Cat-Cloud Lady

I take pictures. Probably too many.

In fact, I'm slightly concerned that if I die in a freak accident, whoever finds me will turn on my phone, hoping to find a contact number, hoping to find some trace of family- next of kin- hoping for some sort of proof that I lived...

and all they will find are pictures of clouds.

And that's weird. 

I don't want to go out like Cat-Ladies do.

You know.

"The cat lady died." "How sad." "Yeah, I heard the only way anyone knew she was dead is that her cats sent out an SOS message." "Well, yeah, she didn't have any friends... all she had was cats."

The poor person who finds me will think the same thing. "Daughter? She had a daughter? Nope. I'm pretty sure all this lady had was a creepy obsession of clouds."

I don't want to be the creepy cloud lady. But I fear I am turning into just such a woman. I told you that my friend and I took a road trip from Santa Fe to Dallas. I probably didn't tell you that I added an entire hour to the trip by asking her to stop so I could take pictures... of seemingly nothing. Empty fields with a single windmill. Sunrays bursting out of a patch of clouds hovering over a dry, dusty oil field. Flowers. Stray, ugly flowers.

Recently, before diving into a study of scripture, she and I were sharing coffee with our girlfriends on a porch near a busy parking lot. Within a matter of minutes the clouds above our heads collided with the setting sun to make a beautiful mural of cotton candy, swirly, rich, sad, majestic strokes of beauty.

"Excuse me," I said while I excitedly fumbled for my phone, "I have to go get pictures of those clouds."

As I walked off, I heard my friend say, "She does that. She takes pictures of clouds. That's kind of her thing."

I'm such a cat lady.

And the thing is- I'm not even a real photographer in the same way that I am not even a real singer.

I'm ashamed to say that I could not read a note of music to save my life.

I don't sight read. I don't have any vibrato in my voice. I don't know what key I sing songs in. I don't even know how many keys there are. I don't have proper breath control and I don't do any of the right things to get ready for shows. I don't warm my voice up. And though the voice doctor told me I needed to forever swear off caffeine, wine, chocolate, whistling and milk... I still find that the best way to get myself ready to go on stage is by drinking a double-tall, extra hot, mocha with extra whip cream. And I will never stop whistling.

I take pictures the same way. On my iPhone. Which usually has a lens that is covered in a film of Annie's goldfish or apple juice. Gruby-finger-osmosis covers the lens for so long I'm unaware it's even there. And I use the word "lens" lightly. It is the only lens I am familiar with. My sister has a fancy shmancy camera. I could sell it and pay rent for two or three months. It's real nice. But I wouldn't know how to use it... to me it looks like a big, black, clunky monster. It gives me the willies.

I just sing. And I just take pictures. And I just write.

I could be a lot better at all of them. If I had discipline and structure and a wee bit more education, perhaps I could even shine. But I'm not terribly interested in being an expert at anything. There are lots of experts. Rightfully so. Someone has to be a "real" singer. A "real" photographer. A "real" author. They are worthy and high artistic callings. And the people who master the ins and outs of their crafts fly to places that perhaps I will never see. And they bring the rest of us with them. I have relinquished the pages of fame and history to them.

But me? I have accepted my plight as a simple person who lacks a bit of discipline or proper know-how and makes up for it with a propensity to live with my eyes open. To live without holding back. To go for it...

even if I don't reach it the proper way

the way someone more qualified than me might.

That's how my pictures get here. I just go for it. I take pictures. I don't stop to think about how silly it is that I think I am taking professional pictures- with the best of them- on my iPhone 3G. I don't think how absurd it is that I'm scurrying out of coffee meetings and pulling over on the side of highways to take pictures with my dinky camera and dinky knowledge of how to properly shoot a picture of a flower or a sunset. I don't think that way.

In fact, most of the times, I don't think.

I do. I act. I capture and bottle it up and let it come back out.

And I do so because...

well,

I like it.

So maybe I will come across like the cat lady. But you know what? She probably really loved those nasty, gangly little cats. All 37 of them. Just the way I love my cloud pictures. All 370 million of them.

So- I hope you enjoy browsing through my pictures. I'm an amateur. But, in my book, that's an ok title to have. Amateur.

Whatever you are an amateur at... 

remember, sometimes you have to

Do it without thinking. Love it. Embrace it.

