…the purple thread

With nothing less than a satisfied smile, I can say my life is filled with honest joy.

Recently, I travelled to D.C. to spend time with wonderful friends and family. I shared drinks and laughs with a dear friend whom travels mercilessly and thrives on change and new adventure. I found myself captured by her smile and laughs as she told me tales about her new abode, none other than the center of the District of Columbia.

I felt happy, motivated, and encouraged as I took the Metro to visit my dear Aunt Twila and John.  Amongst the charm that fills their little house, they have cats, threads, paints, and generous offerings of creativity. Aunt T decided to show me a new art, thread painting. We talked and chatted at the idea, and finally the time came to rev up the sewing machine.

A white, delicate thread graced the top of the machine, as Aunt T adjusted the buttons, showed me the little maneuvers, and gave me direction of where to place my hands. With a piece of scrap fabric, I made a curvy line, it turned into a tree, the tree grew it had leaves. The thread became a picture, a sketch, none-the-less.

Aunt T opened the drawers of her sewing collection, and there lay a Van Gogh of colors. The threads were bright blues, sharp reds, sunflower yellows, shimmery silvers, snowy whites, but my eyes were captured by the purple.

Let’s not confuse this with an ordinary purple. Purple comes in many forms, and this one was perfect. It was rich, dark, full of blues. Shimmering silver touched the edges of the thread.  I saw masterpiece in this thread; it was beautiful, and calling my name.

“This one, can I try this one?” Right when I said it, I realized the price of this hue. This must be an expensive thread, so beautiful in its royal color, my naive doodles were not worthy of this color. I immediately lay it back in the drawer among its complimentaries.

Aunt T looked at me, picked up the purple (which is worthy of a name beyond purple) and started to string it in the machine asking me what color fabric I would like to have as my canvas.  I started to list off the reasons my sketches were not worthy of this rich thread; I should practice with the others.

Looking at me, Aunt T said “Sarah beth, if I die tomorrow I will not sit in heaven questioning why I let you use this purple thread. Here, use it.” It was hooked in the machine, the machine wanted me to use it, the deep-purple thread wanted me to use it, but most of all, Aunt T wanted me to use it.

“Yellow, yellow will be a great canvas for this purple thread,” I replied with excited embrace of the thread. And the sewing began. Swirls turned into flowers, lines turned into teacups, and the purple thread used all its beauty to shine through each image with a little extra flair of love.

The purple thread may be a small moment in the huge span of life, but it taught me something so beautiful; the sharing of love and beauty.  Aunt T was right, will we ever regret sharing the small joys in life, especially when life is so quick and fast. 

The purple thread, I never realized the perspective this beautiful color would show in a split second.

Thank you, Aunt T for sharing, loving, and embracing the joys in life, even when they are as miniscule as a piece of thread.

–sarahbeth

insomnia…a curse, and a blessing

I guess I haven’t decided what my late-night-genetic insomnia is classified as.  Although I am getting less-than-adequate sleep, I have extra hours in the night to do things I normally wouldn’t do.  Such as tonight–tonight I had my usual pattern: get off work, go to the gym, come home, chat with Gee Fish, watch television and sketch.  That’s when 11:30 PM rolls around and I think, now is when a normal person should be heavy lidded–so I trudge to bed with high expectations for my brain to settle and the darkness take effect.  Alas, tonight, my marathon mind got the best of me. 

I found myself reading poetry tonight–I have a book “101 Famous Poems.”  I read these words with a high admiration.  I made it through two Emmersons tonight and a Wilcox.  Both, I’m sure, were spectacular.  If only I had the capacity to find any meaning in the jumbled, hidden, double meaning of the lyric-like words.  Ugh, my crazy mind–it will sit here and simmer with thoughts and ideas, find acceptance in the most drawn-out sentences about the “Anabaptist relationship with…”, grasp truth in Taylor Swift songs, but will not (and cannot) delve to find any understanding in the epic text found in the 101 poems–I must be missing a neuron.

