i've got my love to keep me warm



Today is my birthday. I've got two cute men by my side. What more could a girl ask for?

Tonight we're going out for Thai food, then coming back to our place for cake + ice cream + presents. It's the one day out of the year that everyone in my family comes over to our apartment. We're always squished and cramped and sitting on the floor, but I love it. It's going to be a great night!

[Photos by Scott Foust, taken December 2010]

Anatomy of the DIY Gift Wrap: Budget Edition



Is it just me, or do DIY crafts always seem to end up being more expensive than if you went and bought it pre-made at the store? I have such limited space in my home (my bath towels share a shelf with the tool set) that it's impossible for me to stockpile a useful stash of materials. As much as I'd like to, I really can't hold onto old sweaters in the hopes that one day I'll rip them up and use the fabric as decorative accent on gift wrap. Where would I keep them - in my crockpot? It's just not practical right now.

And let's not forget that all that pretty DIY takes a fair amount of time, which is not abundant in the life of a toddler mom/small business owner/wife/wannabe writer.  It takes even more time when you are not naturally design-y (not a word, I know) as well as an indecisive perfectionist. Translation: I'm very good at wasting time on unimportant details because I don't know what I am doing.

So when I get the urge to do something homemade -- fairly frequently, thanks to all the amazing, creative bloggers out there -- I usually end up with a diminished bank account and a discouraged spirit.

I promised that I wouldn't do that to myself this Christmas, despite being completely taken by Summer's luxurious monochromatic gift wrap and Sally's more modern, gilded take and wishing I could create something similar.

I reached into the the closet, pulled out the old, gaudy, drugstore bargain-bin rolls of wrapping paper and forgot about it.

-

When we opened the three small boxes that store our Christmas decorations, out tumbled a few rolls of wide, shimmery gold metallic ribbon and some tiny, round, gold ornaments. They used to adorn my small, college-apartment Christmas tree, but have sat unused in the box since then.

It gave me a little idea. So I started scrounging deeper - in the Christmas boxes, in the kitchen, in my closet. Here's what I found:



White Yarn
Tiny Gold Ornaments
Wide Gold Ribbon
Skinny Gold + Silver Ribbon
Miscellaneous Buttons
Roll of White Paper

(FYI: The white paper is from my son's art easel that we bought at IKEA. It's the MALA paper, and I'm officially in love with it. Go get a roll. It's heavy and perfect for wrapping).

I decided to try to make some pretty packaging with those items, plus these things from the clearance aisle at Michaels & JoAnn Fabric:



Sheer Ivory Ribbon - .75 cents
1 Yard of Burlap - $3.00
Glitter Leaves - .49 cents
Glitter Gift Bag (to make tags)- $1.29

Total Cost: $5.53

Here's what I ended up with. 











Not bad for under six bucks, if you don't mind me saying so. I'm glad I didn't let my need for perfection stop me from at least trying. It feels simple, but special. Isn't that what do-it-yourself is all about, anyway?

love in details



Years from now, I'll remember that sweet head of baby fine blonde hair. But I might forget the way the wind swept it up into a tiny golden tornado that day.



We have lots of photos of Isaac - an overwhelming number, thanks to the unholy trinity of photography, first-time parenting and digital cameras.

They're all special to me, but I have a soft spot for the details. Someday, when I'm old and he's grown - I know they will bring me a lot of joy. They already do.

signs

Dearest husband,

I bought you a card ages ago. I'm sure by now you think I just forgot to give it to you, considering that our anniversary was last month.

It's just a silly, throwaway card, with no flowery language or meaningful subtext.  At the time it would have felt odd and insincere to give you something touchy-feely like that.

Because you and I - well, we're the stubborn ones. That old Achilles heel of ours.  After six years of marriage, our struggles have become less noticeable and less frequent, but seemingly more potent. It's like we're pushing against opposite sides of an invisible door and wondering why we can't get in.

I know in my head that relationships ebb and flow, a decrease followed by increase. That's the law of nature and of love, but even so - it's hard to know what to do and how to act on an anniversary when there are undercurrents of tension and frustration.

So, I didn't give you the card because I simply didn't know what to say.  Instead, I held on to it, hoping for some flash of inspiration or for something to nudge at my heart.

And then I got it. All these weeks later, a sign. A literal, honest-to-goodness sign, via a photo I snapped earlier this year.



As soon as I saw it, I felt a wave knock me over. It felt like regret, and a little like shame for forgetting one of the most important foundations of any good marriage.

