to the world’s crappy logic. And please, please, for the love of God, look beyond the why.

deep thots...and Charlie Brown

2009-11-30T12:53:00.001-05:00

Ever wondered just who, exactly, is living in your skin? God knows I do.
Seriously.
I ask him. A lot. The same question in a hundred different ways.
And he answers me. Not in one giant chunk of perfect self-awareness (which would undoubtedly be absolutely unbearable and would turn my brain to Spam), but with little flashes. And generally when I'm not all wrapped up in myself.
Funny how that works.

Sometimes, I am certain that God brings people into our lives to show us who we are--and just as often, who we're NOT.
Take yesterday, for example. Children's Sunday school. I serve as the coordinator for one of the services, meaning that I organize materials for teachers, collate offering and attendance records, and generally prowl the halls as an enforcer. (dun dun duh...) I also keep a finger on the opening-session worship band schedule and--my alltime favorite--arrange for subs when someone is out of town. (Ick.) It's pretty fun overall, until something gets discombobulated. I like the kids, and the teachers are great. I'm a good organizer, even if I don't get all uptight about exactly what the teachers are doing every minute of every class.
Breathe a sigh of relief.
But, due to the holiday, we were indubitably discombobulated this Sunday. I knew we would be, so I had plans....
Quake with fear, disorder, for I bringeth...Charlie Brown Christmas! Let's do the Snoopy dance!
Still have some extra time? No problem. I'll ad lib a ten minute talk about goats. Really. (It's a missionary project thing, I promise.) Then we can ship all the kids back to their rooms with their teachers for the last few minutes. They can talk about turkey, or Jesus...whatever. If I don't have enough teachers? No sweat. I have a Koosh ball in my purse. I can pinch hit as a sub.
So, I arrive a few minutes before the service starts, ready to get rolling.
And run smack into the director from the previous service. Who has a bit of a tendency to be a high-energy, high-stress micromanagement speciality item. I very nearly recoiled, but controlled myself before I could physically dive-roll and run for the door, and greeted her cheerfully.
"Are you doing a video? We did a video. Don't do the same one, some of the kids go to both services."
I nod, and smile. I knew that already.
"Here's the worship DVD since there's no band. There's no band!"
I knew there'd be no band.
She said a long stream of something else, but honestly, I tuned out. She had redirected her attention to one of the other teachers anyway, a sweet lady who often sings with the kids' worship band. Then I realized she was dumping the responsibility of worship time on my teacher. For my service.
Geez, lady! Hands off. I'm standing right here, perfectly capable of running my own service.
But I didn't say anything. And she soon left. And then I told my teacher she didn't have to sing. She could just relax, take a week off if she wanted.
And then I talked about goats.

The other director? A great person. Passionate, dedicated--loves Jesus, loves kids.
And so NOT like me. I get high energy. I get passionate. I like to serve. But, thank God, I'm generally organized and chill. Simultaneously. It was sweet of him to show me that.

going for broke

2009-11-16T09:40:00.000-05:00

So, I'm gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body and running down the sides of my face. It's chilly, so my nose is running. I've taken a couple hard falls; I know I'll be sore tomorrow. I wish I had cleats on; I've lost my footing several times today, once falling flat on my face, almost hard enough to knock the wind out of me. One of my hands stings; I've definitely bruised the meaty part of my palm this week; last week I broke a blood vessel on one of my fingers. Three weeks ago I earned a hand-sized bruise on my shin.

What on earth am I doing? I'm playing. Playing hard. Really hard. I've never been particulary nimble or quick, but by pushing hard I can keep up with just about anyone in this group.
Why? Why punish my body like this? Why try so hard when it doesn't really mean anything?

Because it's not punishment. It's love.

Love of life, and love for my body--for the fact that I can run and jump and hurl myself through the air and catch and throw and fall and laugh. It makes me feel alive. Truly, truly alive. Something in me loosens, for better or worse, making me just a tad wild and loud and flamboyant and perhaps, depending on your persepective, totally nuts. Those who know me are nodding their heads. Perhaps laughing. They've seen me like this.

So, even though I'll need a hot pad for my back after the game, I'll do it again. And again. Because life should be more than just sort of trying. Sometimes, you gotta push it. I'll never be an all-star, and I'll certainly never look attractive while doing it--but I do it, gladly.

I fall again, as three of us collide. I roll over my shoulder onto the cold turf, and laugh. I'm not the only one laughing. I bet God is laughing to, delighting in the fact that I delight in this body he's made me. And laughing because I look so silly.

guess what we're doing...

