Elbow Grease.

Here is my new proud project. I've been buying furniture for our new place, and have been creative in doing so. This is my first & favorite piece -- an armour purchased from the Habitat resale place that I cleaned, sanded, sweated, and painted over. I love the cottage look and the floral carvings. It's so intricate, feminine, and still useful!

The Weather.

"Oh I hear the weather's nice in California..."

I've been wondering for a couple of days how to write this post. How I need to write it. How it has to be written. But at the same time, how to write it... And then these lyrics came to me through the radio on my drive today and summarized everything I wanted to say.

You see, I've never thought about Father's Day from the "other" perspective. The one without a father. The one with the absent father. The one with the abusive father. The one with the unstable father. The one with the aloof father.

I've never had to stand in line at the Hallmark store to reach over to cards and find one that could be sent, without sending the heart. But I stood picking up cards, and made it as unemotional as possible - a task to get done, with a short span of time and someplace to be afterward. Stamp and address in the car so everything could be done in one swift motion and shoved away. But the Hallmark store has cards about great men, about caring men, about respectful, honoring, loving, admirable men. Not to say my father has never been any of this, but this year, I have seen it so little that the interactions deserve nothing more or less than a posted card in the mail.

Hallmark had none. The choices were sappy, deep, intimate... or about beer bellies. So to the next store I went, running out of time and just needing to grab the quickest, non-emotional card I could find.

Got it. Just boxes on the front in different fall shades, and the words printed inside: "Thinking of you this Father's Day." Perfect. Done. Because I have to think about him, I do. But the way in which I think about him doesn't scrawl on cards.

I knew I needed to call him too, but dreaded what to say, or if Julie would pick up. But thanks-be-to-God, I got the answering machine. Perfect. Short but sweet. Done.

And on my drive today, I heard this song, these lyrics, and it closed out my thought process, gave words to the many other people who have low hearts today, and acknowledged the thousands who gather instead, isolated on this Fathers Day:

"Sometimes I think about you
Wonder if you're out there somewhere thinkin 'bout me
And would you even recognize
The woman that you're little girl has grown up to be.

'Cause I look in the mirror and all I see
Are your brown eyes looking back at me
They're the only thing you ever gave to me at all.

Oh I hear the weather is nice in California
There is sunny skies as far as I can see
If you ever come back home to Carolina
I wonder what you'd say to me.

Forgiveness is such a simple word
But it's hard to do when you've been hurt.

Oh I hear the weather's nice to California
And just in case you're wondering about me
From now on I won't be in Carolina
You're little girl is off, You're little girl is off
You're little girl is off to Tennessee."
-Kelly Pickler, I Wonder

The weather. Our relationship is minimized to the weather. Just the weather. It's the only substance across the lines, the only wire of communication. The only commonality we even try to express across our distant lives.

It isn't Mother's Day that is hard for me. It is Father's Day. It is the difference between death and divorce. It is the difference between being hit and being betrayed. It is the difference between tragedy and choice. It is intense like a storm, like the weather.

My Favorite Things.

A different take on "My Favorite Things." Its these little trinkets, little notes, little words, little pictures that collect in me like cottage charms. They dangle as reminders of the people I love and the things I love. They are the things that inspire, encourage, and come with me.

Adventure & Stability.

This week I:

Bought a kitchen table with six chairs from Craigs List.
Purchased a gorgeous antique armour for the living room.
Learned ways to refinish the armour in the garage by myself.
Collected pillows, curtains, and trinkets with ideas for decor.
Changed my car insurance to NC insurance.
Got a NC license plate for my car. It's official. Freaks me out a little.

I also...

Gloated over the Internet with a friend about trips, tickets, and travel ideas.
Decided on Ireland for a 8-10 day splurge.
Applied to Pueblo Ingles for a week in Spain.
Got accepted to Pueblo Ingles for September 10-17.
Re-sat down with the friend in the travel section of the book store to finalize dates, details, and flight information.
Designated days for camping and the Appalachian Trail with GR friends.
Compared dates for a quick weekend to D.C.

Hmmm... isn't this the paradox of who I am: Adventure & Stability ;)

A Page A Day.

I've made a commitment. For myself. For my personal growth and challenge, and concept of self-empowerment and goal-driven release.

I'm writing a page a day.

I've gotten out of practice of writing. Not blog writing, but writing as the art of it outside of me. Outside of my own thoughts of feelings, but writing as looking at trees with descriptive words, and capturing landscapes, and creating characters that in essence, then create themselves.

This was my original form of writing. This was my original release.

Book loads of scribbled words would end up on the kitchen table, waiting for my mom's proud eye. Pages of lined notebook entries piled together for my eighth grade teacher's encouraging comments. And story-lines with character names compiled in files.

I miss it. I haven't thought about it, until the last week or two, when I need major brain stimulation, goals, drive, purpose, and something to count as productive in my day.

So I started to day. The goal itself may be a bit lackadaisical, and left to great flexibility, but I have pronounced myself a practicing writer, as I commit to a page a day. About anything, about nothing. About people, about trees, about storms, about cityscape's. A running Word doc has already become. Just to begin this change and challenge. Of a page a day.

Grow Distance.

Grow Distance.

This is the phrase I've been using to distinguish my connections to members of my family. It has taken a year to define it, but the language labels my relationships on definite terms.

Grow Distance.

It signifies the process, as it takes much time and energy to grow anything. It articulates the length of space being challenged between us. It gives strength to the reality of the tension that is held there like a coarse, tight wire being pulled across the space.

Grow Distance.

It demonstrates the intentionality of amount of contact, the words of reminder that run through me as I pick up the receiver. It personifies the emotions that have been taught to stay at bay and live as guards against me.

Grow Distance.

It shows the inner hurt, and the intellectual pain. It gives title to the trained conversations that are clipped to just-the-facts. It pronounces more than just the miles; it stretches vaster than the broken places in my heart.

Grow Distance.

It trains to soldier toughening. It grapples a lineage of taunt communication. It is a legacy of protection from pain.

Grow Distance.

Couch.

Sometimes I'm still paralyzed without her. One year later and I still choke up about going some places, doing some things, and partaking in different conversations. A few things recently have embedded this whole idea like a hole in the murky waters of my heart, wishing and longing for her so much that it takes me a while to even define it.

This week, I have to buy a couch. But I can't walk into the furniture stores. Just writing about it here makes me cry.

She's supposed to be here with me. She's supposed to shop with me, to dream with me, to care about me, to support me. She's supposed to see this seemingly big step in my journey to adulthood and encourage and hug me. She's supposed to haul out her little grid of designs and sizes and test materials and tell me what is a good couch and what price range it is supposed to be in.

But she's not, and so I'm weeping and paralyzed in the process.

Ideas stay frozen in my mind, half finished. The joy of decorating is still contained in portions of my mind, zapped by the fear of not doing it right, and doing it alone. I want her advice, I want her input. We'd talk about buying a couch forever, and how it would make me feel like I really had my own place, and was calling it home.

When Kelly decorated, my mom took her every where. Even when they came to see me, they bought towels and linens and soap dispensers for Kelly's second home. When mom moved, my grandma did the same for her, taking her to Broenes furniture and testing and looking at different ideas and endeavors. I go at it alone. And it hurts, undoing whatever could heal.

Potted Plant.

I loved these words from Bekah this weekend:

"You're like a potted plant, you take your roots with you."