There are many spanish speaking families in my neighborhood. One specific family a few doors down captures my attention on an almost daily basis. Of course, their many dogs might be the first reason for this, and our dog Oso is attune to the barking that echos up from their yard. He was, after all, born from Lucky, their black mix breed dog who sits on the front porch guarding her palace.
Most mornings around 7 am, the mothers of the couple families who live in the house go for a walk together. I only know the name of one, and she is a sweet soul. Though she can’t speak much english we exchange greetings often and she loves to check up on Oso and see how big he’s gotten. She wears jeans and walks with her chin up and a soft smile on her face. Sometimes I wish I could knock on the door at any time of the day and just watch the way they live. Watch the way they cook, the way they laugh together in the evenings, ask them what the secret is to their apparent ease.
We often joke with some close friends of ours about living in a commune together. Sharing a garden, a lawn mower, power tools... eating our meals together and raising our kids together. We joke, but we dream of it too.
I sneak up to the window and watch these woman walk past my house most every day. I find myself envying them. Their friendship, their community, their lightness.
Sometimes I get tangled in the web that wraps around the ladder of image. What would people think if we moved in to a house with friends? What would these woman think if I asked to walk with them in the mornings?
What would people think...? Such a meaningless question most of the time.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Defining musical moments...in no particular order.
“Listen to this” he said, with eyes sparkling. Someone was moving some recording equipment behind me and I looked to see if I was in the way.
“Seriously” he handed me the headphones, “put these on”.
I sat down on the couch and did what he asked. Latter Days by Over the Rhine started playing into my ears and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had never heard anything quite like that before. Or felt anything like that from a song before.
“What a beautiful piece of heartache... this had all turned out to be... Lord knows we’ve learned the hard way...all about healthy apathy...”
* * * * *
I was young, eager, and clueless the day I saw Jennifer Knapp take the stage at a festival in the midwest.
My friends had gone to get some lunch and I was watching our spot in front of the main stage in a field of sweaty fans. Or maybe they were there next to me the whole time. Or maybe I was the only one in the crowd... the surroundings are blurry because when Jen stood up there by herself and started playing her guitar my brain stopped cataloguing anything but her music.
She was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, sunglasses and a ponytail. I stood up to listen.
She was more memorable, more confident, more inspiring than the 10 piece band before her, or the hip speaker that would follow her. And I thought to myself...
that is what I want to do.
Without taking my eyes off the stage I leaned over to the person next to me, “What did they say her name was?”
* * * * *
“Sit down here” she said motioning to a red couch near the window of her office on music row. “You haven’t heard anything of hers?”
I shook my head and stared at the street below. This was a long way from Iowa.
She pushed play.
Tony, was the first Patty Griffin song I ever listened to. The graphic lyrics about a teen suicide shook up the naive songwriter in me. Shook me up in the best way possible. I would never look at writing the same again.
* * * * *
I was in high school, a member of a club, and all of us were wearing blue t-shirts and sitting around tables in a cafeteria somewhere. I’m sure there was a program of some sort and I’m sure I was staring out the window dreaming about something until Enrique picked up his guitar.
Q, we call him, a musical mentor of mine and maybe the first person I ever knew who wrote songs, started playing that unforgettable guitar line that opens The Eye of the Hurricane by David Wilcox.
I was hooked instantly.
At a time when people didn’t always expect much out of us, Q played us a song that expected us to think, expected us to take life seriously and inspired us to believe there was a reason to do that.
Songs, as it turned out, are just stories set to music. And I thought maybe I had a few stories I could tell...
(a younger version of myself... :)
“Seriously” he handed me the headphones, “put these on”.
I sat down on the couch and did what he asked. Latter Days by Over the Rhine started playing into my ears and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had never heard anything quite like that before. Or felt anything like that from a song before.
“What a beautiful piece of heartache... this had all turned out to be... Lord knows we’ve learned the hard way...all about healthy apathy...”