2009-11-10T08:44:00.000-05:00

I'll give you a hint. It involves fabric and a staple gun.

fragility

2009-11-02T14:02:00.001-05:00

And still and still and still
there is this restless seeker within me
and I had hoped she’d be dead by now,
dead and buried and at peace,
not writhing on this bed of apathy, not half-sedated by dreaming.
No, she must die.
Die—or be brought fully to life, to her feet, to dance, to sing, to make love
to chance to explore to leap so high into the air that
so high into the air that
so high into the air that
so high into the air that

And still and still and still
there is this restless seeker within me.

a moment with e. e. cummings

2009-10-27T14:00:00.001-04:00

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
e. e. cummings

wallpaper!

2009-10-20T10:00:00.000-04:00

Hey, check out what my awesome mom and I did this weekend...

I certainly wouldn't have been able to do it without her. She's fierce! So fierce that this pic turned out blurry--from the sheer force of her power!

I'm totally painting that little light fixture lime green...party time!

hairspray attack!

2009-10-19T08:20:00.001-04:00

Sure, I had better things to do with my time. But Halloween is coming...I had to practice potentials 'dos! It was the responsible thing to do.

And to be honest, I've always wanted to have hair that could do this...and, well, now that I can...

home decor delights

2009-10-06T08:24:00.002-04:00

Well, at long last, here's my sewing room--all painted and purdy. Specifically, everyone needs to see my awesome red wall! And... the vintage pattern pics. Love it!

And here's the spectacle that was repainting my kitchen cabinet doors. I don't recommend jury-rigging a spray booth in your garage the way we did, but hey--we got 'er done! And the kitchen looks fabulous. Doors and handles, now--as of this weekend. The squarish ones, for those of you who came to my open house and "voted" for different handles.

the last jar

2009-09-21T10:07:00.000-04:00

Today I'm eating applesauce straight from the jar with a long-handled spoon. Mmm. So tasty. It's my last jar--it's a good thing we're going apple picking soon. Life without homemade applesauce is just not quite right.
Why do they call it canning when everything is put into jars? Perhaps because jarring was already taken.
Another bite. Mmm. I knew adding a few dashes of nutmeg was a good idea.

the day of birth...once again

2009-09-16T08:50:00.000-04:00

Well, it's my birthday. That requires a post, right? I must say, I don't have anything super interesting to writeat the moment. But looking back, I noticed the massive "I'm getting older" post I did last year.
Well, I don't feel like doing that again. Partially because I haven't had any coffee yet today and I'm also fighting a cold, so I'm not very lively this morning.
But also because I just don't feel that way. At least not especially today. Some days I feel old and set in my ways and world-weary. Some days I feel ridiculously young and immature. Some days I feel like I could do anything. Some days seem an exercise in futility. Some days I'm traveling a million miles an hour, and some days I'm spinning my wheels.
In other words, it's just life. 27 or 28, doesn't matter. So, today I look forward to a little special treatment--some goodies, a song, perhaps a present or two. But I no longer expect birthdays to be days of magic--the way they used to seem when I was a kid. Like you'd wake up on your birthday and things would have changed. Somehow, someway, the page of the book would have turned--all because of the date on the calendar.
I kind of miss that feeling.
But this morning, as I was driving in to work, the sunrise was absolutely beautiful. Logically, I know it wasn't because it's the date of my birth. It was an awesome sunrise on Monday, too, I think. But the little whimsical part of my brain couldn't help but broadcast that God had just wished me a happy birthday, too. Like some kind of magic.

dots! and a not-so-orange kitchen

2009-09-01T07:59:00.005-04:00

Well, no one's perfect, right? Not even me. Ha ha. The orange color I chose for the kitchen wasn't quite...right. Solution? Tone it down by painting the one large wall the same color as the adjoining hallway. It works--without me needing to donate even more cash to the paint store. Add some fantastic curtains (hopefully soon) and I think we'll be in business. Oh...and cupboard doors. My dad has a little spraying booth set up in my garage, so hopefully I'll get them back up soon.

In other, more exciting news, check out this awesome fabric I picked up to slipcover my boring cream-colored chair. It's so purdy!

Well, I just realized I didn't take any pics of my freshly-painted sewing room. Pity. It's downright delicious--my best room yet! Instead, here's my favorite closet...

Don't know if I'll be able to keep it this way, but right now...shoe heaven.

on the job

2009-08-17T10:44:00.003-04:00

If anyone has ever wondered what I do at work...

surprise!

2009-08-17T08:25:00.004-04:00

What we found in my bedroom when we removed the outlets covers and prepped for painting. Zow! I think that's the best wallpaper yet.

And here's a quick shot of the room after painting...

It doesn't quite look like much yet, but we're getting there. (Don't worry, the too long curtains are only temporary, until I get my sewing room running again.)

new hair

2009-08-13T15:15:00.004-04:00

yep, the secret's out...

