Meet Cassie.

I first met Cassie when I moved into the big yellow house on Gorham occupied by her and six other great girls. She lived in the blue room downstairs with Bri and my first memory of her is brushing her teeth. I can’t remember when I fell in love with her, but I think it was the night of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Cassie and I somehow got talking about it, and in a very Cassie way, she suggested we watch it. And so we ran out to Blockbuster and ordered a Glass Nickel Pizza. The pizza had a lot of meat. I don’t like a lot of meat, but it tasted good that night.

When I think of Cassie, I think of walks to Tenney Park, walks to the Terrace. I think of sleeping on the top of her car under the most amazing South Dakota stars. I think of spontaneity. I think of the girl who climbed the highest peaks and walked the skinniest rocks in the Badlands.

I think of how you could always hear Cassie coming home by the loud music in her car. I think of the soft brightness her eyes have.

Cassie reminds me of the ocean. Cassie reminds me of things that are maternal, solid, true, and deeply beautiful. And Cassie is a total rockstar.

Happy 22nd birthday, Cassie.

In the past couple of days three fantastic women had birthdays. I had intentions to blog about each one of them, but it just didn’t happen. Until now.

Birthday number one belongs to a woman who I’ve know for all my life. She is smart and fun and always knows how to make people feel welcome. She is strong, and tough and could totally kick my ass. She’s also great to cry with, great to laugh with, and perfect for hugging.

She’s always the life of a party. She’s always had a great loud laugh.

And when she was little, they called her “Bug” because she loved to catch bugs. She would catch bees and throw them at her brothers. She doesn’t catch bees anymore, but now she does hardcore stuff like working outside with wheelbarrows and shovels for hours and hours.

Oh, and she also got a pretty rockin’ husband.

They went to prom together and both had very big hair.

She’s my mum. She taught me a lot about relationships. She’s a social worker. People matter to her. She’s not into stuff, she’s into relationships. I learned that from her. I learned how to make potato soup. I learned how to love being at home, being outside. I learned the love of having people over and serving them great food and coffee and having good conversation. I learned my playfulness from her.

Happy birthday, mumma. I hope this year is even better than the last.

This is a self-portrait of me and my pipe and red. (see more of the self portrait challenge here)
I get asked a lot why I smoke a pipe and usually reply with a pretty lame-o answer.

I think it’s time to tell the pipe story.

It all started back in the days of my red hat. I bought that hat in a little shop in Cluj, Romania October ‘05. It was red and bright and huged my head just right. I loved that hat. I wore it everyday. I wore it on long sunny sea glass hunts on the beautiful dirty Black Sea coast. I wore it at breakfast. And I wore it at night when my South African friend, Jean, and I would sit and watch the waves. Jean loved to smoke and had picked up the pipe in Ireland. Smoking of anykind was against the rules where we lived, so at night, he would sneak off alone to smoke. Near the end of our time in Romania, he let me in on his nightly ritual and we would talk about life and God and freedom and I loved the smell of tobacco by the sea. I tried it once. Just two puffs. And I was a bit worried that I was going to get black lungs from those puffs. But I liked it.
A month later, I was in South Africa visiting Jean and his family at their wonderful home (yup, I got to stay there). I loved South Africa. I loved it. And I am genuinely glad that I went- I had a ball. But, at the same time it was a really rough time for me. And Jean didn’t smoke his pipe anymore. He just smoked cigarettes. I missed the pipe. I missed a lot of things. And I was lonely. On my way back to the States, I had an overnight stay at a guest house in Johannesburg and a big block of time before my flight, which I spent at the mall. I ate mango ice cream and had a delicious meal in a cafe outside and wandered back and forth for hours. There was a tobacco store that I passed several times. One of those times I decided to go in.

And I bought a pipe.

I don’t know exactly what compelled me to do it. I think a part of it was an act of independence. I missed the smell of pipe tobacco and I decided I didn’t need some guy to supply it for me. I could do that on my own! But I think the larger part of it was a longing for connectedness. I wanted to be tied to something that the pipe symbolized for me; I wanted to be tied to those cold Romanian nights: to the sea, to the stars, to God.

And that’s how it began.

