Living the dream

At a recent race, I got into a conversation with a fellow teammate about swimming (this after wishing aloud there was a "run-bike-run" shirt for those of us who don't swim--they had "born to run", and "swim-bike-run" shirts). I told him I couldn't swim very well to consider triathlons. 

He told me what he's learned since becoming a triathlete: that guys, mostly, tend to want to go out hard into the race, but that swimming is a graceful act. If you go hard in swimming, it can work against you.

I remembered his words as I tried again to swim across the pool. Previous attempts left me flailing and gasping for air (I was holding my breath and then taking big gulps of air--not recommended). I purchased nose clips (mostly for mental assurance because of my fear to put my face in the water without holding my nose--even as a full-fledged adult, I can't seem to talk myself out of that). I got a pair of goggles. I got into the water and decided to strive for graceful. I slowed down my movements. I remembered to breathe out slowly and count my arm strokes to time the next inhale. I went from four to six to eight to twelve to fourteen strokes before taking a breath--not at all gasping or panicked. 

I am so thankful for a big brother in this teammate (not that he's older, but by experience) to tell me how to prepare for the road ahead. When I put on my dream list to do a triathlon, it was just another one of my dreams. But now, a possibility. 

It is so good to be surrounded by people who have done more and dream big, who generously and selflessly reach out to help another through encouragement and advice. This year has been such an unexpected gift--to be among so many focused, positive, accepting peers. 

Next year's goal, to compete in one of these:

Sprint Distance - 400 Yard Pool Swim | 10 Mile Bike | 3 Mile Run

​Super Sprint Distance - 200 Yard Pool Swim | 5 Mile Bike | 1.75 Mile Run

I remember when my goal was to just run one mile that first year, and when I achieved that, I thought, "Is that all there is?" It left me feeling fulfilled and unfulfilled at the same time. When I asked myself after running three miles how I could level up, I decided to sign up for a 5k (at the start of the unbeknownst year of lockdowns--which, when races were cancelled I decided to level up to five miles). 

Who knows? Maybe one day I'll look back and fondly remember this milestone as a baby step towards another goal. 

And from a once 5k-dream to finishing off this year with two 1/2 marathons (for a total of four), two 5ks (for a total of three), a 10k (for a total of three, plus a duathlon this year), and a 5-mile trail run.

God, thank you for these opportunities. Thank you for giving me a love of running and endurance. Thank you for brothers and sisters in spirit and heart. Thank you for giving me the courage to dream a little bigger and not shrink back.

And still counting ... (16,999-17,087)

 August, an 11-year anniversary

the difference here makes, a home where we raised our kids, lush green in the green season, warm and cozy fires in the brown season, friends at the table

big blue in the back yard, chickens, garden beds, a mulched garden, a wine fridge, summer nights

running shoes, books in the mail, books from the library, dates on the calendar to spend with friends, end-of-summer adventures

Shane, Erin, Lanie, memories of Linda, Denise

Marshall's Mom, Miss Kate (who turned 101), bunnies in the yard, cool mornings, fall races in queue

flowers along the house, flowers in a vase, fresh coats of pain in the rooms, bushes trimmed, caring neighbors

flowers in the flower boxes, the running community, school supplies, a veggie tray with Michi, friendship

words from earlier this year to remind me about value, Ruth, remembering David, Anita, good sleep

face-to-face with a hummingbird, clean windows, intangible wealth, a walk back from the auto shop and a neighbor's text on the journey--being seen and known, hugs with my man 

the first mile in a new pair of running shoes, the guy in South Africa who called them snazzy, a team pullover, the sound of cricket song into early morning hours, new equipment at the gym

a treadmill run under the big fan, errands with Erin, freshly mowed grass, sweet and juicy cantaloupe, s'mores

a swim cap for big hair, nose plugs, the way the pool looks from under water, new muscles getting worked, a step closer to a next milestone

