Murphy, we're not in Brooklyn anymore

out my window, Brooklyn
3a.m.
rap video shoot

out my window, Kansas
3p.m.
jr. high marching band practice

Mrs Imiss

Today I almost called my grandma. The flood of "I miss" began as the "oh, yeah, I can't because she died" wall came tumbling down. Dam. (Damn dam) *sigh*
Must be the rain outside my window and the drop in temperature bringing on the melancholy mood. All I can think about today is what I miss...
*grandma, even her propaganda (this election would have made her crazy)
*baking (I think I have some brownie mix to pacify me until I can get the kitchen in proper post-move condition for making some Irish Soda bread)
*Brooklyn
*the Pacific Ocean (oh, dear... any ocean or body of water larger than the giant puddle in my Kansas driveway)
*the kitchen in my last home, with its high counters and deep sink and drinkable tap water
*Mr. Softee (more later on the ban)
*My nieces and nephews
*feeling like the Queen of Ireland, mastering driving on the wrong side
*looking over at the King of Ireland in the passenger seat

Happy Birthday, baby sister

you were the first baby I ever held, the woman who I look up to, and the inspiration for more than you'll ever know
think about the hard road these girls traveled before they became best friends and don't lose hope in the power of the bond that begins in moments like these

**deep sigh**

so much has happened since I last posted.
Mostly, my intention to "start writing" is relentlessly nagging me, and the "but where to begin?!" answer is becoming swallowed up in the pleas of that voice inside...
And something happened to motivate me... I was inspired by the sweetness and creativity of a woman who is busier than I (with 4 darling children to attend to). A woman who I feel a connection to although our paths have never crossed (as far as I know) and maybe won't in this life. But her story moved me and motivated me in ways I just cannot explain, which I find is common for a spiritual connection... God just places people on our hearts and says "I'll tell you later...".
So much of what holds me back from telling my story is that it doesn't look pretty right now. A few close friends can see the dazzling beauty that I see in the hope of it, but for the most part it is still messy and rarely enjoyable to put in print. In my less faithful moments I am reminded that the only difference between being devoted and pathetic is the outcome... if the story ends well it is romantic and inspiring, but if it's not a happy ending the one holding on to hope looks like a big loser. Maybe I hesitate to share the beauty I see until there is more tangible evidence of it... since the current state of things seems to taint the love story that came before, rather than being part of a bigger story that is just beginning to unfold. Sometimes I just get tired, and I wish THIS wasn't my story, that it didn't include such ugly things. Sometimes I am stunned by disbelief that this is really happening.
As I process this, I think I understand why I feel so close to Stephanie and her story. It's because she is about to wake up in the midst of the ugly part, the part that she would never choose for herself, the part that will truly test her and stretch her and hurt her, but will make her privy to a facet of who God is that most will never know if she will just keep looking at him. She will have moments of agony and dread that break my heart to even think about. She will have nightmares recalling what happened and wake up still in that reality, wishing that she could wake up and stair at the ceiling as her husband assures her "it was just a bad dream". She is on the cusp of something that I understand and would not wish on anyone; when the tranquility of your lovely story is shattered, and the future is more scary than anything you ever imagined. But the other thing I know is that she will have some moments, (maybe not for a really long time) that she will be so cared for and loved and refined that she will catch herself more than once being glad for this. The terrible, agonizing, transforming power of grace will astound her when she gets the meaning of it on a different level than she could have ever known had her story lingered any longer in "happily ever after".
I think that could be the difference between a story and a testimony.

Local Lunch

Today was one of those days that made me feel like I never want to even consider leaving Brooklyn. It is the closest I have ever felt to my childhood fantasy of living on Sesame Street. (more about that someday...)

I took Murphy (my silly little dog who needs dog friends lest he start believing that he is one of the cats) to the dog run at a sort of near-by park.
On the way home, we stopped by the farmer's market and picked up some random goodies, and came home to make the most perfect meal... braeburn apples, strong cheese, hard-boiled egg, wheat bread and wildflower honey, all from farms within a short drive of NYC. (if it looks like it wasn't much of a feast it's because I gobbled up most of it before it occurred to me how beautiful and "photo worthy" it was.)
I feel so eco! (so much better than a Big Mac)
And for dinner I can fry up the purple potatoes and red onions... yum :)

Happy Birthday Dar

March 11 was Dar's birthday. I don't remember what the date was that she died... I know I was 14 and I remember that the sunset was extraordinary that day. My dad had picked me up from work and we decided to make a detour down PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) to watch it over the ocean. I still remember him pulling over and saying "it looks like the gates of heaven are opening". We just sat there and marveled as the sky grew darker and less colorful.
It reminded me of that Lifesavers commercial from the 80s where the little girl and the dad are watching the sun set behind a mountain... he's saying "going, going, gone." and she whispers "do it again, Daddy".
We drove home, went in the house and someone (I think it must have been my mom) said that they had just gotten a call, Dar died.
Really, she had been gone for a long time, a prisoner in her broken body. Personality and character lost to Alzheimer's. And I remember feeling relief that it was over for her, not my own relief but as if hers was so great that it spilled all over the earth and comforted us. She was free from the prison, and her Carl was welcoming her home after being apart for more than half a century.
She wore her wedding band until she died, and I wear it as my wedding band now. It's been through a lot in both of those marriages, and it's worn and nicked and scratched. I hope it lasts to be a reminder of love and devotion for another generation. The engraved date is still visible on the inner edge, actually it says "C.B.W. to G.E.T. March 25, 15". I'm sure it wouldn't be hard to find the date that G.E.T. went to C.B.T. (my sister knows every date and time and place, and what everyone was wearing...). But I'd rather just remember the date that she was sent to us. March 11, 1894.

The Isles of Shoals

This unlikely couple met at a little island hotel on one of the rocky islands divided along the border of New Hampshire and Maine. She was a waitress and he was a scholar and Shakespearian actor from a prominent family. Fortunately, opposites attract, because this pair are my great-grandparents (that's Dar on the right!).
My Grandmother told the best stories of their adventures together... she being the one to change a flat tire when the car broke down, and her mother-in-law scolding him because his wife preferred the company of "the help" in the kitchen to that of the high-society guests at a dinner party.
I have their wedding silverware, and I use it every day. The thought of her standing over a sudsy sink, laughing with the servants (she had such a servant's heart) makes me smile and makes washing my own dishes a little more pleasant.
Maybe this Spring I'll make it to this place that was so special to all of them... I've always wanted to go. It's not so far from Brooklyn...