I have traded in my old hair for new hair.

finally

2009-08-12T15:17:00.003-04:00

Well. I'm on Facebook.

And the peasants rejoice.

It's funny, because I resisted it for so long. At first I didn't join because it sounded silly. And then I didn't join because lots of people kept bugging me about it. I don't respond well to peer pressure. And then I didn't join because I knew it would be one more thing that would tempt me to waste time.

And then today, for some reason, I popped online and joined. Bing. No big deal, no internal argument. I just said "Hey, facebook! Sure, why not?" And the deed was, as they say, done.

So come, and be friends with me. But not real friends. Just facebook friends.

I think I might be a crappy facebook friend. Just to warn you. You're still much better off actually calling, emailing, or--gasp!--actually seeing me. If your digitally social self can handle it. If not...well, you can wait hopefully for me to write on your wall. Who knows? It could happen.

cobwebs and other things in my brain

2009-08-05T14:07:00.003-04:00

So, I'm working today. Really. Pages are turning, emails are flying snappily about, manuscripts and ads and cover copy are all marching their way across my desk...
But that's not what I'm really doing.

What I'm really about is good old-fashioned daydreaming. I'm super good at it. It's a natural talent I've possessed since infancy. Just ask my mother. The difference is that the adult me can multitask. Hence the working and the dreaming. The child me just stared off into space and answered parental requests with "yeah" and "ok, I will" without remembering she had done so.

So what am I thinking about? Lots of things, really. Snippets of stories, song lyrics, things to do in my new house...

And what my ideal life would look like. Lifes, perhaps--since I always seem to come up with more than one potential scenario. Scary how often these comes to mind, since they generally bear little resemblance to my current, actual life. Granted, this has to be taken with a HUGE grain of salt. Dreams have a lovely way of scooting around anything messy, complicated, or potentially disastrous.

Start a home textiles business and B&B on Mackinac Island? Sure! You'll love dealing with customers--and you'll turn a healthy profit, naturally. It'll be nothing but super fun. Write novels in the slow winter season? Go for it! They'll sell great, and you'll always be inspired and content...living with your eight cats...not talking to real people more than once or twice a week...

Maybe I'm a little jaded. Perhaps sardonic, even. (no kidding, you say) I prefer to think that I temper my dreams with logic. Realism. Not pessimism. I don't think I've ever been accused of being negative. Nope. I hate whining. I hate hearing people (including me) sabotage themselves through excuses and doubts. And I see too many possibilities for pessimism to ever take root. Too many dreams, too many might-bes...

Crap. I've stopped working. I have to go.

ham on buns

2009-08-03T12:32:00.002-04:00

I've moved!

Saturday was terrific--thanks again to all my friends, family, a coworkers who lent a hand. We set a new record--three hours start to finish! And we only made one trip. Well done everyone!

And when we were finished, when the last box was brought inside my new home...we had the most fabulous lunch, provided by my mother. Good old fashioned Dutch ham-on-buns. She even got us the old-school raisin buns, which are somewhat hard to find. I was so happy. And that's a good thing--I believe I ate five or six on Saturday, over the course of lunch-supper, and a couple more yesterday...and one for lunch right now, in fact. Mmm. SO good. Almost a balanced meal all by itself: fruit, grain, meat, dairy. And I'm glad to not have to cook just yet. I did find most of my kitchen yesterday, but I'm not quite there yet. Soon, though...

As soon as I run out of ham.

a little update

2009-07-29T07:57:00.002-04:00

I hope to get pics of the house-in-progress soon, but to hold you over until then, here are the paint names that have gone up in the last four days:

autumn orange
pot of cream
wilmington tan
celery sprig

I hope to do one more room on Thursday before calling a brief break and moving in. For that room, I currently have it narrowed down to three choices:

swan sea
harmonious
opal silk

So much fun! I love paint names.

and we're off...

2009-07-15T12:32:00.006-04:00

I'm fully prepared for my life to be swept up in a furious whirlwind of chaotic activity. Ha. Is anyone ever truly prepared?

I've tried to prepare. I've seen this day coming for the last few weeks, and have cleared some cobwebs and moved some mental furniture in an effort to be ready. Well, ready or not, the day has come--tomorrow I close on my new house.

Gulp.

I get possession at close, so the work will begin instantly! I have two weeks to get as much done as possible before moving at the end of the month. Exciting! Scary! Crazy!

I am very grateful to my family, especially my parents, who have really jumped in to support me and help me do this.

Here are a few pics of the house as it currently looks...stay tuned for pics of work in progress and be ready to witness the transformation! (Note: the hideous linoleum in the kitchen is staying. I love it.)

