breakfast confession.

in


i wish i was the girl who didn't mutilate her grapefruit in an attempt at consumption.

but i am.

and such is life.




(though i think with that teapot,
i would not be a grapefruit mutilator,
and all would be well with my life.
image via visualize.us)

the nesting urge has moved to the kitchen. but i can't cook.

in

i want a house. it doesn't need to be big. in connecticut maybe? just outside san francisco? you tell me where, i'll go.


i want the kitchen to have black and white tiled floors. with a cuisinart on the counter. and none of that terrible fluorescent lighting. i'll employ lamps if i have to. or chinese lanterns. and i will make guacamole from scratch. always. because, this i can do. and a three tiered apron will i wear as i sit in front of the oven, willing the bread to rise. you will peek your head in and laugh. and i will throw mine back. and there in our tiny kitchen under the christmas lights and hanging pans, we will dance. circling ever closer to the curly-corded phone that you will raise to your ear and dial for take-out. and then, i will laugh. and you will catch me mid-guffaw. with a kiss. and with that kiss you will swallow my laugh. and sustenance will i have provided.

and that will be our kitchen.



morning.

in


i love the early morning.

it feels sacred.

pulling the cold coffee tin from the freezer i feel God.

and i feel Him as the light angles across my wood floor inviting me to dance, to stretch, to give praise for this movable body.

He sits with me as my palm cups over the mug, allowing the drink to breathe into me before ever raising it to my lips.



this is all contingent upon me being able to get out of bed. of course.

metanoia.

in ,



i believe it was during game two of the alcs championship--you know that five hour, ten minute game?--that my metanoia occurred (how's that for a word?).


i was sitting there watching the game, anxiety plinking (is that a word? oh well, is now) away at my oh-so-many-emotions, when i thought, hold up, stop. the story is already written. the answer has been told. if my boys are meant to win, they will win. no need to worry or stress, just sit back and enjoy the game. feel the experience.

the story is written.

already.

but that doesn't mean my boys got to ease up. they had to fight for the win--fight for their lives--every step of the way.

and win they did.

i've been thinking about this a lot lately. how somewhere out there i'm living a life that's already known. the answers are just in front of me, waiting. no need to worry, just enjoy the experience. but fight, fight through every step, scuffle, double-play.

the thing is... in baseball the answer is simple: score more runs than the other team and you will win. but how does one win in life--what exactly is one fighting for? and because the answer is ambiguous at best, it's hard to tell if you're attempting to re-write the story or just fighting for your life with more resilience and courage than you ever knew possible.

it's mucky. tricky. no clear lines.