Sprinkling Moon Dust in Layla's Hair

The nesting has definitely begun. As most of you know, Donovan and I have been living in an active construction zone on and off since the fall of 2000 when we bought our first “fixer upper.” Three houses and a lot of joint compound later, I am ready to replace the air compressor with a crib. And we will. For now, I look for opportunities to primp and pretty this nest of mine. I keep making pillow covers from my vintage fabrics to throw on the couch, on the beds and move around the house in frantic must-decorate-now mode. This, I suppose, could qualify as nesting. After all, we are only now beginning to open the boxes in the attic to whip out the mantel knick-knacks and hang things on the walls. And we are working very hard to get these never-ending projects wrapped up before baby comes home. Sometimes I stand in the doorway of the soon-to-be baby’s room and rearrange furniture in my mind. Should the crib go on this wall or that wall? But what really hit me as being “nesty” was finding myself rocking and singing to my cat, Layla, early one morning last week. I couldn’t get myself to hop in the shower and get ready for work—I just had to rock that cat. She seemed to like it at first. Her stints of quality eye contact and her allowing me to get through the entire first verse of Close To You by The Carpenters before she clawed her way out of my grip told me so. This is bonding, I told myself. I wouldn’t say that I have crossed into the realm of emotionally unstable behavior just yet.  You see, I have not attempted to braid the cat's hair or bottle-feed her. But believe me, I have thought about it.

Lovin My Lovies

Just a sincere “thanks” to all of you out there who actually read this thing. This has been like a public journal for me. I have kept a journal since I was six years old (lock and little gold key included) aside from an angsty hiatus from 1986-1989, but never before have I actually shared the contents. Despite being an extrovert, creating a forum where people read my personal thoughts and prayers felt intimidating and somewhat narcissistic. I’m one of those people who is dreadfully uncomfortable at poetry readings for this reason. Discussing my drawings and paintings with my classmates in college actually made me feel sick at times, which was part of my decision to forego the art degree and focus solely on the education degree. I’ve just never been good at sharing very eloquently. Surprisingly, I have felt encouraged and lifted by so many of you, friends and strangers alike; and I am glad my envelope was pushed. With that, I send a hearty holla to all of you who have sent emails, notes and comments…I feel deeply supported. You’re the best lovies a girl could have.

For your enjoyment…a photo of my first journal entry, circa 1982.  Flopsy was my pet rabbit and Miss Downey, my 2nd grade teacher, turned out to be one of my favorite teachers ever. 

Praying Toward the East

This week I have felt still. A complete lack of movement. There is a numbness that settles in when one no longer knows how to cope with surprises—like finding out yet another colleague is pregnant, being included in a “moms” activity out of pity or being randomly asked to baby-sit other people’s children because, well—you know—we’re the ones without them. When the world around me is moving forward and I feel still, all I can do is pray. These are the days I imagine waking with the sun, facing the East and sending out my prayers over the ocean, knowing that my child will be touched by them. I imagine the wind carrying them around this great blue globe turning on its side and eventually returning them to me. What keeps me praying is the assurance that the Holy Sprit is ultimately the power and love that guides this great breath, even when there is no sun to wake me, even when the ocean winds are calm and I can’t sense movement in my life. So I will continue to send out puffs of prayerful breath, in hopes that the wind will return them to me and give me strength. I will continue to break my communion bread in half, taking Christ’s body first for my child and then for myself. I will continue to search for movement in my life—even when I feel still. This is my prayer.