Love Triangle

2009-07-06T11:21:00.000-04:00

I want to hold you in my arms
all day.
And all night, beloved one.
Beloved, two.
My wide-eyed little girl,
my canny old woman;
my oil-and-water mix of naïveté and skepticism.
You are.
Demonstrative and demure, somber and sprightly, tough and tender,
grouchy and gracious, adept and awkward.
You are.
Show me the corners of your mind,
the maze in which I can lose my way
happily.
I will embrace it all—
the simple complexity of you.

the wherefore and why of poetry

2009-06-17T10:57:00.002-04:00

Funny thing--I'm super busy today, scrambling to get work done...and I run across this quote by Jung (see right sidebar). So perfect.
I need to work quickly and well, but without hurrying. Without giving in to that frantic mindset.
And so I read this little tree poem to myself, the one posted below. Slowly, and out loud.
Ahhh.

Back to work, but not back to the mental hamster wheel. It's been torn apart by the image of sun-dappled branches and cool, dim, green spaces.

make like a tree and...

2009-06-15T12:54:00.002-04:00

Black cherry, blue spruce
Chestnut.
Sycamore, sumac, and sassafras
Dogwood.
Cedar and cottonwood, poplar and pine, hornbeam and hickory
Beech, birch, box-elder, basswood
Elm.
Apple and aspen and ash
Walnut and willow
Maple and mulberry
Osage-orange and oak
Fir.

still waiting for house news...

2009-06-10T08:17:00.003-04:00

...and waiting...and waiting...

Fortunately, I've got lots of other things going on to keep me from dwelling too hard on my wait.

The coolest and scariest thing is that this summer I'm coaching our church's brand-new junior high girls basketball team. We'll be playing in a summer league starting in July.

Please pray that we don't get slaughtered. I know what you're thinking: "Gee, Spools, you're so optimistic!" But truly--we have a lot of work to do and a short time to do it, especially considering our practice this week (yes, we only get one per week) was canceled due to a severe weather warning. And I'm worried that my inexperience as a coach will also hurt the girls.

But I am also excited and look forward to our next practice. I have a brimming bucketful of ideas. I had nearly forgotten how much I love basketball, and can't believe I let almost a decade pass without playing hardly at all. It's a crazy cool game that rewards hard work and passion. And you get to run into people. How can you top that?

how I feel today

2009-05-29T08:02:00.003-04:00

My offer on house number two was accepted yesterday. The "official" acceptance will be next week, and then it's off into the inspections and all the crap-tastic paperwork. :) But at the end of it I just might own a cute little house. And that's pretty exciting.

holiday treat

2009-05-22T11:10:00.003-04:00

I was running through some old material this week, and I ran across one of my favorite poems, by Heather McHugh. Too good not to share!

Language Lesson, 1976

When Americans say a man
takes liberties, they mean
he's gone too far. In Philadelphia

today a kid on a leash ordered
bicentennial burger,
hold the relish. Hold

is forget, in American.
On the courts of Philadelphia
the rich prepare

to serve, to fault.
The language is a game in which
love means nothing, doubletalk

means lie. I'm saying
doubletalk with me. I'm saying go
so far the customs are untold,

making nothing without words
and let me be
the one you never hold.

the ten-year

2009-05-20T15:28:00.002-04:00

1999. Party like it’s. Yeah. Uh. Uh.

It’s probably no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I’ve never been cool. I don’t have “it,” whatever “it” is. The ability to be hip and outta sight is somehow not part of my DNA. I’m not, thank God, quite as socially awkward as I was when I was seventeen, but I’ll never be quite on. Perhaps because 80 percent the time I don’t care if I am or not. There is the occasional stab of longing to fit in better, but in general I’d much rather relax into simply being me and not get my knickers in a twist about meeting other people’s expectations or fitting neatly into a category. I don’t know how, for one thing—and I think the energy it would require to learn was lost down that same drain as that elusive period in junior high when every girl is supposed to learn how to put on makeup and do their hair. I’ll never get that back, either. Drat.

But life goes on. And I still believe that I would have missed out on a significant number of good things if I spent the time worrying about what my hair looked like. For example—every time I drive with the windows down. Glorious. But I digress.

As the years began to trickle by, I always said I had no massive expectations for my ten-year reunion. But deep down, I did. I still do. It’s tiny, but it’s there—that ridiculous but hard-to-kill hope that somehow, magically, I will enter that room filled with people who knew me when my cheeks were round with baby fat and I will be transformed into coolness.

