the name game

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

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

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

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

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

a thoughtful thursday

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

the bedside notebook

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

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

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

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

may and I

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

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

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

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