I’ve only been a pipe-smoker for 10 months now. But my pipe and I have been through a lot together. I’ve had long snowy walks in Lapham Peak, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. I sat for long stretches on my front stoop on Gorham Street puffing smoke into the spring air and praying. I smoked with friends and music on summer front porches. I smoked down State Street with Carol King on my iPod wearing billowy skirts on the sweltering days of July. September was smoking outside in front of The Coffee House, watching the Willy Street walk by. On the coldest days, I smoke in my room with candles and Poetry. It’s been a good ten months.

My pipe has stirred up interesting conversations on the street with people I would have never talked to. It has been the starting place of some friendships. It has been a warm memory in many. And smoking a pipe reminds me of who I am and who God is. It reminds me that God is very near and very alive and very rich. It reminds me that I am a bit absurd and deeply beautiful.

That is why I smoke a pipe.

When I woke it was still dark and the streets were still and there were stars. It took me a while to get up because I kept resetting my clock; lying there felt so good. It looked a bit chilly outside, so I called Adam and took him up on his (very kind) offer to drive me to work. He came over wearing his terrific new hoodie (that I do intend to steal sometime) and we sat on the couch while I ate cereal and he annoyed Mr. Eliot by keeping him away from it (Eliot loves trying to steal my cereal). And then we went down to Escape and got coffee and chatted with Duane. And then he drove me to work and we listened to the Decemberist and there was no traffic.
I love 7:00 Saturday morning shifts at the front desk.

I also like sorting silverware in the kitchen. Especially the dinner forks.

And when the plates are just a bit too hot and burn your hands a wee bit.

And when the silverware is a bit hot.

And when my cheeks start to pinch on cold days.

And being that ‘i’m so tired, I feel tipsy’ on four hours of sleep.

And I even kind of like procrastinating big papers and waking up at 4:00 to finish them.

And driving by farms and smelling cow manure.

And driving into Milwaukee and smelling fermentation.

And grass stains.

And that worm smell in the air after a hard rain.

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I know I’m not the only one. What strange little things like that do you enjoy?

I like this poem by Yeats. (I like many poems by Yeats)

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

My favorite sentice is: But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. I love it so much.
But what is a “pilgrim soul” anyways? What do you think of when you hear that?

I had a coffee and Bri had this delicious white coffee latte business with vanilla and almond and whipped cream. We were chatting about life and our challenges and all sorts of good things. It was wonderful.

I am a skeptic. I doubt everything at some time or another. And I hardly have faith in anything. I don’t even know how to have faith, really. I believe in God because I can’t stop loving Him and everytime I try to run away, He’s in every one of my hiding places. Yesterday in church (the day of coffee with Brianna), Shane spoke a bit about having a perspective of eternity. It wasn’t a large part of the sermon, but it struck a chord in me because mostly, I don’t. I’m a doubter. Why is there a heaven? How do I know it’s true? I never really thought about these questions too much, not because they were resolved, but because I didn’t think it was too important. Heaven or no heaven, I’ll still serve God with all I’ve got.

But I looked at Brianna across the table from me. Brianna with her bright face and hopeful eyes. And I saw genuine faith and genuine beauty. And freedom.

Sometimes I think of faith as something foolish. I’m a proud skeptic. Not like those Christians who just believe things because their parents do. But I think there is arrogence in that. And foolishness. Why am I afraid to believe?

Bri is not. She has this faith that runs through her body like oxygen and blood. Brianna has imagination. Bri is a dreamer. She has this book in her head that I hope she writes down one of these days.  There is a girl in it that Bri describes as “the eternal optimist.” She says that she doesn’t know too much about her yet and isn’t sure that she likes her. But, I pictured that girl very much like Bri.; Not that I would describe Bri as an “optimist,” but she is the eternal hoper. And it’s so beautiful. Next to her faith, my skepticism looks pretty dead.

There’s a little closed up box inside my chest where the doubter and the skeptic live together. I feel like a hole was cracked into that dusty place. And for a moment, I felt what it would be like to just let go. It felt so good and so sweet: full of life and imagination.

What do I have to lose, anyways?

This morning, I woke up in good spirits. I felt refreshed in a way I haven’t for a while. I drank my tea and on the bus to school, I listened to all sorts of sweet, imaginative music.

Walking down Bascom Hill, it was sunny and snowy. The flakes were small floating white sparkles and there was hardly any wind at all. It was the most beautiful snow I’ve seen in a very very long time. It was magic.