* * * * *
I was young, eager, and clueless the day I saw Jennifer Knapp take the stage at a festival in the midwest.
My friends had gone to get some lunch and I was watching our spot in front of the main stage in a field of sweaty fans. Or maybe they were there next to me the whole time. Or maybe I was the only one in the crowd... the surroundings are blurry because when Jen stood up there by herself and started playing her guitar my brain stopped cataloguing anything but her music.
She was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, sunglasses and a ponytail. I stood up to listen.
She was more memorable, more confident, more inspiring than the 10 piece band before her, or the hip speaker that would follow her. And I thought to myself...
that is what I want to do.
Without taking my eyes off the stage I leaned over to the person next to me, “What did they say her name was?”
* * * * *
“Sit down here” she said motioning to a red couch near the window of her office on music row. “You haven’t heard anything of hers?”
I shook my head and stared at the street below. This was a long way from Iowa.
She pushed play.
Tony, was the first Patty Griffin song I ever listened to. The graphic lyrics about a teen suicide shook up the naive songwriter in me. Shook me up in the best way possible. I would never look at writing the same again.
* * * * *
I was in high school, a member of a club, and all of us were wearing blue t-shirts and sitting around tables in a cafeteria somewhere. I’m sure there was a program of some sort and I’m sure I was staring out the window dreaming about something until Enrique picked up his guitar.
Q, we call him, a musical mentor of mine and maybe the first person I ever knew who wrote songs, started playing that unforgettable guitar line that opens The Eye of the Hurricane by David Wilcox.
I was hooked instantly.
At a time when people didn’t always expect much out of us, Q played us a song that expected us to think, expected us to take life seriously and inspired us to believe there was a reason to do that.
Songs, as it turned out, are just stories set to music. And I thought maybe I had a few stories I could tell...
(a younger version of myself... :)
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Memories
I don’t remember the big moments from childhood. I know they happened because I’ve heard the stories, seen the footage, memorized the pictures. But my actual memories are of moments much smaller and seemingly uneventful. I recall the way things felt and looked to me at the time, and when I dwell on them they play back like an indie film full of random scenes.
The scratch of my dads beard on my cheek. I giggle and turn my face.
my mom rinsing the shampoo out of my hair with a plastic cup, and the warm water runs over my head and face... her long fingernails gently scratching my back before bed. I feel safe.
My blue and green flannel nightgown that matched my moms. I would tuck my legs up under it in the winter time to keep warm.
rain falling on the windshield on the way home from gymnastics class on an autumn evening. My dad is asking me something and I am staring out the window watching the street lights overhead.
the taste of a watermelon jolly rancher at the swimming pool, I am standing in a towel dripping wet, and can hardly reach my hands over the counter to pay my 5 cents.
-
I think about these images more often as I care for James.
When he is in his 20’s he might not be able to tell you what it was like to say “truck” for the first time, he might not even remember his first day of school, or his first glimpse of the ocean. But I think...maybe one day when he is lonely or drifting his mind will default back to some foggy memory of a blankie scrunched up on his face, his own papa’s scratchy beard, the comforting feel of warm water down his back, the sound of my voice singing a lullaby... maybe.
My days are filled with such mundane, normal moments. Yet, it might be these very moments that he remembers.
The scratch of my dads beard on my cheek. I giggle and turn my face.
my mom rinsing the shampoo out of my hair with a plastic cup, and the warm water runs over my head and face... her long fingernails gently scratching my back before bed. I feel safe.
My blue and green flannel nightgown that matched my moms. I would tuck my legs up under it in the winter time to keep warm.
rain falling on the windshield on the way home from gymnastics class on an autumn evening. My dad is asking me something and I am staring out the window watching the street lights overhead.
the taste of a watermelon jolly rancher at the swimming pool, I am standing in a towel dripping wet, and can hardly reach my hands over the counter to pay my 5 cents.