So this is my apology to all poets alike, that means you too Robert Frost: I have found great beauty in the idea of a poem.  The words are so glamorous and paint miraculous images (eh, sometimes) of things I will not know, but I will continue seeking…because maybe, someday, I will find the poetry that is around us.  Because it would be an honor to describe the depth and magnificence of this life with more meaning than a mere word; “amazing” just doesn’t always give the same respect as an iambic pentametered verse. 

Poetry is my challenge to seek, to find meaning, to understand, and to never be satisfied with a one-dimensional description.

“Moonlight”

William Shakespeare

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sound of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: see,  how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There’s not the smallest orb which  thou behold’st,

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubims.

 

Alas, the words are layed out,

But I still don’t know what it’s all about.

–sarahbeth

it’ll be alright…

You should see the stars tonight…how they shimmer shine so bright

against the black they look so white…coming down from such a height

tonight i took a walk–a usual friday night activity.  i like to sit alone, in the dark, glance at the stars, and experience something so much bigger than myself.

you should see the moon in the flight..cuttin cross the misty night

softly dancin in sunshine…reflections of this light

reach me now…reach me now

the cold grass brushes against my toes; it’s too cold for flip flops.  but that coldness keeps me here–brings me perspective.  years ago, i would sit and watch the stars every night–i wouldn’t sleep without seeing one shoot across the sky–for me it was a sign.

and how could such a thing…shine it’s light all on me

and make everything beautiful again.

tonight, without expecting, a shooting star brushed across the sky; and in that same moment a smile brushed across my face.  memories flood my mind, i can’t help but feel warm…feel love.  it’s at this point where i feel all my dreams are realistic, i can do anything, and i am not alone. 

when i look at the stars i can’t help but hope that they are a support–that i am touched and thought of by as many people as there are stars.  and that i am a star for others. 

no matter how hard the day may seem–i’d like to think we always have the stars…and each other.

cause i got nothing of my own to give to you..but this light that shines on me shines on you

and makes everything beautiful again…it’ll be alright

it’ll be alright.

“stars” –david crowder band

–sarahbeth

Pilot G-2

I stole the Pilot G-2.  I’ll admit that.  I found it gingerly laying amongst Jesse’s things on his dresser; and my hand quickly snagged the smooth, black pen.  I know it was begging me to write with it…so I did.

That G-2 may not be the only item I snagged from Jesse’s room.  Running shorts, a white tee, a PEACE silly band, and some gum may have also ended up in my bag.  I just need remnants. 

He left for Spain.  Three plus months in Spain. 

In disbelief of my own strong reaction to him leaving (temporarily!) I held the remnants in my tense hands.  My muscles didn’t seem to believe the time had come for him to explore the bigger world in Europe.  My tense muscles, my tired brain, and my hurting chest could only come to one solution: RUN!

I am a runner, in both senses of the word.  The day he left, I hit the trails.  I tried to pound out the tears with every step.  I was running the “red” trails, jumping over rocks, logs, thorns…the sobbing didn’t stop.  Out of a desperation to stop the choking tears, ease my tense muscles, I sprinted.  The sprint didn’t even wear out the tears; with each strained step I felt a tear drip into the dust. 

What else is there to do? I stopped, sobbed, laid splayed on the ground, and then ran in the other sense: home.  I fled the scene.  What is more embracing than home?

So here I am.

All I can ask, what’s next?

Writing with my G-2.  Thanks, Jesse.  :)

“I don’t want you to go, I don’t want you to go, but it’s time to turn your love…give it back, give it back.” –Jack Johnson

–sarahbeth

Smudged Caribou

Atypical.

That is the only word that is penetrating my mind right now while I sip coffee out of my oversized caribou coffee cup.  The cup is old and worn; the leaping moose looks more like a whale.  But the famous slogan printed on the side stayed strong–“Life is short, stay awake for it.”  Very motivating, and it actually adds a sense of accomplishment to my finishing off cup o’ joe numero dos, because I am, in fact going to be staying awake today.

Maybe this is why atypical is flashing through my mind: I am drinking coffee from a very motivating cup, yet today, I have nothing to be motivated for.  I can simply sit, sip coffee, flip through the classified ads (once again, looking for a job), and read novels and fitness magazines all day.  My laundry is done, there are no groceries to be gotten, and I already washed the car.