Yield, Marisa. Let it go. Stop pushing. Wait. Give.

You, Aaron. Not me.

That's what I wish I would have said then. And it's what I'm happy to say now.

Happy (belated) Anniversary, my love.

Your always adoring wife,

M

daily riches



(L) The late-afternoon light is meditative, gliding silently across the creased and rumpled blanket. I look into my bedroom often, just to see the glow.  (R)  The gilded edges and aqua cover brighten the mostly white room; empty pages beckon like an open road.

*

I've been feeling really down about our living space lately.  It's a 900 sq. ft apartment with only two bedrooms, and between me, my husband, our rambunctious toddler AND the small business... well, cramped is not a strong enough word to describe how it feels here.  Every day I am faced with clutter and stuff and displaced things, and every day I wish for space and order and simplicity instead.

I want to be content, but I find myself held down by frustration and disappointment.

I want to be better than that.

So, I've started a little project, inspired by the words of one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke:

If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches.

I think that the cure for discontentment is gratitude, so occasionally I'll be posting photos and words that celebrate the daily riches that I do have here in my 900 square feet.  Think of it as -- a little modern poetry.

(Are you feeling discontent about something in your life? Join me if you'd like! Leave a comment - I'd love to follow your progress.)

a little bit of magic



"I am struck by the fact that the more slowly trees grow at first, the sounder they are at the core, and I think that the same is true for human beings. We do not wish to see children "precocious," like sprouts producing a soft and perishable timber, but rather, better, as if contending gradually with difficulties, they are solidified and gradually perfected."  - from the journal of Henry David Thoreau

I read this recently and it really struck a chord. There is something to be said for letting our little ones develop into life unhurried and unencumbered. I want my son have that innocent light for as long as he can.

[Photo by my husband]

isaac's birth story: part two

Want to start at the beginning? Read the Prologue first and then read Part One.


I know she is struggling.


How I wish I could sit beside her in that dark room and tell her not to worry. The future is beautiful.


I would show her a photo from his first birthday - the cute one with all the yellow balloons. I would tell her that he is smart and funny and perfect in every way. I would tell her that he won’t remember his time in the hospital, that he wouldn’t notice that his changing table was actually just a hastily cleared off portion of the desk, and that he never knew that she didn’t get a chance to pick out a special homecoming outfit for him.

I would tell her that there would be scary moments, but that they would pale in comparison to the moments of complete and utter joy.

I would tell her that soon she would be proud of her own physical strength.

I would tell her that yes, just as she had always suspected, her husband was indeed an incredible father.

I would tell her that her heart would be broken, just a little. Don’t worry, I would say. The fire will not consume you– it will only refine.

And then I would tell her to rest, because the sun would be up soon.

*

When we arrived at the hospital, the midwife on duty gestured to the crowded OB triage waiting room and dryly asked me if we all came in on the same bus. She was a bit intimidating, which only increased my anxiety.

They hooked me to a machine and checked for our baby’s heartbeat. I heard the tiny thud-thud-thuds, steady like raindrops, and smiled my relief.

More tests, and then, waiting. We spoke in low tones and phoned family members to let them know what was going on. Naively, we talked about how inconvenient this was, and how they would probably just send me home on bed rest. Our wrecked apartment loomed large in my mind. It was such a disaster. How would I get anything done now?

The midwife returned. Your water broke, she said, confirming what we already knew. It’s a risky situation for the baby, so we need to watch you carefully.

My brain was still ten steps behind, and I mentally kicked myself for skipping the chapter on premature babies in the pregnancy book. I remember glancing up and seeing the uncertainty on Aaron’s face. How long would we be here? When could we go home?

She smiled a wry smile. We have to do more tests, she said matter-of-factly, but you won’t be going home anytime soon. I’m sure you’ll be here until the baby arrives.

*

My room was at the end of the hall. Occasionally the distant moans and cries of a laboring woman punctuated the silence, her pain so raw that the sound tingled my spine.

To my left, my husband slept fitfully, wedged uncomfortably into a broken, over sized armchair.

To my right, a machine played the low, soft, sweet heartbeat of the child inside of me.

I lay in the center, finally alone with my thoughts, torturing myself with the unknown.

Had I done something to cause this? It was my fault.
Would our baby really be okay? Six weeks early seemed like a long time.
Would my hoped-for natural birth still be possible? Things were more complicated now.
Were we ready take a baby home? We didn’t even have the basic necessities.

My emotions crashed together like waves.