You don't have to be professionally trained. You just need a little passion. 

To see more of my pictures, visit my flicker site. Click on this link or copy and paste: http://www.flickr.com/photos/34136456@N08/

Rescue Me

Wait...

please don't.

Just let me die here.

Annie and I had an amazing trip to Hawaii visiting my sister Melissa. It was perfect until we had to come home :) We missed Ryan though;  so the eight hour plane ride (seven and a half of which my precious daughter decided not to sleep), five hour time zone change, and Texas heat were well worth the journey home.  I'll be back to writing soon. Until then, enjoy my Hawaii pictures here.

On Domestication...

Dear Becky... Thank you for inquiring as to my whereabouts!

I am living in a strange and foreign land.

I have a real live toilet (not a nasty tour-bus toilet). My daughter has a semi-schedule. And I have slept in my own bed more in the last three months than I have in two years straight. In this strange land, I have friends that I actually share meals with, and I am realizing this is a lot more sweet than sharing text messages. In this land, I cook my own meals; there is no maid to make the bed and clean the bathroom while I'm away for the afternoon. I clean baseboards, teach my daughter how to spell her name, and I touch chicken guts more times during a week than anyone should ever have to do.

In this land of suburbia, I am learning a new normal. And when my heart aches to get on an airplane or I worry about losing my frequent flyer status; I crave to sleep in a Hilton bed or I miss being on stage telling my stories and singing my heart out; I remember, this will not always be my normal. This is just normal for now.

And for now, I am trying to fall head-0ver-heels into this new phase of life because it is a gift to be here. To be now. To be all that I can be for my daughter and my husband. For so long, I have given so much of myself to so many people that it seems foreign to pour all of that into a small circle of people. But God is showing me, in a multitude of ways, the beauty of sewing seeds into my family during this time in our lives.

I admit, I have days where I fight it. Days where I want to crawl back into my tour-bus bunk bed and get back to the life I was once living. But then I see Annie look at a bug. Nose to nose with a little bug. And her eyes light up and she says, "Oh my goodness! Buggy is sleeping!"

I don't have the heart to tell her that buggy is as dead as a doornail.

Right now I am taking the time and space to pour myself into her, Ryan, my family, my friends, and my church. Oh yeah, and myself. Having the gift of  being still, present, and available to the ones I love the most is amazing. So I am trying to fight my own selfishness; and I am embracing domesticity. For a little while, I will put my own dreams on hold while I teach my daughter and watch her explore the world. And in a little while- when she wanders the hall of her kindergarten- and I find myself back to singing, writing, and traveling- I will wonder how she grew up so fast and I will ache for these days once more.

I have missed writing and missed my sweet blog family that has joined me here on my journey the last few years. Now that we have established a "new normal" I will get back to writing out the stories that make this life great. And I hope you will join me once again...

Here are some pictures of my journey into domesticity.

This kid is only smiling because she is not the one who is actually cooking.

In the land of domesticity, I made my first ever chicken. I had to pull its stomach guts out and that was disgusting.

The end product was beautiful. And, in my attempt to be a real Marth Stewart, I took the carcass and made my own chicken stock. Wow. I never thoought I would utter those words.

My favorite cooking attempt has been a series of homemade muffins. I like watching Annie press her face to the oven to watch them "grow."

There is the "sleeping" buggy. No, she is not eating it. But she likes to get nose to nose with buggies and talk to them.

Some things are changing. In fact, some days I feel like my whole world is changing. But if you find yourself in the midst of change like me, remember, some things never change.

Like my love for taking pictures of clouds.

Clouds. They are always moving and reshaping. But ultimately, they do not change. They always exist. Always have. Always will. Sometimes they just look different. Sometimes they take on a new normal. Sometimes we take on a new normal.

Here's to living IN the new normal...

Two Versions of the Story

The Enchanted Version...

I will only disclose a few details.

I drove down this dirt road.

I went through these doors.

I found this sunset on the back deck.

I sat in these chairs, with these blankets,  sipping this wine until the sky turned pink and grew dark.

I sat at this table early in the morning sipping coffee. There was a woodpecker with a little red nose on the tree outside the window. I watched him for an entire hour.

I wrote the outline for my book in this window sill. Themes. Stories. Ideas. They flooded in past midnight.

