pottery, bob ross, and trolls

i am in desperate need for some levity here, and i think you, faithful readers, are as well. so, here is what i dreamed last night:

first, the preface: last saturday, my friend, dana and i painted pottery. i was feeling all artsy for a change, and decided to create my own little drawing on a tile. i worked for two hours on this sucker, layering colors and outlining shapes like so, til i had created a van gogh-esque masterpiece. (yes, seriously.) a girl can't get instant satisfaction with pottery-painting, though. i have had to wait a whole week to see my little tile all fired up and ready to be exposed to the world.

today is the day.

so. last night, i dreamed that i went with dana to pick up my masterpiece. the people at the pottery place had broken it! and, to compensate, they had somehow transferred the image to a huge posterboard, which i could purchase for only $150 more. dana felt sorry for me, so she agreed to pay for it. so. here i am with this posterboard of my pottery tile, and though i am happy to have something after waiting a whole week, i'm a bit disappointed that it's not my sweet little six-inch-by-six-inch tile. then, i look a little closer. hey wait, i think, i didn't draw trees on my tile! and why is there a babbling brook meandering alongside a meadow? and where are the stars i painted? oh, there they are, hiding behind snowy mountain caps.

my van gogh tile had been marred by bob ross happy little landscape! and what's more, frollicking amongst the happy little trees, was a troll! i definitely want my money back, i think, and my broken tile.

and then i woke up, of course.
now, i am on my way out the door to pick up my tile in real life. and i'm praying an extra special prayer for its protection...

we cry mercy

nothing breaks my heart more than violence against the children. i cry here in my cubicle about a broken child pornography ring. what else can we do but cry and cry mercy?

and what do we do with the evil? how the hell is it ever overcome? where is this kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven?
the more i demand answers, the more they never come.

and so i pray. that's all i can do. (ever.)
etty's prayer is my prayer now, 60 years later.

"it is sometimes hard to take in and comprehend, oh God, what those created in your likeness do to each other in these disjointed days. but i no longer shut myself away in my room, God, i try to look things straight in the face, even the worst crimes, and to discover the small, naked human being amid the monstrous wreckage caused by man's senseless deeds. i don't sit here in my peaceful flower-filled room, praising you through your poets and thinkers. that would be too simple, and in any case i am not as unworldly as my friends so kindly think. every human being has his own reality, i know that, but i am no fanciful visionary, God, no schoolgirl with a 'beautiful soul.' i try to face up to your world, God, not to escape from reality into beautiful dreams--though i believe that beautiful dreams can exist beside the most horrible reality--and i continue to praise your creation, God, despite everything."

no one here but us chickens

sometimes--all the time--i wonder, how did i get here? how did i ever find myself in the midst of community like i have now? sometimes, i sit back and laugh. or cry. or scratch my head.

tonight i smiled.

julie and i had dinner at la paz. times are good for her: she is getting to be a songwriter! inspiration is present and overflowing, and i brought buckets.

what a great night.

there is always so much to talk about when things are hopeful. we crisscrossed subjects, but the heart of each came back to (surprise, sparrow?) mindfulness.
we spoke of thin places and veils lifted and the sanctity of here and now.

i am awake, julie said.
i yawned and agreed. me too.

we listened to her newest songs (they keep coming, like provision) in my car for an hour...
the music goes round and round, your feet barely touch the ground, julie sings.

exactly.

things unseen

the days have been cooler. i spent my lunch hour outside with etty and a pepperoni pizza lean pocket (scalded tongue).

etty's words feel different outside. they feel all the more alive, maybe. and i keep forgetting that i can't meet her for coffee after work; that she's been dead for 60 years. because she chronicles the stuff of life, and that stuff does not change. it is timeless. eternal even.

and i spent a long time with my aunt mary helen's family journal the other day, transcribing stories of her people, of her parents' people. eyes and voices--lives--are in her words, and so i'm writing alive these people. grandparents. barbers. uncles and rumrunners.

and soon, i'll be on to ireland, to piece together what it means to write life alive at all. madeleine l'engle says to cultivate your work and remain brave in it, and i must say that this kind of resurrection is overwhelming. life kicks hard against its parameters. it will not be tamed.

(we're all alive here.)

in my place

nothing was ordinary today. my typical tuesday morning meeting found me telling my coworkers that i will soon be leaving...going to this ireland place, and. well. not selling the next big thing in ccm anymore.

and then i found myself participating in an adopt-a-mile adventure at work, with garbage bags and gloves, picking up passerby trash on a busy street.
and then a sparrow called me and made me smile wider than i thought i could today.
and then i killed a hummingbird, as my niece alyssa and i drove down the highway, en route to blackstone for dinner. nickelback was on the radio; i think that was the real cause of death. we gave him a brief burial in the bushes behind the restaurant. no sewer or dumpster funeral; it was pure ashes to ashes.

and now. at 1:30 am, my firstborn niece is sleeping in my room, and i almost don't want to go to sleep tonight...
for one night, i am absolutely certain that nothing in the world can touch her. she is safe. carefully kept.
(as am i.)

all things new

it feels so good to give up, so good to be good to myself... rosie thomas sings like a road-trip anthem.
and her words are mine. because. well. what has been quiet is now to be proclaimed from my own little rooftop (or blog):

annie is going to ireland.

family has been told.
tickets are bought.
notice is given at work.
online classes are planned.
ramen noodles and tuna have become staple budget diet.

and i'm going to write. what? well. something. i wrote, half-heartedly, a month or so ago this: the words, like provision, always come. and provision has come with constant, care-fullness. and so come the words, in their time. and i am beyond determined to be a good steward of them. (gillian welch: everything i ever done, gotta give it away.)

my three nieces (sister, cathy's girls) are 90 miles away from nashville right now, headed toward my home, where they'll rest a night. kissing their heads will be like kissing God. i mean it.

candles are lit now (a sparrow's prayer) and emmylou harris leads worship.
quiet. i am calmly aware that i'm on the threshold of all things new.