Tuesday, June 4, 2013

very much alive.

a friend phoned
the other day
and i happened to answer.
{isn't that a pleasant surprise?}.

well it was.

within our opening breaths of 
greeting and salutations
she teased,
"i've been wondering about you,
are you alive?
where have you been??"

to which i promptly replied a, 
"why yes indeed i am.
i am very much alive. 
too sorry
for the distance! 
coffee Sunday??"

as the day trickled by,
the question
with me.

as well as my immediate

yes i am 
so very much 

you see, i've been:

.... ignoring the uncooperative weather
and just camping anyway. 

.... exploring cities 
are that not my own.
{and liking it.
quite a bit.}

.... walking instead of driving,
because sometimes you can 
and it's wonderful.

.... making time to create.

.... and i've been looking up.

so no need to hold my calls.
i'll answer.
i am very much alive.

- n.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

what time is it?

sometimes it's dreadfully
hard to know.
to be even slightly certain,
because uncertainty clings and circles
just like nats in summer. 

how do you know?
how do you know what time it is?

because when we like something.
we want it.
we want more of it.
we want to be near it.
to find it.
to search it out.
to just look at it.
sip it.
watch it.
absorb it.
be with it.
see it.
have it see you.

and sometimes
it's time.
to notice what's eating at you
and move your entire world 
only to find it.
this something.
because you know you must.
and it's the only answer.

don't ask me what this it
only you can know.

for some, it might a friend.
a parent.
a lover.
a dream.

for a friend of mine
the it was

the ocean.

she heard the craving inside.
that voice that
wouldn't seem to leave her be.

and so she began listening.
(as the brave ones do).

she picked up.
kissed her family.
waved goodbye to lifelong friends.
and she moved toward that something.

to the ocean.

it was time.
and she knew it.

and so,
for eleven whole months
this one thing she liked so deeply...
she was near it.
she touched it.
watched it.
absorbed it.
saw it.

and that ocean saw her, too.

it was time.
and she knew it.

and then one day 
when she hardly expected it,
with her windows flung wide
to the rolling sounds of the 
wave & tide...

she shut her windows.

because it was time.
and she knew it.

it was time to go back.
to move away from the ocean.
to be near friends and old family.

the choice was full.
full of 
the hard
the easy
the good
the peaceful
the unrestful
the questions
the asking
the wondering
the certainty.
and of course,
the uncertainty.

the choice was all of those things
(as any choice that truly
matters often seems to be).

i share this story,
i say all of this because
i wonder.
i am wondering...

do you know what time it is?
do you know what it

do not ask me what your it
is dear friend.

but listen.
listen well
and then perhaps you will hear.
perhaps you will hear and 
perhaps you will know
what time it is. 


Friday, May 24, 2013

those kinds of friends.

Shame on me.

No really. I've been meaning to write this post for months now, almost 7 months to be exact. You see, this time I really do deserve a proper "shame on you" finger wagging from myself for this kind of thing. Because when big firsts happen in your life, one should write about them especially if one is already inclined to write about things (which I like to tell myself that I am one of those kinds of people). 

This first that I speak of actually happened to a friend of mine. One of my oldest and truest friends of all time. She's the one I played dress-up with for hours + hours + hours on end as well as all forms and versions of "house". She's one of those kinds of friends. One of those for-lifers. (You know the type.)

You better believe we scootered, imagined and make-believed our way right out of childhood, into teenaged trials and tribulation (actually we did manage to have quite a bit of fun along the way) and straight into adulthood as real-life grown ups.

And that brings me to the reason I'm writing today. Because last fall when my sweet and dear old friend had her very first not-make-believe-at-all baby boy, I was among one of the firsts to welcome this little man, in all his fresh and squeezable newness, into this world. Want a little peek at him?

I remember walking away from the hospital that day and the transition was so real I could taste it. From little girls to big kids. From little-squirt freshman to how-did-I-get-here seniors. From first-real-job to I-do-and-he-does-too. To pregnant bellies to welcoming in new life. Those kinds of transitions. Unspeakable, really.

It's a privilege. Yes, that's what it is. A complete privilege to journey with another through the transitions and curves of life. Wouldn't you agree?

This is my friend. 
Her name is Kathryne (and these are the men in her life). 
She's one of those kinds of friends. 
One of those for-lifers.

You know the type.


Wednesday, May 22, 2013

the words find us

"i shall make all things well,
and i will make all things well;
and you will see yourself that every
kind of thing will be well."

Julian of Norwich,
a mysterious, female mystic
from a tumultuously mysterious time.

it has been said that when
Mother Julian was writing these words,
she was expressing her
deepest sense of spirituality and 
beliefs about her Creator.

she authored,
Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love,
when she was only 30 years old.
this book is said to be the first
book written by an English woman.

words seem to find us.

and it's remarkable how words,
said more than 600
years ago

still have the power to
jump off the page
and make me
catch my breath.

on a wednesday afternoon
in a random book
off the highest shelf
at one of my favorite city

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

she asked the sun.

And so, she asked the sun,
"Sun, how is it that every day you
are able to shine so bright?"
But the sun did not respond.

And so she asked again,
"Sun, what makes you give off
such heat?"

But again, the sun did not respond.
Discouraged, the girl crosses her arms
across her chess,
turns on her heels,
and begins to march away
down the broken sidewalk.

It is then that the girl sees {and feels} it:
the warmth on her back and
the light on the road ahead.
And the girl thinks,
"My path, ever golden, follows the sun."

- a poem by my friend written to me
quite some time ago.