these summer weeks with my kids, a chat with Marshall's Mom that always puts things in perspective, good books to read to refocus my intentions, blossoms on vegetable plants, summer weekends

that Jenne has deep insight, coffee in the morning, cookbooks to read, an end-of-summer sleepover, back-to-school supplies

the woman at the gym who asked me how my run was, a pair of bike shorts, the writers on 66 Books, a book cover (a table setting) that called my heart, a book on holy hygge

milkshakes for the girls, a rosemary plant half price, the hint of wood smoke smells from the fireplace, the tickets to the November woods walk, chilly temperatures

an afternoon walk and talk long distance with Nora, back-to-school shopping with Erin, a Neapolitan colored sweater we both loved, a nurse neighbor for a mandolin mishap, curriculum in the mail

an evening of school planning and prep, coffee with cream and sugar

Day story

 August 2022

Outside my window, raindrops from the morning still on hydrangea leaves. Yesterday it rained steadily on the way to the gym and on the way back home. I enjoyed the chillier temperatures. I enjoyed wrapping up in a fleece blanket when I got home and finished my coffee. I enjoyed changing into jeans with a loose button-down long-sleeve shirt. It reminds me of summer's nearing end.

And I quote, 

"One of us will be gone. It could be in ten years. It could be in twenty years," Shane musing on mortality over lunch. Those words packed a punch. And now I feel more of an urgency in all things: go, do, savor. When your oldest daughter is turning twenty this year, twenty years left doesn't seem like long at all. And maybe it will be thirty, or forty, but the point is, we are past the midpoint. It is sobering.

Giving thanks, oh so much. For eleven years here ... beautiful sunflowers ... swims in the pool ... no fear putting my face in the water ... friends over at the pool ... stunning sunrises ... the fluffiest clouds ... juicy melons ... savoring these days, a sensory feast. 

In the school room, I am already focusing on September rhythms. I dream of open windows, satsuma in the air, school outside, and the establishing on new routines. I pre-ordered a book called Holy Hygge: Creating a Place for People to Gather and the Gospel to Grow by Jamie Erickson. Everything I could glean from this book cover spoke to my heart. Coupled with a refreshed focus on family and home, and a right mindset on hospitality, I feel like I am getting closer to who I was. It feels familiar and right.

From the kitchen, we had a friend sleepover Friday night. I set the table out on the patio, filled glass pitchers with ice and topped one off with juice, another with water. We had simple gf pizza, a vegetable tray, and cream-filled cupcakes I recently picked up on a whim (always dreaming of the next poetry tea). The girls watched The Hunger Games (a first for their friend, who had read the books) and ate popcorn. The next day, I baked off an applesauce bread with butterscotch chips. This, the setting, the foods, the friendship--it all felt familiar and right.

I am again. A return to running. A return to biking. Even adding in a swim (the pursuit and growth of something new and how I love the pursuit and growth). A return to hospitality, but the really good kind that comes from the heart (thanks to Marshall's Mom as we remembered the younger years and slices of banana chocolate chip bread). The offering was the reward. Offering belonging, welcome, kindness, abundance, safety, friendship. As I return to these things, they are familiar and right--and true to me. It's nice to reclaim these parts of me--the running, the biking, the dreamer, the hostess. I've always told myself that success is being true to who God made (me) to be, and living life wholeheartedly and without apology. The mess comes when the offering becomes the measure of acceptance, approval, worth, or validation. 

I don't want to forget the offering is the reward. I needed the fresh reminder from books on home and a talk with a long-time friend to remind me of the heart, and seeds sown, and joy. For too long I felt like I had to keep impressing, keep inviting, keep fulfilling in order to keep a friendship--that somehow friendship/acceptance/approval/worth was the reward for a job well done. Is it good enough was almost the same as am I good enough? But when the offering is born of love (welcome, safety, inclusion), it is the reward all on its own--and it is always good, and it is always enough. God takes those offerings and can turn them into so much more, and the action and heart of it all is the reward--not whatever else we might make it about.

