july heart (summer in the hills, 1.3)

A few days ago I sat down to write a post, just an little update about July and me, that turned into a different sort of essay entirely, something that surprised me in its truth. That feels like something worth sharing. 

Hello friends! Everything is okay!!! Summer is unfolding faster than I thought it would, hot and hazy and full, and here I am in July with my computer and a cup of coffee and some French music in the background, with my heart beating loud and asking where are the hours going? Where are the weeks going? I am honestly, actually shocked to find myself a week into July, less than a month left before I go back to Wheaton. This is such an in-the-middle summer, a weird sort of almost-adulthood right before a last year of college, a last few months of knowing a little of what will come next, my heart still reeling from its new state of singleness, strange and unfamiliar. Lots to think about, lots to pray about, lots of new kinds of creativity spinning and filling my time. Lots to write about and almost none of it actually written down.

I have discovered this summer, this July, that it is near-impossible for me to write at home (except in the morning, at the kitchen table, with earl gray tea, when no one else is home–and as I work most mornings, this hardly ever happens enough to count).  Somehow the softness of my room distracts me, invites me to snuggle into the corner of my big pillowy bed with a knitting project and F.R.I.E.N.D.S, or a book and a cup of tea. In my moments of energy, my out-of-the-bursts of motivation, you can usually find me at my rotary cutting station (makeshift, messy, on the floor for lack of counter space) or my new sewing machine, puzzling my way through a quilt block, baffled by how hard it is to get seams straight, welcoming the new and gentle challenge. Writing is something I often about doing but rarely do until I find myself in some sort of perfect hour or two, with just the right light and just the right caffeinated beverage in front of me (as mentioned, generally earl gray tea or coffee from the French-music-playing cafe).

I’m not sure why this is. But I want to change it, I really do, and all of the sudden my July heart is all warmed up and running towards this kind of storytelling, beating and singing as loud as summer thunderstorms, WRITE ME DOWN! WRITE ME DOWN! And so I’m trying to commit to this space anew this month, to open up my heart to be witnessed, to write life down. I want to show up, and to keep showing up, over and over again, to write things that are true and honest and real even when I don’t know, not yet, how to make them well-crafted. I’m learning to trust, as my theater mentor has often told me, that the story (/text/Scripture/instinct) is true whether I feel it in the moment or not. Writing has a power outside of me, outside of all of us I think. Marie Howe called it midwifery, in the master class I took with her, writing poems like giving birth. I’m not quite sure what that means yet, but I’m trying not to be afraid of it, to show up to it, to let God move in me and use this gift he’s given me to show me actual things about myself.

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dog-ears, no. 1

I’ve never really been a bookmark person. I’ve always tried to be, I think. I always take the free bookmarks from museums, from libraries, from random Shakespeare in the Park fundraisers that I drive to on a whim at which I recite the Henry V prologue in front of strangers (you mean you don’t do this, too?) One of those bookmarks is actually sitting in my copy of Wuthering Heights right now, precariously marking my progress about one-third into the novel. We’ll see how long it remains in use.

But no, I’ve never really been a bookmark person. I’ve always preferred the more low-budget, low-stress, high-impact technique: the titular DOG-EAR, folding the top corner down, using the book itself to remember your place in it. It leaves a crease, and it looks sloppy if you’re not careful, I suppose, but I’ve always used it and probably always will. What likely started as simply seven-year-old me trying and failing to find a bookmark to mark her place in whichever number of the Boxcar Children she was rereading on a give afternoon has become, now, a habitual practice. Somehow I feel like I’m not supposed to dog-ear, like people who love books are supposed to care for them in a way that does not include dog-ears, but I sort of love the feeling of opening up a book I’ve reread over and over, maybe Bloomability by Sharon Creech or Theater Shoes by Noel Streatfeild, and seeing the places I’ve left off before. It gives the book a sort of history. We all love used books. Dog-ears create used books, people!!

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my salad days (summer in the hills 1.2)

I write this sitting beneath a quilt in my Pittsburgh bedroom, cross-legged at the end of the bed so I can be right in front of the open window. It’s been open all night, since around midnight or so when I gave up on an early night’s sleep and needed, suddenly, to see the sky. It looks different here, in Pittsburgh, than it does in Wheaton–here, stars are visible, trees are taller, and I could see last night’s little half-scoop of a moon just by sitting at the window.

I write this sitting in my bed on a Saturday morning. It’s just past nine right now, and I think what woke me up early enough to be able to write coherent prose at this hour was a phone call from my workplace, but I can’t be sure because I haven’t put the number in my phone yet, and if they told me yesterday I wasn’t needed this morning, and I didn’t know if that phone call was their number, and I was still sleeping when they called, it’s okay if they meant to call me in today and I neither answered nor showed up. Right? Of course right. I hope.Read More »