l'art de vivre

It is a dream of mine (I have many of those in case you can't quite tell) to live in a community with artful people. And no, I don't mean a commune of painters, writers, musicians, and actors who merely want an excuse to not work. And I don't mean an early 1900's Paris neighborhood with Hemingway, Pound, Moore, Eliot, and Lawrence. I mean a hub of sorts for creative conversation, hospitality in forms of feast, making things, care for creation, music, books and developing ideas that to live as a disciple faithfully means to live in an artful and imaginative way. A community where sound spiritual counsel is readily available. Where coffee conversations take place in a home and not a Starbucks. Where a party is for celebration and not getting wasted. Where academics and the arts are not separate things. Where theology and imagination go hand in hand. Where everybody has a vegetable garden and a compost pile. Where people are looking everyday to be interested in the same things Jesus was interested in. Where our sights and goals are not for the amassing of things, but the advancement of care for hungry, lonely, criminals, strangers, and overlooked. Where music is stripped down and raw. Where nursing homes are scarce. And cemeteries aren't overgrown. Where every day someone wants to know what's going on with that family down the street who's son was arrested the other day. Where every day someone wants to know what happened in Darfur yesterday. Where learning and study are essential and encouraged. Where people can ride bikes all the time for transportation because it's fun. Where we have guests to share our food and couch every day. Where someone else's laughter is always heard in my home.

There was a time

All great stories start with "there was a time," and that is not why I began this story with it because this is not a great story. It is a sad one, but not a great one.

There was a time when I was a 79 lb. ten-year-old who could eat whatever I wanted with no fear of disease, sickness, or weight gain. There WAS a time. Now here I am twelve years, sixty-ish pounds, and two ER visits later and now I can't even have a coffee with French vanilla and a waffle without crashing. Yes, it is a sad story. I like to think I take relatively good care of myself. I always have a water bottle with me. However, the responsibility of cooking for myself comes with challenges, and habits become sporadic.

Now I have to WATCH what I eat. I always thought that's what old people do. Not me. I'm in college, my body's invincible, right? This is no fun.

In my daydreams, I...

am an accomplished swing dancer, jazz singer, and theatre actress

live by the sea -- not the beach -- the sea

travel to coffee shops, bistros, cafes, small bookstores and taverns to read excerpts from my writing

teach things that I love, and get paid for it

take my children on a tour through Paris (without a nanny!)

have lunch with JK Rowling, Joy Williams, and/or Tina Fey

have read all "the classics"

like beer

know how to knit and sew everything

cook every day

can play a piano that is not out of tune

can swim

have a few precious little brunettes running around calling me mommy and learning how to knit and read and play musical things

Probably the only empathetic cynic you'll ever meet.

“I’m expecting great things from you,” he said to her as they stood alone in the front yard of the white house that early summer. She doesn't remember what she said, if she said anything at all, but she did think about those words a lot later on as she went to bed that night.

It was a beautiful landscape out in the west part of the county. And a large farmhouse stood by the road.

It was Saturday night. She was about two months shy of her eleventh birthday and awkwardly skinny like a bunch of toothpicks glued together. He was sitting on the patio swing. So she headed out the back door to see him. He was there with his arms crossed watching the sky post sunset. She skipped out the door and landed by plotting down right next to him.

It was a bit past dusk, but still light enough to see outlines in the distance. It was quiet.

“I’m gonna have to go and get the paper,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll walk with you,” she said.

They made it about two thirds of the way. Once they reached the scuppernong vine, he stopped to take a breath, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it the rest of the way. You’ll have to go yourself and get it for me.”

So she hopped the rest of the way through the yard and across the gravel road to the mailbox.

He was waiting for her when she returned, and she handed the paper to him.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good girl. I’m expecting great things from you.”

And he died the next year.

She always remembered that story because it was the story of her life. How many times had she or would she begin a journey with someone who believed in her, but for whatever reason, would not continue the journey with her. And she would finish the journey alone.

Maybe that's why she's a cynic. Maybe that's why she never trusts for anything, maybe that's why she never expects people to stay or follow through or actually do what they say they will do or be what they could be. Maybe that's why she never expects things to work out. Circumstance, time, and frailty will never allow anyone to finish the journey with her. How many times had she started a journey with someone she thought would stay with her, and for whatever reason, they wouldn't finish it with her, and she went the rest of the way alone?

People will ask you when you think your childhood ended, hers was over when she was eleven. When fairy tale dreams and imaginative happenings became void of possibility by the introduction of death into her world.

A pondering while gazing through wheezing trees

"You think the dead we love ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?"

So profound to think that our wounds of lost loves stay with us forever. So true to think that we only see in retrospect how that pain seeps into every part of our lives. How the influence of a person's life and the influence of that person's death are marks upon our lives forever.

And how sometimes the pain is like a soul-sucking Dementor erasing every good thing we've ever known.

And how sometimes the memories of pain are the forces that urge us on.

And how sometimes those aches are whispers of things we'll never have.

And how true the statement that you will laugh again when something is really really funny.