the invocation of a beginning.

I am not an early morning person, but there is something magical about the space between night and dawn. 

The other day I had a coaching session early in the morning. I left the apartment when the sky was just beginning to show her colors for the day and I found myself rolling down the car window so I could hang my iPhone outside to snap a picture. I immediately sent the picture to some of my people.

“Here you go, ladies.” 

I wasn’t the only one taken with the sky. There were others who would post their own version of the same view. Some caught it earlier, before the light made a show. Some caught it later, when the crisp blue sky took over the scene, the clouds a trail of white and gold in the background. 

It was the clouds that got me. When I first saw them, their underbellies were layered with pink and gold and a violet so deep my eyes couldn't pull away from the beauty. All I could think about was it's a new day — it's a new day.   

Coincidentally, it was also a new month

Ray Bradbury says that October is its own country. I feel this statement on a molecular level. October is my restart. It’s the time of year where I can breathe, where the heat of summer begins to break with the smell of fall. 

It’s where morning light doesn’t feel so foreign. 

Maybe it’s because that magic space between night and dawn feels a little longer. The winter months nip at the heels of time and demand preparation. 

Root down, they say. Take up room. 

I stretch into my full being during these months and it’s October that ushers me into the new season. 

You made it, she says. Breathe deep. Close your eyes. Remember the rhythm in your soul. 

Outside my window, the sun pushes her way through the clouds. I’m awake before the light takes over again, and this morning it’s about the way the gold seeps through and threatens the rain. It won’t push it away completely. There will be some rain that falls. But it’s quick and light — an invocation.

Sunshine rain, a friend called it a few months ago. 

Whatever it is, I know it’s a blessing. I smile and breathe in the new beginning. 

Posted on October 4, 2016 and filed under The Memoirs.

The Margins

I was going to write this morning. 

I got up with plenty of time, but then Trulee decided that this morning would be as good a time as any to demand two walks within thirty minutes and my time for writing disappeared. 

It wasn't that big a deal though, because I would have time later. I would be home by 6:15, and there would be space for this — space for words to form and thoughts to percolate.

But then around lunch I felt a migraine coming and for the rest of the day my focus was simple: drink as much water as possible. Take a lot of deep breaths. Stay awake during the meeting. As soon as I walked in the door of our apartment, Russ grabbed my hand and pulled me to his lap. 

"I just need sleep..." I said. 

He pointed to the corner of the living room and I blinked a few times before noticing the glider / swing he put together while I was at work. Internally, my heart bounced a few beats. Externally, I only kind of smiled. 

"I didn't even notice it when I walked in," I said. I looked at him and nestled my head in the crook of his shoulder. "Almost as if it's always been there...." I could feel my head close in, the vice-like grip squeezing tighter. I sighed and pushed my way to the bedroom, and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. 

That was five hours ago. Even after I let myself rest, I still had the residual foggy-brained feeling of thoughts not fully connecting. It's what happens when migraines take over completely. It's a good 24-48 hours before I can really breathe with relief again.

But I'm here now. 

More and more, writing within the margins is how the words are won. 


Posted on October 3, 2016 .

Knowledge of Magic

The sky is crystal today, the sun shining so bright it hurts to look at the blue. If I look outside long enough, I can see fall. The colors are changing. There's yellows and browns and reds. It's also quieter. There's a stillness that hits whenever the temperatures drop below 80.  

I'm scrolling through Spotify, searching for songs to add to a playlist I haven't touched in years. I've spent the last hour deleting songs that don't describe our season anymore — songs speaking of daughters, of theology I don't agree with, of trite explanations to a life filled with nuance. 

I get a text from Russ. 

I found a song, he says. 

I click on the link and tears begin to fall. 

Well, I traveled a long way
And it took a long time
To find you
But I finally found you

Alabama Shakes knows how to get to the root of it, and I laugh thinking about when I first added the song to our list four years ago. Four years ago, the title was different. Four years ago, I thought our wait of two and a half years was excruciating. Four years ago I thought there was no way I could wait another minute. 

But I sure did find you
And He blessed my soul.

We're refining the songs for our baby shower. In a little over three hours, some of our closest friends and family will gather to celebrate a wait that's nearly over. Our little lion man is coming home in just over a month, and every day it feels like we're careening into another stage of our lives at a faster pace than before. I know this like I know the season outside: my emotions are warring with each other. I'm wanting to savor what I have now while simultaneously speed toward what (and who) is coming. Just like the change of season, it's gotten quieter around us. We're rooting down. We're preparing. We're stealing glances that mean the same thing: This is really it. My heart is kinda freaking out too. After all of this you're still my home. You still feel like earth and sky. 

We grab each other's hands when we pass in the kitchen. He's making cake balls and I'm eating cereal. We know the truth: we're building our roots because the air around us is about to explode with magic.


Posted on October 2, 2016 .