a welcoming committee of one

She sat on the welcome mat and let everyone who entered step over her, step around her. 

I think she forgot to attend the welcoming committee training course.

I love a dog with a sweet disposition.  When I knelt to take a picture of her she met me with her nose. The focus point on my lens caught it and there you go. This look is one of longing...longing for some love, a gentle touch, some company. It endeared me to her. I would visit her store everyday if I could.
I would take her home and make her mine.

On second thought...maybe she doesn't need the welcoming committee training course.

Anyone who can draw you in with her gentle nature, soft touch, and hopeful, positive eyes has all the welcoming touch she will ever need. Don't you think?

******

Usually this is where I'd welcome the weekend, but today I am not going to do so.
This weekend marks the end of a week long vacation and thus the packing up and going home.
So sad. :(

But happy weekend for you all. Enjoy! See you Monday.

waiting

 

Waiting. Feels like the space in between my exhale and my inhale. 

The stale remnants of air that stand in my lungs waiting for the exchange of old for new.

I am waiting to inhale. 

Waiting for something new.

Ever been there?

Not the waiting-for-a-red-light kind of waiting.

Or the waiting-for-your-child-to-please-hurry-up-and-tie-her-shoe sort of waiting.

Or the general kind of, when-will-the-waiter-bring-us-our-food?

Not that kind of waiting.

 The kind of waiting that sits you in the dark for a timeless moment.

Land is nowhere in sight. You seem to be adrift on a tiny raft in the middle of the sea and the coastguard, or a shark, you do not know which, could make its appearance any moment...any moment...any moment. The kind of waiting that leaves your stomach punched, like I said, for that inhale of something new.

That kind of waiting. Ever been there?

 I am learning that waiting creates tension in this very weak muscle of faith of mine.

I know it is weak because I am reminded of it when I am gifted the opportunity to wait.
(thankyouverymuch)

The tension forces a little self reflection...like how very impatient I am.

How sometimes I just cannot hold all of the answers.

But oddly, perhaps purposefully, waiting is moving me to stillness.

A slow release of all that toddler-like kinetic energy.

Of all that noise in my head and unrest in my heart.
Releasing the venom of anxiety from my veins.

Because when I am still I discover another Person by my side, sitting with me,
whispering to me that I never alone, never forgotten.
That His timing is not bound by my earthly expectations or rushed by my impatience.
It is enough that I am not waiting alone.

This is the gift that waiting brings. Now I know.

the corner of Church and Murphy

They spent their childhood years on plot of land their parents bought and built on. 

There were some good memories at the corner of Church and Murphy. 

We met on a Saturday morning, all of them in one place at one time, eager to have their pictures taken.

Because rounding up all SIX siblings who live all over the map, is ONE BIG FEAT.

The highlight of our time was when one of the brother-in-laws showed off  his very cool motorcycle. 

 

Ok, I got a little geeked out about all the cool reflections. I've never said this line before in my life but, It was a beautiful motorcycle. Almost made me want to own a black leather vest and riding boots.

I have always envied those with large families. I assume holidays and events are packed with lots of cousins, lots of noise, voices, and food. When I was younger I wanted lots of kids of my own, in theory that is. (Then I had two and that was enough.) I also assume that there are unique relational dynamics and bonds that make those gatherings also one-of-a-kind. From someone on the outside looking in I find it pretty special that this family could, after many many years, make it a point to come together and be with each other to capture the moment on camera.

Here they are standing right outside the fence of their old home.
(Which is now a retirement home--we were afraid to disturb them.)

Side note: I wondered what it was like for little "big" brother to be in a sea of sisters?
Can you imagine?? I'm a girl, but geez, to be a brother surrounded by FIVE sisters. My heart goes out to him. Ha! Can anyone relate?

Perfect 10

Those of my friends who have older sons had told me that ten was the perfect age for a boy. He would not yet be an obnoxious preteen and the last remnants of his boyishness would still be lingering. I waited for ten. I waited with a twinge of excitement for the arrival of my perfect ten year old boy: one that would never complain, test, negotiate, negate, whine, or pester. He would be completely compliant, all the time, never forgetful, and able to reign in his impulses with superhero willpower. 