Or maybe, atypical is mocking me.  I, an energetic, motivated person, am feeling the strikes of jobless anxiety in a less-than-welcoming economy for a recent grad.  Atypical chuckles to itself as I sit here and evaluate where I am at, because this, in all ways, is not where I pictured myself.

Hm, or a more thougthful, welcoming atypical: I moved in with Gee Fish.  Not too many 22-year-old girls can say they cohabitate with an 80-year-old woman.  This living situation is very atypical; the young and restless, the older and well-settled.  Alas, not surrounded by peers, I found calm.  This is where I am supposed to be–I can feel it (I also love it).

Atypical, it can be a feeling right?  It describes how I am viewing myself in this big-ol’-world.  A young girl who only knows to make decisions based on feelings: “hm, this feels ok” or “I have a bad feeling about this one.”  How do I find a place in the world with a feeling-based reasoning? 

Guess I’ll go with the gut on this one (ha).  I’ll just blog, sip from my motivated coffee cup, and enjoy a free day.

“Life is short. Stay awake for it.” –Caribou Coffee

…grasping onto memories

It’s been a while since I’ve written.  The memories I choose to write about are the ones that stick the deepest–the ones I can only hope to remember in a year or two.  I write to share, but I also write to remember…

“We aren’t going to my family reunion next week…I lied.  We are going to see Jack Johnson and to the beach.” 

My brain couldn’t put together words, thoughts, complete understanding of what had just been said to me.  I know my symmetrical face suddenly was wavering into odd angles of confusion.  Alas, the excitement hit!

The following weekend, we packed our things (can I just note that I love the beach because really the packing list is so small: flipflops, dress, shorts, swim suit, sunblock) and kicked the Honda in gear and hit the eastern shores!  Jess also surprised me with a copy of “To the Sea” for the trip down so I could get well-versed in the new Jack album.  Humming along, we made it–to the beautiful sea!

The concert was hot, we were sticky, the people around us were drunk on $11 beer, but it was the exact environment that I hoped for.  Jack took the stage and we stood with elation–singing, dancing, and talking through the songs.  Jack Johnson was perfect, Jess was perfect, and the night was perfect.

I feel like perfection comes with beach air.  Really, is anyone not happy at the beach?  I couldn’t believe my luck of getting to put my toes in the sand; the exact stress reliever that makes me want to drop all of my belongings and just bum at the beach…forever.

The whole day my head was swirling, there really isn’t a better word to describe how it feels to be completely and obsessively happy.  I felt like I was glowing while sitting with my feet in the waves, reading a book, while watching Jess and friends wake board. (Yes, I did infact wake board.  And, yes, I did almost drown more than once.)  My swirling head blazoned cheap aviators and Jess’ trucker hat; and I sat, looking like a tourist, and wishing that I lived here. 

The day came to an end, much to fast.  But the car ride was complete with good conversation and music.

I spent most of my Sunday trying to hold onto the memories, feelings, and experience of Jack Johnson and the beach.  Regardless, I know the weekend will not be soon forgotten. 

(In one final attempt to become a beach-bum, I started applying for jobs all along the coast…I’m still crossing my fingers!)

-sarahbeth

Supersized!

“I like everything about you but your Scrabble playing,” said Grandma with a chuckle to summarize her feelings of Jess, upon their first weekend meeting.  It was a weekend of cooking out, laying out, and enjoying the company of family.  Jess had never graced the presence of our house, and I can say he left a solid impression.

Mom went all out to show hospitality to our guest: jumbo marshmallows, jumbo hot dogs, and jumbo amounts of delicious food!  We sat around the fire roasting our huge marshmallows that couldn’t be eaten in less than four bites.  We talked about nuclear energy, picked on each other, talked about the past,  played guitar, slacklined and threw horse-shoes.  All activities that describe our family and the house itself; where we have come and how we come together.  The beauty of sitting in each others’ presence gave me the sheer happiness of being with family.  Who really loves me more than family?