Guilt. Fear. Selfishness. Anger. Disappointment. Confusion.

I tossed and turned throughout the night, searching for resolution. My contractions were coming, but they were weak and sporadic.

The sun was coming up.

*

Tighten. Release.

Tighten. Release.

I learned something in the late stages of labor, when the pain was excruciating and I thought I couldn’t bear it any longer.

The moment you want to panic, the thing to do - the thing you MUST do - is relax. It’s not easy, of course. You feel as though you are about to be swallowed whole. But if you cling to and claw at the pain, if you try to control it - it will control you.

When you are holding on, let go.


Click here to read the next installment: Isaac's Birth Story: Part Three

the two-week life





Every two weeks, for the whole of our married existence, something rather important would arrive.

A paycheck.

In the beginning, the checks were small, but as his role at the company grew, they grew as well. Like everyone else, we worked hard at our finances - mapping out strategies for reducing debt, increasing savings and planning for retirement. It wasn't always easy (we tackled a lot of debt in the early years), but at the very least I felt quite a bit of stability and security from the regularity of those checks.

You all know the punchline, right? Let's just stop here for a moment and shake our heads in collective agreement: stability, in all its earthly permutations, is really just a big fat illusion.

It's been nine months since he was laid-off from his job. At that time we made the choice for him to forgo looking for another job in the corporate world, and instead decided to take a (gigantic) leap of faith and expand his evenings + weekends only freelance photography into a full-time gig - effectively making it our only source of income. (I had quit my job earlier in the year to be home with our son).

Since then I haven't talked about it at all, because I worried that writing about my myriad fears would only magnify them and because I knew that if I didn't talk about it, I also wouldn't have to talk about any failures we encountered along the way. It's embarrassing to admit, but it illustrates that I didn't have much faith in what God could do in our lives.



George Muller said that "God delights to increase the faith of His children." I see that now.

The photography business is our employer, and since our budget has always been based on the anticipation of a two-week paycheck, we kept it that way. We established ahead of time how much money we would need every two weeks to survive.

And then we survived.

Every time he has a photography job, we deposit the money into our business account. And without fail, for the past nine months, we have survived. Sure, I'm not getting weekly spa appointments (I bought a nail file last week and felt sort of guilty), but it's better than that. We are together. Pursing a dream. Increasing our faith.

Every two weeks, the money has been there, even during the times I never thought it would be. I remember one time being SO COMPLETELY SURE that we would have to resort to plundering our savings in order to buy groceries. And then, voila - our tax refund came and it was literally the exact amount we needed to survive for the next two weeks.

There is no stability. Not that kind of stability, at least. There is only this two-week life. And I am learning to love it.

Like swinging from vine to vine only to discover that the forward-motion is terrifying and exhilarating.

Like peering through the dirty glass to see the shape and form of something just beyond, where things are a little obscured but everything is beautiful.



[All photos by me, taken July 2010]

where i've been

chasing wide open spaces,



catching sunlight between pine trees in the arizona high country,



taking slow steps on the beach in encinitas,



listening to waves crash against the jagged la jolla coastline,



sitting on the front-porch on a quiet street in ohio.



Summer has been lovely so far, but really - I'm glad to be back home.

[All photos by me, taken with my Diana Mini]

love in action



Last week I called my mom at 7 o'clock in the morning and mumbled desperately into the phone that I was sick and the baby was sick and if it wasn't too much trouble couldn't she please come over and help?

And she did - of course she did. She soothed us with kind words and vegetable soup, and the calming force of her presence made me believe that mothers actually DO have supernatural powers. I don't know if she had plans for that day, but if she did, she never let on that I had disrupted them.

Sacrifice is beautiful because it is rare in this world; we are drawn to the souls who bring light in the form of unconditional service and love.

My mother shines.

[Photo of me + my mom on the beach, sometime in the early 80's]

renewal




This life is not a state of being righteous, but rather a growth of righteousness; not a state of being healthy, but a period of healing; not a state of being, but becoming; not a state of rest, but of exercise and activity.

We are not yet what we shall be,
but we grow toward it;

The process is not yet finished,
but it is still going on;

This life is not the end,
it is the way to a better.

All does not yet shine with glory;
nevertheless, all is being purified.

-Martin Luther

Easter was lovely - my mom arranged the prettiest centerpieces for her table this year. I'm lucky to have a mom who understand the need for beauty in everyday life. Isaac hunted eggs for the first time, and although he was mostly interested in the marshmallows that we hid inside of the eggs, it was still pretty adorable.