-
I think about these images more often as I care for James.
When he is in his 20’s he might not be able to tell you what it was like to say “truck” for the first time, he might not even remember his first day of school, or his first glimpse of the ocean. But I think...maybe one day when he is lonely or drifting his mind will default back to some foggy memory of a blankie scrunched up on his face, his own papa’s scratchy beard, the comforting feel of warm water down his back, the sound of my voice singing a lullaby... maybe.
My days are filled with such mundane, normal moments. Yet, it might be these very moments that he remembers.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Dear Guilt
Today I am dreaming. I am trying to decipher the Wants between the Shoulds. I filter every decision I make through what I think I should do, or what I think everyone else thinks I should do. And although a lot of the time I end up doing what I want to do regardless of whether it lines up with what I think everyone expects of me, I end up feeling guilty for not living up to their supposed expectations.
Guilt is like bitterness, it is not meant to stay in our hearts longer than the time it takes to say
I’m sorry
or
I forgive you.
So...this is addressed to the shadow named Guilt:
I’m sorry not to tell you this in person, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know where you live. If you appeared to me plainly then I would address you to your face, but you are transient and incessant, a chameleon of a ghost that shows up in my words and actions, in my wake and my sleep, and I can’t detect you the way I can jealousy or sloth. You don’t follow me around like nostalgia or selfishness. You are the wall between me and my tomorrows, the widows clothes I should have taken off years ago, the childs blanket I am afraid of falling asleep without. So, dear guilt: this is me tearing you off like a band aid- please don’t come back next time I have a wound. There is a much better way to heal, and I choose grace.
Guilt is like bitterness, it is not meant to stay in our hearts longer than the time it takes to say
I’m sorry
or
I forgive you.
So...this is addressed to the shadow named Guilt:
I’m sorry not to tell you this in person, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know where you live. If you appeared to me plainly then I would address you to your face, but you are transient and incessant, a chameleon of a ghost that shows up in my words and actions, in my wake and my sleep, and I can’t detect you the way I can jealousy or sloth. You don’t follow me around like nostalgia or selfishness. You are the wall between me and my tomorrows, the widows clothes I should have taken off years ago, the childs blanket I am afraid of falling asleep without. So, dear guilt: this is me tearing you off like a band aid- please don’t come back next time I have a wound. There is a much better way to heal, and I choose grace.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Grass is Green
Next to me on the wood floor of my kitchen is my sweet almost one year old who is pulling all of the plastic and cardboard out of our recycling pile. Out comes a milk jug...an Odwalla bottle...a Sunshine Wheat holder (my husbands favorite beer, TN just got it)...an empty kleenex box...paper towel role...extra grocery sacks...
He leans his hand on a cupboard and tries to pull himself up but slips. He whines and his little eyebrows wrinkle as he looks up at me to see my reaction.
“You’re okay”, I assure him, still typing. He agrees, and continues his work. Once all of the recycling is unloaded he decides to explore under the wooden shelf against the wall and paws through dust bunnies and dog hair to get to something that has rolled underneath. A ball? A toy truck? Apparently he cannot reach and heads for me feet, pulling at my pants until I pick him up.
“Okay little bug, come here.” nap time.
I change his diaper and he whines until I give him his blankie, and grabbing with one hand, he pops the two middle fingers of the other in his mouth as he does when he’s tired.
We rock for a minute before I put him down. His head lays in the middle of my chest and he strokes my arm and side with the hand that is not in his mouth. I can hear his stuffy nose as he inhales and exhales, his body weight feeling heavier with every breath.
I lean my nose on the top of his head and my memory flashes back to the nursery of the church I grew up in. My friends and I used to sneak in and steal cherrios when no one was in there. James smells just like that nursery to me, some sort of combination of cereal, diapers, baby soap and slobber.