The weekend sped by…that kind of quality time cannot be slowed down.  At 8 A.M. this morning, Jess and I found ourselves walking out the door with food babies, chocolate cake in hand, juggling zucchini and bags of fresh applesauce looped around our wrists; remnants of home to be savored while in the kitchen of an apartment far away.  I wish I could take more of my home with me everywhere I go.  I wish I could bring my family along the whole time.  I wish I could feel the comfort and security of home in places of unsureness and insecurity.  I have a feeling that this will always be my home, and the place to come back to when I don’t know what else to do, or where else to go.   

“If I could just come in, I swear I’ll leave.  Won’t take nothin but a memory, from this house that built me.” –Miranda Lambert, The House that Built Me

Wizarding Duels

“We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on.”

–Albus Dumbledor; Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

I hummed to myself while standing in the kitchen assembling three different sandwiches for three very different children.  My moment of peace, in the kitchen at lunch time after a hectic morning of chasing children.  One was watching Pokemon the other two, I had instructed to entertain themselves until lunch was ready. 

I heard the clatter of sticks being dumped onto the hard-wood floor, really at this point I could care less what the activity was as long as bickering, crying, and blood were not involved.  I disregarded my curiosityof the noise for my selfish desire to have fifteen minutes to myself. 

“LUMOS” (“I can see you now!”)

“EXPELLIARMUS” (a stick falls onto the floor)

“AVIS” (“My flock of birds will poop on you!”)

“CONFUNDO” (“You can’t remember any of your spells now!”)

I glance around the wall.  One child is standing with a list of spells the other is looking dazed and staring into space with his tongue hanging out.  “Miss Sarah, watch this!” 

“TARANTALLEGRA”

The boy’s tongue snapped back in his mouth, eyes still looked dazed, and he began to tap dance.  Then she looked at me, pointed her stick and yelled “REDUCIO, REDUCIO, REDUCIO!” I just stared at her, cheese dangling from my hand.  “Miss Sarah! I made you shrink!”  So I sank down behind the counter, arms waving in dismay, “Oh no, I can’t reach the pickles!”  She bust out in giggles, grew me back to regular size, and tossed me a stick. “It’s the rosewood wand, the most powerful of them all!”  She went back to reading the list of spells, brother still tap-dancing in the back ground.  I went back to making sandwiches. 

I started hearing panting coming from the other side of the wall, and I could see the master of spells still happily sitting cross-legged on the floor examining her many wands.  “Give the dancer a break,” I told her, “he looks like he’s beginning to sweat.”  She looked at me, rolled her eyes.

“PETRIFICUS TOTALIS!” (the dancing stopped, he clapped his hands to his sides, stuck his legs together, and fell over stiff as a board onto the wood floor with a resounding “thud!”)

“You win this wizarding duel,” he claims sadly through a charmed, stiff mouth.

The next duels began, they went on for ten more minutes.  I only had to interrupt a few times with an “expelliarmus” and one threat to go into time out if “one more unforgivable curse is used on another person!” 

What did I get from this game?  The realization of the power of our words, with or without the application of rules of the wizarding duels.  I watched the kids give commands that completely controlled the other by words (imaginary control of course), but it does exemplify our words, and the power they hold.  I speak so much each day, and I can only hope that positive, encouragement is found in all of my statements.  I want people to hear the portrayal of love in all words that I use. 

I did an activity in class once where we were supposed to write a letter to someone else in the class that we looked up to and admired.  I wrote my letter to an acquaintance that I’ve had many classes with.  I admired him for his careful observation and willingness to share in class.  I was surprised, later in the afternoon to receive a few letters in campus mail, mostly from students I did not talk to very often.  Each of them explained that they admired my relaxed spirit which made me approachable and natural leader.  I hope, that in the future, I can continue to be approachable, especially for people who do not know who else to turn to. 

–sarahbeth

Nanny Diaries #1

I received a letter from my dad today that said something along the lines of “God blesses your work, and you, no matter what the labor is.”  He was sending me support by saying although I am a nanny and it is only a summer position, it is not in vain.  Officially starting full-time last Monday, I now have more stories than I can tell.  I work with six kids: 5 boys, 1 girl (I am wildly outnumbered and underqualified!).

