Today was beautiful. At 35 degrees, I found it too warm for wool and happily embarked for work in my spring jacket. I left 30 minutes early to give myself time to enjoy the streets. There was so much to enjoy. Puddles. People looking each other in the eyeballs instead of hiding under scarves. Sunshine. Somehow, the slight warmth in the air defrosted my mind, and small memories surfaced.

I found myself thinking about the little voices that have shaped my life in such big ways. I thought about people like Paul whom I shared eight hours with on an airplane over the ocean. He was so kind, generous, and honest, the whole plane changed when he stepped on board. I thought David with a British accent thick enough to spread on a scone, who I spent 15 hours with on a train. He told me his own wide and wild story of leaving his job fixing roofs in a small town in England to build homes for the homeless Romas in Romania. He made a long, potentially difficult journey for me rich and light. I learned so much from him, the things he said, the way he was.

Its easy for me to close myself up, stay quiet, internal, and safe. I’ve always thought that in the end, it’s just you and God, really. Just you and him all alone. And that’s true. But it’s also true that we matter to each other. It’s true that we can help each other along, and that from our little voices, people’s lives can be changed in unspoke ways. Our hearts were made to be open and honest and alive. Let’s share them with each other. Let’s tell our stories. Let’s warm our hands together. Let’s fold fingers and pray with each other. What do we have to lose?

Have any little voices have shaped your lives? What words have near-strangers said that you’ve never forgotten? Please share. Your words make a difference to me.

the badlands

I am writing this part of the story today. I think I can capture some of the wonder, but I doubt my pen will ever touch the fullness of the laughter.

Dear winter,

March is less than a week away, and though you are a time period, not a conscious being, I want to be sure to say thank you before I get caught up in my excitement for spring.

You were so beautiful this year with your piles of snow, cold wind, and icy trees. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so stunning. It’s hasn’t been the best weather for sitting outside, but that’s part of why I like you so much. I like how the streets get quiet when you’re here. The introvert in me delights in the solitude you bring to this lively town. With you, there is always so much space to think and be quiet and alone. Thank you for that.

Thank you for turning my cheeks pinks when I walk to work and giving me the chance to bundle up in soft mittens and wool coats. I like how good warm things feel when you are around: fireplaces, heat vents, hot soup, and roasted winter vegetables. I like not having to wince about turning on the oven. If it wasn’t for you, my homemade bread wouldn’t have improved nearly as much as it did the last few months.

I am glad you exist, winter. I’ve enjoyed you so much this year, and I know that without you, spring wouldn’t taste nearly so sweet. I will drink up the last drops of you, and then see you next year.

Oh, and thank you for that soft pinkish blue light you have.

Always,
Lindsey

(Thank you, God, for wintertime)

I have spent a lot of time these last months slowly stitching one of the best stories I know with some of my favourite heroes. Putting those people on paper has been a pleasure. I don’t know what this story will look like in the end, and I don’t know that it will amount to anything in the publishing world, but I believe in my work with it. It’s a daily honour to write.

I’m not near finished with my first draft yet, and everything I have down is still full of bugs and hiccups. Still, I’d like to share a bit if it with you all. The first chapter of the book (following a small prelude) is called “The Beginning.” It starts something like this:

In the beginning, the world was formless and void. Then light fell on the stirring waters and it was good. The land was pulled up from the water and trees grew and roses pressed their way through the soil. There were ants and antelope and fireflies and men and women that fought for the survival of their families. There were wars and countries and sidewalks and strip clubs and strudel and bicycles and books and bobbins and Ebola and leaves shaped like hearts, and there were eight girls living in one yellow house three stories high on the street of East Gorham in the city of Madison in the USA in the month of March. In the beginning was Brianna and Hannah, Cassie, Katrina, Joelle, Janelle, Amy, and me, Lindsey.

When it’s cold and raining,
you are more beautiful.

And the snow brings me
even closer to your lips.

The inner secret, that which was never born,
you are that freshness, and I am with you now.

I can’t explain the goings,
or the comings. You enter suddenly,

and I am nowhere again.
Inside the majesty.

-Rumi

I discovered something unexpected, today. I love Valentine’s Day. Really! I do. The holiday gets such bad a rep these days, like its some commercial thing we have to rise above rather than enjoy. But it’s a very old holiday, actually. And what’s so commercial about love and showing affection?

It was interesting to work at a coffee shop on Valentine’s Day. People react to it in such different ways. Most people are pretty apathetic. One man who daily bikes through all this winter snow bought us all a box of incredible chocolates to thank us for brightening his days. One woman, who was long frusterated with romance, had a love/hate relationship with the holiday. Another lady (who is now one of my favourite customers) told me it was her favourite. She handed me a print-out of the holiday’s history and pulled a handful of fallen rose petals she gathered at work from her pocket. She kept them there so she could smell them all day.

And me? I couldn’t stop smiling and wondering about the love stories of people on the street. I loved how the snow began to fall so sweetly in the afternoon. I loved walking through the sparkley, snowy city after work to meet up with Adam. I loved thinking about how God romances us. I looked up at the dark trees on State Street and thought of a small story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, long, long ago, God created the first human. God looked down on him and loved him so much, that right where the man had stood, the first tree twisted its way through the soil and up into the sky. A year later, a wind blew the tree’s seeds, and another tree grew, and then another. And from that one tree, the world soon was covered with leaves and winding branches.

Adam and I went to a poetry reading by my favourite living poet. It was wonderful, not just because it was Li-Young Lee standing there in front of me, but because Adam came along, even though he didn’t feel well and doesn’t care much for poetry. He’s such an incredible husband.

waking up to blue

Blue is all around me these days. I wake up to the blue light of early winter mornings, sit by a blue wall, heat water in my blue kettle, make tea in my blue pot and drink it from my blue cup. I look into the blue eyes of my husband. I catch glimses of my own in the mirror. Blue is everywhere this February.

I love the quiet blue carries. It is my companion these days, and something of a friend.

I feel like scribbling out some sort of self-reflection right now. Resolutions for this New Year are just beginning to form. I want to talk about dreaming, hoping, humility, life. But I don’t know much about these things, today, just the small, necessary pieces I have carried with me this winter. Perhaps I will have more to say when I befriend the greenness of spring.

Happy blue February, friends. Spring is almost here.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you probably know how much I love Ash Wednesday. The old stories say that on the sixth day God took the dust, formed it, and breathed it to life. We are dust and breath.

“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I almost missed it this year, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was lured away to the living room where I prayed and sat quietly with God for a while until the night air felt soft again and I walked slowly back to bed.
This year, the words make me feel both humble and a bit brave. And somehow, I feel more myself. Maybe those three things go hand in hand in hand.