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This abbey old, one thousand, one thousand six hundred years. Two columns buckling, held in place with wood supports and chains, still stand. Mottled bricks, set with hands long gone, crowd overhead, silent, still joined. One thousand, one thousand six hundred years. My shoes scratch 'cross these stones. Brown suede o'er my toes, feet touching, treading how many distant dreams, hopes, prayers, tears? A silence meets me from beyond the years. Enfolds my soul. I feel quite... Read Full Story
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Recently I decided to share how blogging has changed my life. Along with that, I launched an informal survey. Call it a meme if you must; that's how it passed 'round the blogosphere. Now, I've done studies before— the kind that hire $100-an-hour statisticians to tell what the final scoop is. Or the kind that require hours upon hours of literature research in fusty journals. But the real fun has been doing this kind of study: ask people from around the world to self-report on how blogging... Read Full Story
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We climb high— past sheer, chalky white rocks— brush by wild fennel and what look like dandelions on dianthus stems. The air is dry, feels thin as we ascend. Up and up and up, above the city and the blue, blue sea. Sun is pure and hot, blazes, reflects from golden steeple that guides us ever upward. If heaven is somewhere, maybe it is here. Hushed, we pass over an old wooden drawbridge, into the coolness of marble, red and ivory. Into the artistic order of fine mosaic on floor and wall... Read Full Story
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I walk the streets and squares of Paris and think how long... how long all this has been here. I pass by churches a thousand years old or older. Cobblestones are smooth under my feet, scoured by the ages. Renaissance buildings look out over a square where once there were jousts. What fine ladies peered out the windows, from these places that were made to last? As I walk, I think of how small I am, how brief my life. I watch my children balance where knights made good on vows or showed... Read Full Story
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Sixteen years ago I went to Paris. I lost a camera (technically my wedding gift to my new husband... technically with all our honeymoon photos on it). I was an artist then, going expectantly to an artist's city. But I came home having lost heart for being a professional artist. Upon returning, I immediately began to pursue a Masters in Teaching. My time in the great city had given some things, taken away others. All of it unexpected. Fast forward. Today, I returned from Paris. And again... Read Full Story
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Plane hurtles down the runway. I close my eyes and wait for lift-off in darkness. Soon we are... airborne, headed East, chasing morning. Beside me, my children gradually drift to sleep. I fidget, wishing I could ignore the night, let my body release, relax. My muscles twitch. Peace will not come. Hours later, sun shines strong over France. Wide awake, I think how it is still dark back home. It comes to me, suddenly, that there is always morning somewhere, even as there is night on the... Read Full Story
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Night has fallen here in Paris. I walk across an old wooden floor, open the window and look out at the Eiffel tower. Blue with light. It shines cobalt blue. And now it sparkles, hundreds of white lights that look like stars blinking. On and off. The whole galaxy here outside my window, it seems. To travel is to go nowhere. It's just like being anywhere else, says my Little one. Yet it is also to go a world apart. At times, it feels nothing is familiar. Simple things like faucets, locks... Read Full Story
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Grace and the barn: it brought us the story of a particular table that sits on the porch of our sweet Canadian friend Ann. But such stories are only beginnings. Our lives, and perhaps the tables in our lives, have stories behind stories behind stories. It was my profound artist friend Erin who remembered this, who said in the comment box, Ooooo, I bet the history behind that table is a gooooood story. So I wrote to Ann, asking for the story behind the story. And this is what she said... Read Full Story
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Slowly but surely I'm mining my secret place journals, to find just the perfect bits for God in the Yard. Of course that means much will be left behind, tucked silently into pages, out of view. So I thought, why not... why not set them here, on this little table, a tiny centerpiece over which you and I can sip tea. March 20, 2007 I am amazed by the squirrels, how they chase and tumble and travel the "squirrel metro" across this little woods, in five seconds flat. The metro is a lacework... Read Full Story
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I hear that Teresa of Avila stopped praying for two years— years of struggle. She backed into a quiet corner and closed her mouth. These days, I feel a little like Teresa. Silenced by a dark night of the soul. Dark night. I always thought that meant a time of suffering or depression, but I learned differently not too long ago. It can be just this... a fog, a confusion, obscurity, change, travel in the dark, unknowing. All because the journey has shifted. It is not always painful or negative... Read Full Story