They have already put me through cliché scenarios: listing all the bad words they know, begging for candy (I gave in…), fighting, pouting, yelling, spilling ginger ale all over a brand-spanking new wooden floor, lying…etc.  But, yet, they have already captured me in their smiles, giggles, and hugs. 

Yesterday morning, I arrived at the house at 7 AM, greeted by none other than the flock of pet guineas–squawking their watch-dog warning.  Walking into the house, cats mulling at my feet and dogs licking my polished toes, I hear the mumbles of SM, the middle child and early riser.  Momma left, and SM and I ate breakfast together on the screened in porch (watching the guineas who were still surrounding my car, calling out).  I was reading through a Martha Stewart, or some other magazine along those lines I had found in the house, when SB disappeared for a moment only to return with his arms full of slides and a microscope dangling from his middle finger.

“Wanna see my favorite? The snowflake!” he squealed with delight–not a hint of tired anymore.  I looked at him, complete disbelief…how could anyone possibly make a snowflake last until the middle of June on a clear, plastic slide kept in a shoebox, stuffed under the bed?

SB masterfully wedged the slide under the metal, well for lack of a better word, slide holders and began to adjust the focus.  Up and down, up and down…flipping through the different strength lenses to see which one would make his most favorite snowflake picturesque.  Finally, he glanced up at me, eyes wide and eager for me to share this excitement with him.  So I dramatically leaned my big brown eye over the lens.  It sparkled. Crystals were evident. I could see the sharp edge that is often seen sketched in encyclopedias when looking up “snow.”

Being stubborn and 22, I had to understand, find a reason for this long-lasting snowflake.  Taking my eye off the lens I looked at the plastic slide–which held, right in the center, a half-inch, sparkly, snowflake sticker.  All I could do was chuckle to myself which listening to SB pull out the rest of slides (“this one is a chunk of frisbee that the dog chewed,” “Look! this one is labeled fuzz, but I can’t remember what kind of fuzz it is!”) and eagerly show me the microscopic details of things he loved. 

–sarahbeth

Stale Bread with Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chips

It sounds appetizing–a meal designed to meet all late-night needs.  Opening the milkless fridge I realize my late-night dinner is now limited to eggs or bread.  So why not mix my favorite things on a slice of something just meant to hold it all together.  Mmm, stale bread, swiped with creamy peanut butter, topped with chocolate chips kept too long in the spice cupboard so they taste like a wooden-nature, not semi-sweet chocolate goodness. 

I’m not complaining though, these are some of my favorite foods.  It just makes me realize that this is sometimes what it takes to live “on my own.”  Surprisingly, this is not even near suffering, but it is this small late-night change that makes me realize that life without the parents under the same roof will always be tougher, especially than I let on. 

I am big and brave, you see.  I am educated and confident.  I am independent and articulate.  This is exactly what I wanted to prove to myself that I don’t need other people.  I already started chuckling, reading that sentence again.  What a false statement…incredibly false.  Even in just the simple presence of another, I can experience pure love.  Last night, watching Nottinghill, this quote made me think about the importance of just having another person to exist with us…sit beside us :)

“For June who loved this garden, from Joseph who sat beside her.” –Nottinghill

Saying this, I was recently home and also at Jess’s house.  At home, I found peace-of-mind spending the days exercising, cleaning (a little bit), cooking, and talking with my parents and other family.  What’s more comforting than the pleasures of being home.  I found myself back in a space of safety, comfort, and happiness that I am worried that I won’t be able to find elsewhere.  The closest thing I have found is being at Jess’s house; also a very comforting place.  Not quite home, but close. 

It is in these places I find myself torn.  Torn between dreams and reality, comfort and change, ambition and safety, independent and dependant, looking out for just myself and looking out for others, torn between icecream with Grandma F and Italian lunches with Gee Fish, torn between new friends and old friends, city and country, wings or roots…my list goes on :)  needless to say, I am torn, but not in a bad way; in a way that challenges me to grow, change, and make BIG decisions. 

Now I will finish off my woody chocolate chip, peanut butter bread…the last bite and licking my fingers, soaking in the deliciousness of this late night dinner. 

14. make a full, 7 course meal

15. triathalon

16. take an art class

–sarahbeth