This is not Truth, and I know it. But the thought persists. Fortunately, I have other thoughts, too, and I use them to do battle with the expectations of this culture and Hollywood. I do not always win outright, but I will never surrender. I am magnificent. I am lovely. I am cherished. I have been carefully crafted by a loving hand. I am not screwed up. Repeat. I am not screwed up.

And my value is not dependent upon the works of my own hands, but upon the price Jesus was willing to pay to set me free from sin. All the prom queens and clique princesses in the world can’t put a dent in that.

The truth is, we grow neither better or worse as we age, but simply more ourselves. I wish I could remember where I read that, because it’s groovy. And I think it’s right on the money. When I stand in front of my classmates, I won’t be better, or more interesting, or more worthy of attention and popularity and hoopla—I’ll just be more me. That’s it. Plain and simple. Take it or leave it. There’s only one opinion that ultimately matters to me—and it surely doesn’t come from the BCHS class of 99.

Now all I need to do is remember that. And smile.

merry-go-round

2009-05-19T12:25:00.003-04:00

Yes, the last few weeks have been a whole lot of up-and-down and round-and-round as I have begun to seriously shop for a house.

Two weeks ago I viewed a great house, put in an offer, went through the whole business of counter offer and counter-counter offer and mortgage pre-approval and at last reached an agreement on price. Hypothetically, I had just bought a house.

One week ago, this great house failed the hard core Spoolstra family inspection. I had to walk away from the deal, and I was back to square one.

Today I have three or four promising listings in hand and hope to get inside them soon. And the carousel ride continues.

Excuse me, it's time I got back to reading Home Buying and Selling for Dummies.

no words needed

2009-05-05T08:23:00.001-04:00

love song

2009-05-01T11:38:00.003-04:00

It’s about time you started loving me.
I want to share your breath,
feel your eyes on me as I cross the room;
laugh without restraint, knowing you won’t think me too boisterous
and keep silent as I choose, knowing you won’t think me cold;
not worry about showing my disparate sides, not worry about seeming too competent, too small, too strong, too weak, too intelligent, too ignorant, too…

I want to fall, knowing your arms are there to catch me. I am weary of catching myself, weary of holding strong and dreaming on empty.

Yes, it’s about time you started loving me
Whoever you are.
I don’t know what’s taken you so long.
I don’t know how such a powerful desire can exist with no object.
I don’t know why I feel this way.
I just know I do.

the dress

2009-04-23T08:38:00.004-04:00

Ok, so I'm no scaredy-cat. Bugs--no problem. Small animals--no problem. Freakish weather--no problem. Walking alone up a dark country road--not a big deal. Power tools--bring 'em on. Contact sports--no blood, no foul. Public speaking--doesn't throw me.
But this dress...

This dress is a little scary. I know, it may seem strange. I have no problem with pulling off slightly odd, funky clothing--especially things I've made myself. And this is just a simple black dress. Ha. It's stretch satin. It's quite snug. There's no hiding my curves in this thing. And I don't do sexy. I do fun--maybe even cute. But not sexy. It's a bridesmaid's dress, so I'll be standing up at the front of a church...with dozens and dozens of people looking at my keister. Gulp. I'm going to need to summon all my courage for this one.

We Are Many

2009-04-20T11:43:00.000-04:00

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.

~ Pablo Neruda

new blog!

2009-04-08T10:55:00.003-04:00

Hey, everyone! Check out my new blog:
http://spools-sewing.blogspot.com/
Dont' worry--The Amazing Adventures of Wonderspools isn't going anywhere. I've decided it's time to throw a little more of my skillz (yes, with a 'z') out there for y'all to see.
There's not much there yet, but I hope to include pics of all of my recent and favorite projects soon...so stay tuned!

breaking news

2009-04-06T10:57:00.004-04:00

No grad school for me next year. Thanks, everyone, for your prayers and words of encouragement.

Guess I'm going to have to find something else that's a bit challenging and scary to fill the void.

Perhaps base jumping? Either that or I'm going to chuck it all and take off on a 'round-the-world adventure with nothing but a baseball cap, a pocket knife, and a pack of chewing gum.

applesauce

2009-04-06T10:01:00.006-04:00

I'm eating applesauce out of the jar with a long-handled spoon. It's delicious--part of the batch I canned last September. I've pretty much decided I make the best applesauce ever. Mmm. Yes, please shield your eyes while I glow with inappropriate pride.

Would I think it was so good if I hadn't made it myself? I don't know. There's just something so wonderful about making applesauce. It is ridiculously simple, with a great lack of required precision. You peel and core and slice a giant pot full of apples (I prefer Empire), then toss it on the stove with a little water, sugar, cinnamon, and a little nutmeg (if you're me) and let 'er cook over low heat until the apples are easily mushed. And then, my favorite part: the smashing. No blender or strainer here, folks. Just me and the potato masher. So good.

