Parcels of lavender.

Tomorrow I'll drive across the mountains and it probably won't look like this, but still. Crossing into Washington from Oregon stirs my heart so well. The ambiance of the nature in the Pacific Northwest is lulling and beautiful and ever-present; I can almost hear it sometimes. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I'm all packed and ready. There's a backpack, a Samsonite, and a princess dress waiting by the front door. Also a tiny parcel of lavender.

When I drive by myself, for hours on end, I roll my window down and just listen. I listen to the wind and the trees and the birds and the cars and the outside of where I am. Sometimes I speak French to myself. I try to make things up, hard things, things I don't remember. I talk; I tell stories, out loud, things I wouldn't dare tell if I was with someone else. I make them up. I try words together, just to hear their sounds. I recite poetry. I sing. And I pray. Sometimes I pray about the things I know that I need to pray for. Sometimes I pray about things I don't know or don't understand or can't remember. And sometimes I just simply thank God.
It is so much easier to remember to thank God when it's you and the road and His nature and six hours ahead. I promise. So much easier.

I like that though. Even though I forget other times, I remember to be thankful when I'm driving. You see so much that you can't really help it. All of your senses are overwhelmed and spilling full of the outside, and you just remember.

I can't wait for tomorrow for many reasons. I get to see my little sister. There will be coffee. Nature. More coffee. Friends. A week of summer camp. And six hours of thanks.

That horse skirt and a book fetish

I am in the middle of packing my bedroom up so I can move four hours away at the end of next month.
August. August will be a month of changes.
I have been pulling out my boxes of books and deciding what lovelies are coming, and which are staying. It's heart-wrenching. I mean, I have stacks of regency-era romance novels that should probably stay here. And I can only take so many full copies of Keats' poetry. And I have a lot Spanish children's books that I can't even read. The thing is, I love them. I love them all. But if I attempt to weigh my minivan down with every slim little Shakespeare I own, that four hour drive might turn into eight.
But I did just buy a blue Samsonite that I can probably shove six novels into.

This weekend I am taking off for Shiloh Bible Camp up in Washington. I'm packing my backpack full of Beatrix Potter, Ludwig Bemelmans, and P. L. Travers, and I am going to read them all to my little sister.

Enter July.

I have been missing the girl with the Holga. Wondering if she misses me too.
Enter July.
I get to see her this month. Maybe more than once.

My life is full of boxes and wrapping paper and new and old things. Also flowers. The flowers are bursting and blooming, and others still budding. Oregon is a mess of colors. "Lolita" and Amos fill my days. And translating into French. Also letters. So many letters have left our house these summer months. All I do is love things. Beautiful things. Relish things. Like iced coffee. Poetry. Stories about Rome. Roses. "J" words and names. Short-pants. Dirt. Tea cups. Smooth, flat stones. Foreign films. Tiny spiders. Plans to see my niece. Nancy Drew. House hunting. And trees, trees, trees, trees.
I sat in a tree the other day for the first time in a long time.
It was amazing.

July.

I came to the realization this morning as I lay in bed that it is July. This year is halfway over. I feel like I am not even partway done with the things that I need to do, but that's okay.
I am okay with that.
Because June is done, and she was beautiful. And July is sure to be just as gorgeous, if not more.
Just so you all know, I have been looking through the pictures of your sunsets and rises, and not to be prideful, but mine are so much more beautiful. There is something incredibly intense and humble all at once about the Oregon sun. It takes your breath away constantly. Every time. I admonish and implore you to visit my state at least once. And to see the same sun in a different way. Your life will change, or your expectations will.

Some days I wake up early all alone and I watch the sun rise.
No one will ever convince me that it's not worth it.

I wrote stacks of letters this last month, and now there are more to come. If you'd like one, email me. I'm happily painting little pictures and writing small notes in the lulling moments of my days. And there are many of those moments. It is swollen with heat here.

This week has seen the beginnings of my translating materials into French, running out of envelopes, and pushing myself to work on my 2013 goal.
So.
I'm going to paint and cut up magazines to make envelopes.