I am reading The Lifegiving Home by Sally and Sarah Clarkson, to be followed by The Lifegiving Table by Sally Clarkson, and Win in the Dark by Joshua Medcalf and Lucas Jadin. Holy Hygge is on pre-order, due out in September, just in time for back-to-school rhythms. 

Around the house, planning for summer's last adventures, swims, bonfires, and friend dates. 

I value truth.

A view of my favorite things

cilantro seeds, so lovely

a swim cap for big hair

Ruth

the drink jugs

overhead shot cropped out Cara because I couldn't see what I was shooting

New shoes, let's go!

Sunrise over my neighbor's house

Iykyk

cutting in fresh white

celebrating home with these lovelies

a new set of towels because it's been eleven years

Erin picked wind chimes

The dearest perspective on home and family and friendship and gathering. I really needed this.

 

At the table, making plans. It's so nice to know a friend will join us at the table, whether it's my own table or someplace else. As Joanna Gaines once said, "Everything happens around a table."

Stones

 "... we allow ourselves to be swept away in all the noise and activity ... Until that instant on an autumn evening when we step out of the car and the air is sharp with cold and wood smoke, when the windows of the houses nearby glow with invitation and we yearn to belong behind one of those golden panes, to be drawn into a refuge where we are known, where a table is set and candles are lit, awaiting our arrival." The Lifegiving Home by Sally and Sarah Clarkson, pgs 14-15.  

I'm rereading The Lifegiving Home because ... I need a fresh refocus on home ... because I've been swept away by noise and activity ... because we are celebrating another year here ... because school is starting soon ... because I feel the acute passing of time ... 

This vignette early on in the story made me think of our home in the fall. The wood smoke. The crisp air. The glow from the windows. A place where (we) are known. And I feel so grateful that I have such a place. Thank you, God.

After the first part of the book, I jumped to the chapter in August, symbolically (to me) centered on memorial stones of God's goodness. The Clarkson family would take a family day and eat a picnic lunch in the mountains. But before that, they'd talk about what God has done in their lives and write down these memories of his goodness to them in all different facets of their lives.

If I look back to just the past year, I am thankful to God for: a new co-op, getting on the team, all the great races I got to run this year (including two half marathons!), new inspiration, some fun photoshoots, another year to homeschool, good health, good friends, and another year here as a family of four. There's more. But I wanted to lay down a few stones of God's goodness to me. 

God, thank you for another year here. I never want to forget your goodness to me, and how can I when it's all around me?

the fiery splurge for our table

an inside amusement--new towels

Erin's pick: windchimes

One of my favorite books, really.

Paint

I had hoped to get it done during the month that Erin was at camp, but plans don't always go as anticipated. Of the spaces I wanted to paint, only one got done: the powder room. 

Tomorrow marks eleven years here, and yesterday, I set out to paint the kitchen. It was a warm shade of yellow when we moved here. Cindy loved warm (golden) yellow, a deep green (we call it Cindy Green because it was everywhere!), and brown. My first task when we moved here was to paint spaces. I peeled wallpaper in the dining room and painted the dining room and kitchen. Other spaces would come later: hallway, living room, school room, laundry room (ugh, the antique white from ceiling, walls to trim), Shane's office, Erin's room, and our bedroom. As I prepped to paint the kitchen (taping and hanging plastic over cabinets and counters), I wondered how it was I got so much done, homeschooling littles, way back when. Seriously. It took me a month to paint a powder room, and eleven years earlier I was doing it ALL. AND the outside tasks too.

"You're older now," Shane said. Sorry. No excuse.

I started with cutting in. A friend was excited when I posted about painting the kitchen. She's an artist. 

"What color are you painting it?" she asked.

It felt quite anticlimactic to respond, "White." But then I added, "It's an eggshell white instead of matte."