His red hair tickles my lips and I breath in his smell one more time before kissing his forehead and whispering “I love you”. His blue eyes are barely open but he looks up at me and pulls his blankie to his face as I lay him down in his crib. My heart breaks for the first time today. It won’t be the last.
I walk out of James’ room, reheat my coffee, and look out the window of our kitchen. The yellow daffodils are very welcome friends this spring. The pink buds on our cherry tree out front remind me of what was hiding there in the brown branches this whole winter. Any day now they will blossom into little white flowers, just in time for Easter.
I walk out the front door of my warm house and feel the sun on my face for a minute. The grass is greener than it was even yesterday.
I have so much to be thankful for.
Why should I ever think the grass grows greener somewhere else?
He leans his hand on a cupboard and tries to pull himself up but slips. He whines and his little eyebrows wrinkle as he looks up at me to see my reaction.
“You’re okay”, I assure him, still typing. He agrees, and continues his work. Once all of the recycling is unloaded he decides to explore under the wooden shelf against the wall and paws through dust bunnies and dog hair to get to something that has rolled underneath. A ball? A toy truck? Apparently he cannot reach and heads for me feet, pulling at my pants until I pick him up.
“Okay little bug, come here.” nap time.
I change his diaper and he whines until I give him his blankie, and grabbing with one hand, he pops the two middle fingers of the other in his mouth as he does when he’s tired.
We rock for a minute before I put him down. His head lays in the middle of my chest and he strokes my arm and side with the hand that is not in his mouth. I can hear his stuffy nose as he inhales and exhales, his body weight feeling heavier with every breath.
I lean my nose on the top of his head and my memory flashes back to the nursery of the church I grew up in. My friends and I used to sneak in and steal cherrios when no one was in there. James smells just like that nursery to me, some sort of combination of cereal, diapers, baby soap and slobber.
His red hair tickles my lips and I breath in his smell one more time before kissing his forehead and whispering “I love you”. His blue eyes are barely open but he looks up at me and pulls his blankie to his face as I lay him down in his crib. My heart breaks for the first time today. It won’t be the last.
I walk out of James’ room, reheat my coffee, and look out the window of our kitchen. The yellow daffodils are very welcome friends this spring. The pink buds on our cherry tree out front remind me of what was hiding there in the brown branches this whole winter. Any day now they will blossom into little white flowers, just in time for Easter.
I walk out the front door of my warm house and feel the sun on my face for a minute. The grass is greener than it was even yesterday.
I have so much to be thankful for.
Why should I ever think the grass grows greener somewhere else?
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Love | Reality
For the last couple years I have spent a lot of my time at home writing songs with and for other artists. I love love love this job, and have had the chance to write with some really amazing artists. I’m excited to introduce you to a few of them this year as their records release.
Today I want to tell you about a girl whose music is just as stunning and inspiring as she is herself. Charmaine intrigued me instantly with her kindness, cool australian accent, and natural beauty.
The first time we wrote together I was near the end of my pregnancy and Charmaine and I quickly hit it off talking about the mystery of God and our desire to embrace that mystery instead of avoid it. After 30 minutes of getting to know each other, I was already a fan of her as a person and when she opened her mouth to sing shortly thereafter I instantly became a fan of her music! It was a fun day of writing, complete with lunch at a local hot dog joint (I was pregnant after all)! The song we wrote that day is the title track to Charmaine’s debut record called, Love | Reality. I’m proud of this song and can’t wait for you all to hear it! Thank you Charmaine, for letting me be a part of your story!
Love | Reality is available on Charmaine's website (charmainemusic.com), where you can listen to our song plus several more from her record. (fyi: if you order it now from her website you get an instant download of the first single, Tokyo) It's seriously a fabulous record with a really unique sound and a genuine depth behind the music. Check it out!!
P.S. You can also watch a video of Charmaine talking about our song in the video section of her site.
from Love Reality:
There is more to the story than this
more than the morning routine
when I open my eyes I can glimpse
pieces of eternity
I can hear a whisper, like a secret
I can see a glimmer, and I know know that
the reality of love, reality of love
is so close to me...