I'm particularly inspired by Martin Luther's words today. I've been feeling a little stagnant lately - so I am happy to be reminded that renewal is always right around the corner.

P.S. I LOVED every single one of your comments on my last post about writing. Thank you for the wonderful feedback!

thoughts on writing courageously


This post was inspired by
J, who commented on my last post. She said: “I DREAM of putting myself out there and actually writing something worthwhile, but I am too much of a sissy to actually do it. You need to share some of your courage with me! Seriously? Advice?”

I’m not an expert and certainly don’t have it all figured out, but since she asked, here are a few things I've been thinking...



Write for yourself first.

Are you self-conscious? I am. About a lot of things (among them: my post-pregnancy body, my high-pitched voice, my penchant for really bad pop music). I used to think that a bit of self-consciousness was fairly harmless, but now I realize – it’s a dangerous, paralyzing form of narcissism. It causes us to look with disdain on our flawed humanity and instead chase after an idealized image of perfection.

And so it goes with writing – we don’t write boldly because we’re self-conscious. We fear that we’ll be judged, mocked, or questioned, that we won’t say the “right” thing or that no one will understand. We’re unable to move past the belief that what we say won’t be good enough.

Break your self-conscious spirit. Spend some time writing in a journal, or anywhere where no one will ever read what you write. Practice finding what satisfies you as a writer so that when you are ready to write for the world, their feedback will merely be a validation of what you already know.

Embrace confidence. You have to respect your own thoughts and expressions before anyone ever will.


Stop reading other people’s writing.

Take a break from blogs and books. I know, I know - a blogger telling you stop reading blogs. But hear me out.

Most of the writers I know are also voracious readers. It’s so important to be inspired by those who have gone before. But I think that there is a point where you need to stop consuming in order to begin creating. The infinite swirl of words around you will simply overwhelm, not motivate.

How can you write in your own unique voice if you have to strain to hear it?


Expect it to be hard.

You know the stereotypical image of the tormented novelist, bleary eyed and disheveled, alone at his typewriter, with a mountain of crumpled pieces of paper at his feet?

Good news! It probably won’t be exactly like that… no one uses a typewriter these days.

To write courageously, you need to be bold yet vulnerable, liberated but intensely aware. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that that kind of writing probably can’t be done during the commercials breaks of LOST (trust me, I’ve tried).

Resist the urge to skim the surface of your life. Make it a priority to contribute something worthy, something substantial, even if it’s just a paragraph or a few sentences.

Occasionally, the words will flow easily. But 95% of the time for me, writing is a laborious act of love.


Aim for the shape of things.

My dad is a gifted artist. I love (and envy) his ability to convey moods and feelings with simple brushstrokes. Here’s an important thing I learned from his art:

It doesn’t have to be literal in order to be true.

I think that sometimes we don’t write courageously because we think it means that we have to let it all hang out, exposing every flaw and wrinkle in graphic detail. Not so. There are things that should be shrouded, and they are better that way.

When I started writing my son’s birth story, the original draft was four pages long and was brimming with every detail I could muster. But it didn’t feel right, and when I stepped back from it, I realized that while I had literally told a story, I hadn’t actually said much at all.

Remember that your life is more than a play-by-play of actions and motions. Knowing what details to keep and how to express them in an effective way is mostly a matter of skill, which you can develop with a little time and practice.

Blur the edges. Sketch the mood. Use emotion instead of fact.

Aim for the shape of things, and you may end up with something more true than you originally imagined.


Remember: You are not unique.


It sounds harsh, but this is good thing. The reason I know I can share my emotions and feelings is because I know you, the reader, can relate. You’ve been there, too – fights and jobs losses, proud moments and overwhelming joys. I’m not unique in that aspect, and I’m glad!

The beauty of writing and sharing is that it makes it easier to find like-minded souls and kindred spirits. Have you ever had the experience of reading a line in a book and then smiling because the author articulated something that you’ve always felt but never knew how to say? It’s a comforting feeling to know that you are not alone.


Except, you really are.

If everyone’s souls were made of the exact same stuff, then humans would have run out of things to say hundreds of years ago.

Live authentically. Value sincerity. Believe in your heart that you have something entirely unique to offer to the world. These are small acts of great courage.

Focus on these things first, and the courageous writing will take care of itself.


Good luck, J. I hope this helped you a bit! Keep me posted on how things go for you.

[Photo taken in Maui on our honeymoon. We were using film back then and I love how ethereal the mountaintops look.]