Aloha Friday

Aloha Readers!

I have decided to start a new blog tradition. In the tradition of Love Thursday and the spirit of the islands, I now present for your reading delight...Aloha Friday!

And since we actually want this new tradition to have more of a theme than a common title or label...PASSION. Why? Because Aloha Friday is all about escaping the drudgery of the work week and doing the things you really want to.
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Earlier today I had lunch with one of my co-workers. Among the many things we talked about she asked me what I wanted to do next. Not in the, "so what's your next job going to be?" but the "what do you really want to do with your life?" kind of way.

"You know, the old 'what would you do if you had a million dollars' question."

I smiled and immediately said, "stained glass."
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My first experience with stained glass was with a lady who owned a little shop in a nearby 'tourist trap' town. She mostly did scrap-glass pieces. It was there in her little shop that I made my first two scrap-glass wall hangings with her. My first was an abstract piece that consisted of blue and clear glass of various patterns, textures and shapes. It was a fairly small piece, only about 12x15 inches, but I was hooked.

It was magic. Simple, crazy magic. The bright sunshine poured in through the large window, illuminating the countless stained glass pieces and scattering brightly colored splotches on the floor. There I stood, a silly young teenager with sun bleached hair and blue glass sunglasses, tossing oddly shaped glass together. I wore an over sized, coarse blue button-down shirt over my clothes to protect them from the dirty water in the grinder.

I can't remember the lady's name or even what she looked like, but I remember the smell. The smell was warm sunshine and sweet incense with a dash of coffee and a pinch of mechanic's workshop thrown in. It was the smell of the soul's creativity unleashed. The smell of passion discovered.

Not for the faint of Heart

I was reading this post over at The Ranch on Salmon Creek and was inspired to (over)share of bit of my own Adventures in Ick.

And it's late so my mush-brain posting may be a bit sporadic.

I have three sisters. We are all married. My father, two of my brother-in-laws and my husband all hunt...avidly. *some more than others, but that will become evident I'm sure*

My dad likes hunting, but LOVES fishing. I grew up fishing. I also grew up cleaning my own fish. Pulling it's guts out; not washing it with soap and water. (told you this would be gross) But even before I was old enough to be trusted with a knife I still got to play with fish innards. Why? Because I was curious. because my dad caught lots of fish. and because I stuck to him like a tick on a dog.

But I didn't play with just any fish organ. I went straight for the heart. Anybody else hear that song? no? just me? Moving on. I liked the heart because it would often still be beating when I got my dirty little hands on it. Holding that little triangularish heart in my hand, I would watch it beat until it stopped. It always amazed me that it could still beat even after being cut from the fish. Until one of them squirted blood all over me. I wasn't so keen on them after that.

Twilight Magic

I laid on my back on our bed and you sat on my tummy. The sun had set but I left the light was off. Through the twilight of the room we stared at each other. Your dark eyes twinkled like dancing fireflies and your rosebud mouth opened in a grin of pure delight.

You bobbed and weaved, bouncing forward and backward in your excitement. Ten minutes passed and still we grinned at each other. Silly Momma, silly baby. We played airplane and peek-a-boo til it was almost too dark to see.

I love you, TweeterPea.

Happy Love Thursday!

Moments of Memory

The moments of memory that I wish to capture and hold forever
They linger in time and are gone in a flash
Your smile and coo
Your stretch and yawn

You look at me - absolutely priceless
So innocent. So ironic
I don't know how you do it

You hold my heart in your little hands
Your sweet, soft little hands
Tight little fists one moment
Finger spread wide the next

Tuck them close under your chin
Hold them high above your head
They will change the world
They have changed mine

I will hold you close, protect you
I will let you fly

My heart will break
But not yet...not yet, darling one
For now, I will store up these precious memories

Such a Big Girl

Darling daughter,

You are now three months old and I can hardly believe how much you have grown and changed in such a short time.

When you were still inside me I liked to call you my 'crazy child' because of how active you were. I still remember the sense of wonder I felt each time you decided to do some kick-boxing or yoga.

Then you were born and my wonder and amazement increased ten-fold... You lifted your head high off my chest mere moments after being born. You may have been able to keep your head up for only a second but it was a herald of things to come. Ever since then you have always wanted to hold your head up and look at the things around you. It shows just how tired you are if you actually lay your head down.

And then the legs... Ah, yes, the legs.

The little legs that kicked and pushed so mercilessly inside me. As soon as they were free of my body's constraint they stuck out straight as could be from your little body as if they were glad to finally be able to fully stretch. And true to form, they often straighten and flex as if reassuring themselves that they really are free.

From the very beginning you often flexed them while laying against my body; even then your little legs were already strong enough to support your lower half. With all that exercise it was no surprise to your Daddy and I when you were supporting your full weight on them at two months old. Now one of your favorite things is to be standing or sitting up with us. Even when someone is holding you, you still flex your strong little legs as if you wanted to be even higher.

Such a big girl. I love you so!

Washington Park

I drive past the ferry exit and through housing developments; countless houses filled with people who, like me, love this place of wind and water. As I pass, I imagine what the inside of some of those houses might look like. Cutesy decorations, beachy themes, dark cozy lofts, and bright airy rooms flit through my mind as quickly as the houses fly past.

The houses thin and then disappear as I drive through the gate, past the parking lot and into the woods on a small, one-lane black top road. The dark, cool forest embraces me and welcomes me back.

Off to the right a large pine tree leans out over the calm waters of Puget Sound. The bark is worn where countless people have climbed out on it's trunk and branches. A little further on the road wanders across the edge of a small outcropping of rock covered only in the graceful ripples of grass. A park bench beckons from the center of the small grassy hill, but I continue on.

The small road turns back into the woods and begins to meander back and forth as it climbs steeply upward. The pines and brambles beckon to me; they whisper of beauties yet unseen hidden within their depths but a stronger yearning calls me onward.

Anticipation makes the road seem long, and every turn and crest of hill increases the longing within me. Like a painting, the scene plays through my mind once again. My impatient foot presses the pedal a harder as my hands grip the wheel. Then I glimpse the blue of the sky through the trees ahead and the car comes to the stop in the warm sunshine of a soft spring day.

Staring straight ahead, my eyes rest upon a gnarled old tree. Most of it's branches are barren and it looks to be dead, except for one small branch to which coarse green needles still cling. It's bark has been polished to a silvery sheen by the rough ocean winds. Like a lone sentry the tree sits upon this bluff overlooking the sea.

As I study the wind-sculpted branches, my body relaxes and the thoughts flying through my mind begin to slow and become clear once more. I open the car door and step out into the wind. The fresh salt air mixes with the scent of pine and brambles from the forest behind me.

Below the land slopes sharply down to the sea. Here it is barren and harsh, but even so I still feel the stillness of the wood behind me as a soft blanket. My fingers trace the contours of the old tree and I quiet myself before the Lord; for it is He who I have come to see, and He alone who speaks to my soul.

Here, in this place of solitude my spirit is refreshed and it is this place to which my memory takes me time and time again.