Today I want to tell you about a girl whose music is just as stunning and inspiring as she is herself. Charmaine intrigued me instantly with her kindness, cool australian accent, and natural beauty.
The first time we wrote together I was near the end of my pregnancy and Charmaine and I quickly hit it off talking about the mystery of God and our desire to embrace that mystery instead of avoid it. After 30 minutes of getting to know each other, I was already a fan of her as a person and when she opened her mouth to sing shortly thereafter I instantly became a fan of her music! It was a fun day of writing, complete with lunch at a local hot dog joint (I was pregnant after all)! The song we wrote that day is the title track to Charmaine’s debut record called, Love | Reality. I’m proud of this song and can’t wait for you all to hear it! Thank you Charmaine, for letting me be a part of your story! Love | Reality is available on Charmaine's website (charmainemusic.com), where you can listen to our song plus several more from her record. (fyi: if you order it now from her website you get an instant download of the first single, Tokyo) It's seriously a fabulous record with a really unique sound and a genuine depth behind the music. Check it out!!
P.S. You can also watch a video of Charmaine talking about our song in the video section of her site.
from Love Reality:
There is more to the story than this
more than the morning routine
when I open my eyes I can glimpse
pieces of eternity
I can hear a whisper, like a secret
I can see a glimmer, and I know know that
the reality of love, reality of love
is so close to me...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
on social networking and wrapping paper
I haven't been twittering or facebooking (word?) for a month or two...and it's been really nice. When something in my day happens, I am not thinking about how I can fit that moment into 140 characters to share online. I think there is a place for twitter and facebook, certainly. I enjoy them both to an extent. But for now, I'm going to keep my updates sparse. The break has done what I had hoped, freed up some space in my brain. Allowed me experience my days more completely by living moments as they happen instead of taking mental notes about how to tell the story later. I do that enough as a songwriter.
blogging is less restrictive of course and I still enjoy the creative outlet it is for me. However, I haven't been blogging as often anymore because I have a hard time finishing thoughts. I have a folder on my computer titled "blogs" and it is full of incomplete thoughts. My husband is always encouraging me to give up my need to "complete the circle" as he says. I'm not a perfectionist, but I do like things to be wrapped up nicely, even if it's a sloppy wrapping job, at least it's wrapped.
Kirk used to present gifts to me in brown paper grocery bags. I finally told him that I would really love it if he would wrap them (and he has ever since). I feel silly knowing I will just throw away the wrapping, but It makes me feel special knowing he took the time to fold the colorful paper and tape it together at the ends.
and now here I am. I can't even tie a blog about how I can't tie anything together, together.
They say you lose brain cells when you're pregnant... I thought I would get them back at some point but so far they still seem to be on vacation somewhere....I hope they are in California. I like California. And I hope they bring back some citrus fruits for me, I like citrus fruits.
blogging is less restrictive of course and I still enjoy the creative outlet it is for me. However, I haven't been blogging as often anymore because I have a hard time finishing thoughts. I have a folder on my computer titled "blogs" and it is full of incomplete thoughts. My husband is always encouraging me to give up my need to "complete the circle" as he says. I'm not a perfectionist, but I do like things to be wrapped up nicely, even if it's a sloppy wrapping job, at least it's wrapped.
Kirk used to present gifts to me in brown paper grocery bags. I finally told him that I would really love it if he would wrap them (and he has ever since). I feel silly knowing I will just throw away the wrapping, but It makes me feel special knowing he took the time to fold the colorful paper and tape it together at the ends.
and now here I am. I can't even tie a blog about how I can't tie anything together, together.
They say you lose brain cells when you're pregnant... I thought I would get them back at some point but so far they still seem to be on vacation somewhere....I hope they are in California. I like California. And I hope they bring back some citrus fruits for me, I like citrus fruits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