Then pint jars are filled, lidded, and processed in a hot water canner. Also super simple: giant pot of boiling water? Check. Thirty minutes? Check. Pull the jars out, and let them sit on the counter to cool, listening for the delightfully satisfying "pop" sounds as the lids seal. One doesn't seal? That's ok. Just throw it in the fridge and eat it sometime within the next week.

The jars that do seal? Leave them on the counter so you can bask in their loveliness for a day or so, then put them in the cupboard to be enjoyed when apple season is far, far away. Like today.

the jet set

2009-03-30T08:41:00.003-04:00

Well, I'm back from my venture to the far-off land of Tacoma, Washington. Here I am with my parents, who were also visiting my sister--and little Kellen, the newest edition to our clan. I know you can't see his face, but he's smiling, too. Trust me.
Either that or he was asleep. That, in my opinion, is one of the best things about newborn babies--they sleep a lot. Sleep, eat, sleep, poop, sleep, sleep, eat...And oh so cute the whole time. Much cuter than I would be if I engaged in similar behavior. But I'm not jealous--I can hold up my own head, and sit up--and even walk. Yeah. Take that, cute little baby.

comparison study

2009-03-11T08:22:00.005-04:00

Well, there's been some speculation in the family that Kellen looks just exactly like his big sister did when she was born. Let's check...

Kellen Douglas

Avery Mae

Hmm. I'm not sure. Babies all kind of have that same squishy little face. I'll have to compare again in a few weeks or months, maybe. What do you guys think?

it's raining babies!

2009-03-09T08:44:00.006-04:00

...and also congratulations to my sister Andrea and her husband Doug on the birth of their son Kellen. Kellen was born last Tuesday afternoon, but I've only just received pics today. Yep, it's a baby, all right. And a drastically cute one, too. Here he is with his big sister Avery.

Only two more weeks--no, less than that--and I'll be out there in Tacoma to meet him personally. I can't wait. No one else have a baby while I'm gone! My schedule will get all backed up. It's already chock full.

congratulations!

2009-02-27T10:03:00.003-05:00

Congratulations to John and Shelly Becker, now the proud parents of a delightful little girl, Marney Faye Becker, born February 26, 2009! No pictures yet, but I'll do my best.

She's going to be on my future softball team. It's already been decided. My fierce and gigantic niece Avery is my first team member--probably at pitcher, though she might have a center fielder's arm on her. We'll give little Marney Faye a few sprint tests before we place her, but I have a feeling she'd be a good third baseman. Maybe second base. We'll check her reflex time, and how steady her judgment is under pressure.

Now...here's the true question: Shelly's mom and my mom are first cousins. So what relation are Shelly and I--and what relation am I to Marney? Hmm. Second-thirds divided by six cousins with a double twist of lime? Not a clue.

Throw the party confetti!

proof!

2009-02-20T08:30:00.003-05:00

Hey! I really did go to Florida...see? Check out those two cool chicks! It already seems like a long time ago...

a pair of ragged claws

2009-02-13T15:04:00.004-05:00

Well, it's nearly time for the big V-day. Not that I really mind. It's such a silly holiday--there's no way it could have any lasting affect on my sensibilities. I just enjoy making fun of it. It presents such a large target.

But still, I cannot allow the holiday--coinciding so closely with my return from sunny Florida--to pass without a poetic moment. Without further ado, one of my favorite passages from Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

the whirlwind

2009-02-04T08:47:00.003-05:00

Suddenly, and without warning, I find myself caught up in a whirlwind again. I suppose I was due--after all, I'd just had a few post-holiday weeks of sedate living with lots of time spent at the gym and with my temporary housemates.

I'm going to Florida on Saturday. This was decided...on Sunday. Crazy! I'll be back on the 12th, and will head back to work on the 13th and straight into a full weekend, then on into another busy work-week and then...

But I'm so far from complaining that complaining isn't even on the mile marker sign. I am excited, and all nice n' loose, ready for some spontaneity and a bit of the old bob-weave.

And, I must admit, as much as I love Michigan year 'round, I'm ready for a few days of sunshine and warm air.

Anti-Valentines Day

2009-01-23T12:41:00.004-05:00

Well, as some of you know, I have a special, heartfelt, and very tasty Valentines' Day tradition.

I make hate cookies.

I am always in need of more suggestions, so feel free to chime in! I'll give you a couple weeks to think about it and give me some really good zingers.

