Sunday Best.

The neighborhood third grader reminded me of something on Sunday. She did a cart-wheel in her front yard and clapped afterwards and stated plainly and matter-of-fact, "I am a cheerleader." I admired her from my knees with a hand on a weed and smiled. Her little four-year-old cousin began picking dandelion heads from our yard. I told the two girls to come on over with the dandelions. I showed them how you can color the sidewalk with smeared dandelion, acting like the dandelion head is a crayon, spelling your name or creating shapes and coloring them in, or play tick-tack-toe. Third grader said, after she colored yellow all over her grandmother's white painted, cement bench, "I am an artist." I echoed her confidence when I told her she was. She then asked me to watch her and her cousin race along the side of our houses. After two races, she looked at me and said, "I am a track star." And so the story goes, throughout our sweet exchanges there were a few more wonderful claims to personhood. It was reviving to be around. She never once doubted her abilities. She never once flinched with any name she called herself.
I don't need to write about discouragement and it's ugly un-naming power. We know that by rote. I was reminded by a third grader on Sunday just how absolutely true every moment is when you really believe the good things that you are. Adult or child. I smile as I write that now.

Funeral Songs.

This is probably far too in advance for my own good, but I do tell Ess Gee that I want a party at my funeral. Not for the typical reasons one might think of to celebrate at a funeral, ie. I'm with Jesus Forever stuff, I'm living in a mansion behind pearly gates stuff, I'm permanently made a harmonious singer in the gospel choir for the Lord stuff. [Honestly, I give very little thought to heaven. Minus what I imagine eating all the time without any repercussions. Cake frosting.] I have decided to keep a running list of most fun songs that should be played loudly at my funeral--simply because these songs need to be heard with my personality in mind, my friendship's in mind, my delight in a good time in mind, and my delight in a good time with the people I love (or have loved) in mind (most importantly). Katrina and The Waves--Walking on Sunshine. Manfred Mann--Blinded by the Light. Okay, it's just two so far, but really, you could put these on repeat and then go home knowing you were loved by me and remembering we only live once, so make it a good one.

Half way through half this book.

I picked up Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years yesterday from the library and I am half way through. I'll finish it today, but here's what I am understanding as of now. He is writing about writing "story" and its basic structure. Not a poorly written story, but a good one. He structure's good story with this concept--A character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it. (There's more, but this is the bare bones of it.) So with this stripped down definition he starts to examine his life. He sees his life is not filled with good story. His life was safe, comfortable, made, uneventful (and all these adjectives are coated with fearfulness). What I am gathering from the rest of the read so far, is this: Great story is all around you, but it's up to you to engage in it. Particularly the structures of what make up a good story are all around you, but we just wind up too afraid to engage in them. I say this because Don only began to feel like he was beginning to live out a good story, when he met up his father after 20 so years of not talking to him, started trying to lose the weight he carried for most of his life (and then actually losing it), pursuing a woman who was only at one time a friend of a friend. His father, his weight, this woman--already in place. He just needed to act on it. And then I, of course, start asking this question, "What have I been putting off?" Because that's what reading half this book has caused me to wonder. Don was putting off talking to his dad, losing weight, really engaging with this girl. So last night, I started doing some things that I have been putting off. They really haven't been fun things, persay, but I need to do them to live out a good story, or at least a better one.

On the Look Out.

I pulled a big, white, cotton blanket out of my washer today and wished for a clothesline. Then I wished it was dry and warm enough out for clothes to air out on a clothesline. I paint clotheslines, watercolor pictures of them. It's a funny obsession. I find myself jealous that my neighbor has a clothesline, but never uses it for clothes. He uses it for his mop. Who uses mops anymore when there's the Swiffer, the sponge on a stick, your foot and a washcloth? Along with my obsession with clotheslines, I have an obsession with nearness. It has been coming back in droves lately. My nieces are not near enough, the grocery store isn't near enough, the mountains are not near enough, now isn't near enough. The place I go to that I obsess about has all the walkability of a Jan Karon's Mitford Series, but not so small town that it doesn't hold hiking trails 5 miles away, or a Contemporary Art Museum down the block, or a short ride with my niece to the zoo. Hangup's are funny, annoying things. My husband and I went to hear an architect read and discuss his new book about the architecture of sacred places. He compared all the great mediator's, ie. Moses, Muhammad, Jesus, Buddha, etc. as these connector's between God and people. He said sacred places act as sort of mediators/connector's for people/community in hopes to gather near to God. He said that in his research, one thing he noticed all sects of belief share when they designed a mosque, temple, sanctuary, was that each one of these places said, "I AM HERE." They created a serious presence in whatever spot they built upon. Be it in the middle of a field, the heart of the city, a place on a hillside---all sorta called out, "SEE ME." I don't compartmentalize well. I think all things blend, integrate, intertwine with one another. I say this because maybe I feel far away from people, things, a bookstore, because I feel far away from a presence or direction that says, "I am HERE. See ME." God's a little blurry...and I am, too. My husband's nephew just got a beautiful tattoo that was created with a new ink out on the market...the color is black cherry. His tattoo looked so much more defined, distinct, dimensional due to black cherry ink. God is probably more like black cherry ink, but right now I'm seeing him kinda like the ship anchor tattoo on a 75-year-old man who got his ink done when he was 18. Waaaaaay different. I've noticed lately that I have used phrases like, "pull the miles between us in" and "hive in", and I've used arm motions like I'm gleaning oats in a field. I've never gleaned oats in a field, but I'm imagining that that's what I'm doing. I'm wanting to make the universe smaller, and in the center of this smaller universe I'm needing a mediator/connector that says, "This way. Come here. You got it. That's it now." I'm full of journey, but no destination. Sliver sightings of destinations are good every now and then. I'll let you know if I see one:-).