I used to associate matte finishes with cozy elegance. But matte paint sucks up the light instead of reflecting it, and in the woods, under the most-yearly shade of trees, I'm starved for light. I am switching to eggshell in all the spaces as we go room to room with a refreshing coat. Yeah, I'm a wild one.

Already, two-thirds completed in the kitchen, and the room feels brighter and bigger. While I waited for the first coat to dry, I cleaned the windows inside and out. Clean windows make my heart sing. No joke.

While I painted, I thought back to our former house. I thought of the nursery mural that I painted while Lanie was still in my belly. I never imagined, as I prepared a space for my child, that I was simultaneously preparing a space for a next owner's child. I am sure by now that she has painted over the mural. But in my mind, it is frozen as I left it. I rolled the white paint across the wall (what did she think as she painted her space?). I thought of how temporary our mark is in the world.

I never imagined that day I painted a scene on my baby's wall when the day would come that we would leave. And as I painted the kitchen yesterday, I knew there would be a day we'll pack up from here. I just don't know when or where we'll go. 

I was younger eleven years ago. But I applied that paint with the same tenderness as I did once upon a time. I love this home. And it is because of the leaving of the last that I treasure this space all the more. How temporary our mark. 

Cindy once told me I make this place shine, and it was a high compliment coming from someone who loved this home as much. In recent years, I've juggled a bit too much and haven't kept up as well. But I'm getting back. 

A painted powder room. And a painted kitchen in time to celebrate eleven tomorrow. I'll buy some flowers for a vase, and trim up some bushes in front of the house. I'll swim in the pool, and play music in the rooms, just like I did for almost six years with Linda on a Friday night. It's hard to imagine she's been gone from our lives (here) almost half the time we've been here. 

Oh August, I'm so happy to celebrate on a Friday. This week feels so full of all the wonderful feelings this home has held. Of friends and feasting. The green of a woodland around us and the bursting red blossoms of geraniums in window boxes or impatiens by the front door--all from a clean window view (my heart!). And now, we have chickens! 

Thank you, God, for poetry teas, music performances, knit dates, snow days with friends, swim days too, grilling, lawn mowing, weed pulling, flowers, butterflies and humming birds, field picnics, wild berries, bonfires and marshmallow roasting, wood smoke smells, crunchy leaves, and the fresh clean of a coat of paint on old walls. There is so much more packed into eleven years here. Intangible wealth. 

Grateful.

The Sunday of summer

I really do love August. Of all the summer months, it's my favorite. It's still a month of vacation before the school year starts. It's full of things I want to savor--the full, green lush of the season; amazing fruit harvests of peaches, berries, and melons; it's grilling and bonfires; swim dates and gatherings. It's full and ripe. A summery, sensory feast.

This month, I'm purposing to savor the days. The painting, the planning, the preparing for school. I'm going to enjoy these days. I'm going to step into these moments. Music in the rooms. Ice water, tea, a festive wine. Celebrating. 

We are days from eleven years here, and the anniversary reminds me to slow down and savor. 

This week I'm splurging on a bouquet of flowers for the kitchen. I saw them at Wegmans last week, an amazing assortment of sunflowers in striking fiery hues. Planning a family meal that I hope harkens back the nights Linda joined us--full and satisfying. Painting rooms with fresh coats and cleaning windows (I love clean windows so much! I think it's from all the years I wore glasses and had less than perfect vision.). Even rereading an old Sally Clarkson favorite: The Lifegiving Home. I love Sally's books and the vision she casts for home, womanhood, motherhood. Although, she tends to lean heavy into enneagram 9 (I have no idea what personality she favors--just going off her vibe), which just about makes me crazy (think meandering--tea--pondering--lots of eating--people/self soothers). But reading this book will help set the intention of our school year, refocus my heart, and give me good ideas going into a season of holidays and hygge. 

Happy August!