I've got a list posted just outside my office, much to the delight of the editorial wing. Here are some of the ideas my colleagues have given me this week:

fragile
thanks for nothing
wimp
can't spell
fantastically dull
UR dumb
when pigs fly

One of our editors thought that all of the phrases had been written by bitter women. Oh, no! Not at all. As I was quick to remind him, this is an equal-opportunity hate fest. Please, join us.

things I've decided

2009-01-16T11:23:00.003-05:00

1. I'm going to go gray naturally.
2. I'm addicted to chocolate, coffee, and doing things my way.
3. It's worth it to invest in good underwear and good jeans.
4. If I'm going to shed 10 pounds of fat, it's going to take more than just eating mostly healthy and exercising a bit.
5. I'm going to need new running shoes soon.
6. I do not regret my decision to avoid the bar scene, or to never get drunk.
7. I'm happiest when I'm being productive AND getting enough sleep.
8. I should ride my bike more. As soon as the snow melts.
9. I like fire.
10. Guys are scared of me.

running down

2009-01-14T12:41:00.003-05:00

I have a gourmet chocolate-covered caramel on my desk. Right now. It's from another editor, who received the box as a thank-you from an author. We like authors that do that.

My goal is to sit and smell the caramel for at least ten minutes before I eat it.

Mmmm....ahhh.

This is hard for me. The more I like something the faster I want to eat it. Chocolate and caramel...yeah, I like. I LIKE. Mmmm....ahhh.

This is a bad habit, and one I want to break. Along with needing three heaping spoons of brown sugar in my oatmeal and not being willing to say no to free doughnuts of good quality.

I know, I know. This sounds like just another New Years' pipe dream. All the health and diet commercials have been getting to me, right? I hope not.

The truth is, I've been meeting my exercise goals for nearly three months now, and have yet to feel my pants loosen at all. I can lift more and run farther that I could last fall, so my time has not been spent in vain, but all the treats and parties of the holiday season have worked their usual black magic and held me captive to sugar.

Mmmm...Ahhh. Smells so good.

Will I be different this year? I don't care about being thin, but I do care about feeling healthy and fit. Can I be different this year? Cue my theme song.

...Running down a dream / That never would come to me...

Who knew Tom Petty could be inspirational? Mmm...aaahhh. Good, it's been ten minutes. Now, let's start with a nibble...

time flies

2009-01-07T12:41:00.003-05:00

Christmas 2006

Christmas 2007

Christmas 2008

negligent...

2009-01-05T08:40:00.005-05:00

Yes, Yes I am. Tough luck, Charlie. But why would I waste my time blogging when I could be spending my time with family--including one very awesome little niece?
I mean, I love you guys--but she's just so darn cute. Here we are on the day after Thanksgiving, getting our Christmas trees. Yes, we are rocking crooked hats. I think it's going to be the new style. Forget tilting the baseball cap--that's all been done before. We're going after the winter-hat tilt! And thumbless mittens. I wasn't quite cool enough for that one, so I left it to Avery to carry the trend.

neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!

2008-12-16T08:56:00.003-05:00

Yep. I think the title pretty much says it all. I can stop writing now.

But I won't, not just yet. In case you're wondering: yes, that is a quote. It's from A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle, one of my favorite authors. I love Madeleine simply because she's real. Her characters are real. Real people that screw up and are confused and want to do the right thing but don't always know how. (The flying unicorns and singing stars and strange entities like It are just a bonus.)

"Mom," Meg Murry says, whining a little. "Charles Wallace says I'm neither one thing nor the other--neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!"
"Who cares?" says Calvin. "You're Meg, aren't you?"

Sometimes I'm a lot like Meg. Even though logically we know that people don't fit neatly into pigeonholes, we still try. We still find it confusing or disheartening when we can't fit ourselves into some tidy category. I get frustrated, feeling that I fit nowhere.

Logically, no one "fits." I know, I know! Since when are emotions always logical? "I'm neither one thing nor the other!" I cry with Meg.

Who cares? I'm me. Me, with all my diverse bits and pieces. Deep down, I know that I am better off this way. God made me this way, and he's not in the habit of screwing up. And I do belong. I belong to him.

kinda queasy

2008-12-08T17:36:00.003-05:00

Well, sports fans, I just submitted my first grad school application. Gulp. I feel sort of like that time I went to prom by myself...
Ha ha. Ok, not that bad.

I should find a way to post my writing sample for y'all to see. It is definitely the largest cohesive chuck of polished writing I've ever done. 40 pages! Hopefully it's good. To be honest, I've read it so many times I don't even know. Well, except for that new ending I stuck in at five o'clock yesterday...

Yeah, guess what I did all weekend. Yep. Nothing but. Ok, so almost nothing but. I did get out for church and coffee and powerflex (gar!), thankfully, or I would have gone mad. But now it's done. It's out of my hands.