I mean, I wasn't asking for much.

And then he turned ten. Overnight an alien ship abducted my son and replaced him with a different version of my son for which I was not prepared.

I wondered what my problem was. We were battling each other at every turn, I was wiping more tears than normal (mine and his). I was picking up more dirty socks, still reminding him to flush the toilet, arguing over bed times. He was testy and pesty. Whiny. I was frustrated, at a loss as to what was going on. I needed a manual.

I do not know when the realization hit me but I rejoiced when it did: he was in a major growth spurt and he was, what I call, "out of his skin". Uncontainable in his emotions, impulses. Disagreeable at every turn. He was "off", out of whack. It was his usual growth spurt protocol and I just had failed to prepare myself, or recognize it for what it was when we were in the middle of it. I sighed a resounding "DUH".

And then I stopped freaking out. We made our way through it. We survived.

This kid is almost eleven now, but he is still ten. When I came across this picture of him at the pool from the other day I stopped to observe how much he had grown.

My heart swelled with love and pride. Can I just boast for a moment and tell you what an amazing kid he is? Thoughtful, kind, protective, curious, hard working, honest, sensitive, funny, tender-hearted, smart, ingenious, clever. He is enjoyable to be with, fun to play with, easy to talk to, and kind to everyone. Sure he still forgets to pick up his dirty socks, flush the toilet, or stop pestering his sister, but he is, as my friends told me he would be, at a perfect age.

He is my perfect TEN.

Now, anybody out there with an eleven year old?


*******
Vacation update: he has carried his own in our rounds of Nertz. Was a major contributor to the 500 piece puzzle. Has slept in the same big bed as his sister and kept her safe from bears (yes, there are bears in these parts that have been known to come into houses for the ice cream in the freezer). Has not complained about sharing a bed with his sister. Asks me every second when we are going down to the lake. Loves being here with his Grammy and Papa. Loves loves loves the mountains, just like his Mama. The first thing he declared when he got out of the car here: "I can smell the trees!" Again, he's just the best kid.

Hellooooooo???

Anybody home?

It's Monday. I'm off playing away from home for a week but not to worry, 

I'm still keeping house in my happy little blogging home.

Hope you peek in.

Have a great week!

xoxo

props to the prop girl

We met the other day as the sun was going down. She brought her own props. Her idea, not mine.
(My brain was so summer fried that I just showed up with my camera.)
The thing is, is that those wings are not just a prop for camera sakes.
They are attached to her 24/7. If you know her, then you are nodding in agreement.
It is surprising that she has not yet flown away!

I love these next two...the profile in her wings...

At one point in the evening she said, "Take a picture of my beautiful pink gem!"

Uh, ok, your the boss! Will do!

Her other special prop? Basket with tea set. 

How very girly huh? I think so.

I must give props to the prop girl. She made her little photo shoot so very fun and creative.
(Even if we were kicked out of the shoot location...but that's another story.)

Welcome to the weekend!
I am leaving Sunday for a week-long family vacation up to one of my favorite places in the whole wide world. I will post some things during my week away, because I will have internet access, and because I am so prepared it's scary. I'm a rock star.

Bean's pickle of a story (watch and learn)

THIS is a pickle.
And this is a true story...

On a recent trip to my Auntie's house I was the lucky recipient of the last pickle in her very large Costco-sized pickle jar. I was happy nibbling on it while playing outside with my sidewalk chalk...my large pink stick of sidewalk chalk that my Auntie had also given to me.

While I was tra-la-la'ing, skipping around, drawing with my chalk, I absent mindedly lifted what I thought was my pickle to my mouth to take a bite, but instead found myself licking my piece of chalk! It's true. I am not making this up. I giggled when I realized what I had done and came to show my mom. I wanted her to show my funny goof to everyone on her blog. (And she is has kept good on her promise.) Here is the proof...

So. Just in case you ever are confused about the difference between a pickle and a piece of sidewalk chalk, like I momentarily was...

...let me give you a little demonstration:

Pickle on your left. Chalk on your right.