Where's the Tums?

shhh! it's a secret!

2008-12-01T08:51:00.003-05:00

Shh! Quiet! Come here--closer, closer. Want to know a secret? Do you? Come under the table with me, and I'll tell you. Oops--watch your head. Shh. Ready?

Deep down inside, I'm a romantic. Gasp! Shock!

It's true. I may not cry during movies, or particularly like babies, or send 'touching' greeting cards, but I'm vulnerable to romance nonetheless.

This very morning, as I backed the car out of my garage at 7:39, I was positively floored. The sun wasn't quite up yet, so everything was that silvery gray color--except for the white, white snow. I'd say six fresh inches. As my little Cavalier pushed its way down my long gravel driveway, the snow was deep enough to crest over my hood, sending silvery white waves of flakes up before me. It was lovely.

And then I noticed the trees.

The lower half of my driveway is wooded on both sides, and this morning it was a fairy land. Every branch of every tree was coating with several inches of snow, all white and graceful and perfectly still.

I had to stop the car. My heart practically pounded with the force of all that beauty. I guess I'm not always so tough, after all.

yeah...

2008-11-18T08:15:00.004-05:00

I haven't posted in a while. I know, I know. The fam's in town, the leaves need raking, the Christmas presents needs sewing, the cookies and pies need baking, and...
I've decided to apply to grad school. Pretty much need to get all that done right now.

Oh, no. I'm not quite last-minute. Just...relatively close to last-minute. It's a good thing I'm so good at the hustle. What degree? Oh, yeah. I've decided to go for my MFA in creative writing, with a fiction focus.

More details to come, as I get them. Things are still pretty loosy-goosey. My job this week is to select the schools I wish to apply to and set up a schedule of what's due when. And figure out what to send as my writing samples. I have a lot of rewriting to do! I tend to start something and drop it as soon as anew idea comes along, which is fine if you're just writing for recreation. But now I need something...well, something at least mildly impressive...

I voted!

2008-11-04T08:55:00.003-05:00

Yes, here I sit, proudly sporting the "I Voted" sticker, which handily coordinates rather well with my blue shirt. (An accidentally perfect wardrobe choice, may I add. I was not thinking of such matters when I opened the closet this morning, I assure you. No, I thought only of wearing comfortable shoes, in case I ended up standing in line for an hour or two.)

I am reminded of the "Be Nice To Me: I Gave Blood Today" stickers that are handed out when you donate blood. Unfortunately, about half of the time I line up to give blood, I end up with the slightly lame "I Tried To Give Blood Today" sticker instead. (Stupid iron test! What's one little point, huh? So close...and yet so far. But I digress.)

What I'm wondering today is why I haven't ever seen a "I Tried To Vote" sticker. Surely they should exist, right? Somewhere at some point in time today someone will get turned away from the polls, right? It must happen. Well, I think they deserve a sticker, too, just for trying.

Go vote!

for girls only...

2008-10-30T08:37:00.004-04:00

OK, so guys could read this too. I don't particularly care--but don't say I didn't warn you!

I just wanted to share my everlasting delight at finally finding a bra that actually does what a sports bra should. I'm not large chested, but I'm large enough that the wimpy things they sell in Target and MC Sports just don't cut it. I demand dominance over gravity! Not much is less comfortable than feeling yourself bouncing with every step as you try to jog a couple miles. It's a de-motivator, for sure and for certain.

After endless--yet admittedly sporadic--searching for a bra in area stores, I finally and impulsively did something I've been tempted to do for a long time. I went to the Title Nine website and ordered The Frog Bra.

This puppy is 32% lycra. Zow! When I opened to package and tried it on, my initial response was simple and definitive. I said (out loud, even, to the chagrin of my cat) "Wow! I haven't been this flat since junior high!"
And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing when I'm jogging. Or riding my pogo stick. Or jumping rope. Or whatever else I want.

cubes

2008-10-30T08:20:00.003-04:00

They are reconfiguring some of our offices today. I am so thankful I'm in a room with a door. It's quite chaotic out there. If I'm not careful, someone's going to throw a bookcase or desk or something in front of my door and trap me in here forever.

Then again, if that happens, no one would bother me and I could get lots of work done. Or take a nap. Whatever.

You know, I like my office. It's my own little brightly-lit world. I have a lamp with a fun red shade to soften the fluorescent light, lots of quotes and pics on the walls, and a rug shaped like a roadster tucked beneath my computer desk. I usually have my door mostly shut, in order to play music without needing headphones--which wouldn't work, since I bounce between two desks. Think My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when she tries to walk away from the desk while wearing her hands-free phone thing. Yank!