And btw, chalk is not tasty. 

Pickles are, and I keep telling my mom to buy them for me but she keeps forgetting.

Ta-da! Thus concludes my pickle story. 

I hope that you have enjoyed it.

Bean

xoxo

note from mom: I love you Bean. You make me laugh! And I am NOT buying that Costco-sized pickle jar like your Auntie did, because it will last forever in the fridge and I will get sick of seeing it. Why do you think your Auntie was so eager to give you the last pickle?! 

vanilla is so....vanilla

This is not the first time I have gotten all geeky over photographing cupcakes. (Remember these?) I don't know what my thing is? Maybe I shoulda been a food stylist, or one of those photographers that goes on assignment to capture a picnic/party/bbq for some Martha Stewart Living feature. 

But no, I'd pass on taking the pictures of the bbq'd chicken or the paella. Not interested in the protein dishes. Must be the frosting I am drawn to?

We had just finished a birthday dinner for my "nephew" and while the real dessert was being organized these two little cupcakes sat and waited for my "niece". She is the vanilla-cupcake-with-vanilla-frosting girl. She favors it because she does not like chocolate. Like she spits it out if she accidentally finds it in her mouth. Spits. I've seen her do it. (My mouth dropped in horror.)

There were two little cupcakes set aside for her because her brother, the sane one, was celebrating his birthday and had requested this...

Soft, moist chocolate cake with a thick layer of dense, rich, chocolate fudge frosting. 

People.

People, people, people. I ate my slice and then the other half of my husband's. I did that thing where you scrape the crumbs and frosting off the plate with your fork. Those two little vanilla things were nothing to me. Nothing.

There is no space in my head, no corner, no ounce of understanding as to how someone could not like chocolate. I try hard to understand, but really I can't.

Maybe it has something to do with some recessive gene that pops up without warning, like when you birth a red headed baby and no one in your family is a red head. It's a little shocking.

My little niece's mother was my roommate for four years in our younger days. I know her taste buds favor a good red wine and chocolate in any form. We always go for the chocolate dessert option when dining out together and I know my chocolate chip cookies were her drug of choice in our college days. 

And I know my niece's father as well. Many times over the years I have piled many scoops of ice cream on a fudge brownie for him. I know he loves seconds, would even eat my uneaten portions. (People who like chocolate do that.)

In other words, my niece came from a very thick chocolate gene pool and came out holding the vanilla bean instead of the cocoa one. A fluke? 

A mutation? JK.

But seriously. Why on earth would you eat two cute vanilla cupcakes when you could have a thick slice of chocolate birthday cake?

A little day trip to Fort Ross

In 1812, they landed on the northwestern coast of the Americas eager to expand upon their sea otter fur trade industry and explore what the Americas could offer. They traveled across the seas from Russia and  could not have landed at more beautiful spot along the American coastline. 

If you were a Russian sailor, fur trader, or one of the Alaskan natives they "brought" with them, you would have first built your settlement, your fortress, to protect you from the Spanish that had come from the south, or the natives that had been there since time began.

You would have established a home.

And a place to worship your god in the orthodox way you were used to.

Someone among you would have fashioned a bell to call you to worship.

(And it would ring two centuries later on a foggy July morning.)

Your settlement would extend beyond your fortress and travel south as you built your farms and your community. A walk along the bluffs, with a majestic view of the ocean, would be your daily dose of medicine. You would never tire of the beauty as you thanked God for leading you to such a paradise.

 

As those of your own passed on you would find a small hill to claim as a resting place. You would mark their graves with the orthodox cross, watching the community of the dead grow in numbers: a reminder that your home is not here on earth. 

You would have grown used to the hard work, the mild weather, the dance of fog and sun in the summer months, the rhythmic sound of the surf, the salt on your skin. Your life among the mild, peaceful, coastal  elements would have been in stark contrast to that of your country of birth.

Two hundred years later as I stepped foot inside their fortress, and walked the land they once occupied, it was not hard to imagine that they would have welcomed the change.

*******

For more info on Fort Ross, click here. For an explanation of the grave crosses, click here.