And then I celebrated with this bowl of heaven.  Half a pound of 43% Venezuelan chocolate with two huge tablespoons of peanut butter.

Melted.

And it was good.

The Real Version...

About half way through the drive from Dallas to this secluded lake house the thought occurred to me, "I wonder if I can make it on my own?" I'm sure this sounds silly to those of you who are single or younger or highly independent. But I've spent almost nine years married to a man who sort of runs the show (behind the scenes, that is). I just show up and exist. It's actually a very spoiled, charmed life he has created for me. Pathetic, I know.

Now drop me off at any airport and I can navigate myself through cabs, bus rides, subway systems, hotels, and any other big city conundrum the world can throw at me- all by myself, like a big girl, I can do it. But a cabin? Where I have to go outside and turn the water on? Cook my own food? Figure out how to flip breakers and get the heat to work and settle down to go to sleep by myself in the pitch black dark, in the middle of the woods? I started to slightly panic as I pulled off onto my third farm road.  This one without asphalt. Just gravel.

When I got to the lake house it was really cold inside. Really. Cold. I thought my lips were turning blue. I thought my fingernails were turning purple. I thought I would have to spend the night in my car (it was warmer outside than in the house by 20 degrees or so). I found a blue Snuggie and officially apologized for all the times I have belittled the Snuggie.  I went outside, found cell phone signal, and texted Ryan: my lips are turning blue.

He didn’t believe me.

I came back in and settled down on the couch. And that's when I heard a critter. A real live critter.

There was a critter upstairs. I am sure of it. I heard it eating and licking its paws and scampering around. I froze. I thought it was walking down the stairs. I looked for a weapon but I couldn't find anything in arm's length. I was about to be attacked by an animal who had been pent up in a meat locker. I made a run for it.

I ran outside, arm in the air, waving my phone around looking for a signal. I texted Ryan: there is a critter in the house.

He said to go back in scream and run around the house with a broom to scare it.

So I did. I ran in circles with a broom screaming at the top of my lungs.

Come er’ racooney cooney cooney. Here varmint varmint varmint. Here critter critter critter.

I screamed out loud. And ran around scared out of my mind swatting the broom in the air and hitting the staircase with it. for a solid five minutes.

Nothing.

The critter went into hiding. And I lived with the knowledge that I would be eaten in my sleep.

I talked out loud to myself all weekend. It was too quiet. So I simply made an agreement with myself early on: If I think it, I will speak it loud. “Are we ready to eat? YES!!! Let’s eat!!!” “Should we nap? YES WE CAN!” I found myself chanting Obama campaign slogans out loud and then doing the Arsenio Hall hoo-hoo-hoo around the house. Ok, confession, I also sang "I'm Proud to be An American" at least two... maybe... three times through at the top of my lungs while running around the house, doing a patriotic dance. You might think I'm making this up- but sadly- this is an entirely true story. I might be clinically insane (though delightfully happy).

I decided it was time for wine and book reading by the water while the sun was setting.

I couldn’t open the wine bottle. It never occurred to me that I had never opened a wine  bottle by myself. It reminded me of the fact that it never occurred to me to learn how to light a match until my senior year of high school. Once I realized I couldn’t do it, my mom laughed at me and said she thought it was common knowledge- as if you just wake up one day and learn to light a match??? Yeah right mom. Then it was too late. I earnestly tried to learn, but I feared for my finger. I didn’t want to lose a finger. I hadn't even made it to college yet. If you’re going to lose a finger it’s got to happen way after college. I would strike the match on a matchbook and then drop it or throw it.

My dad thought I was going to burn the house down. He suggested I stick with those little stick thingies that light with the click of a finger.

Anyways, I learned to light a match later in life. And after fifteen minutes and two blisters on my hand, I learned to open a wine bottle too.

After an evening on the lake I went back to the meat locker. “I hate that no one ever believes me. I might die of hypothermia,” I said out loud.

I go to the bathroom for the first time. I open the lid to the toilet. There is a solid sheet of ice. I try to flush. In retrospect, trying to flush might not have been the best idea. I really needed to pee but I didn’t want it to bounce back up on me, or worse, re-freeze and make yellow ice. So I tried flushing and it didn't budge.

I went to the kitchen and got a fork. I went back to the toilet and started to pick at the ice. It was deeper than I thought it was. A fork alone would not do the trick. I went back to the kitchen and filled up glasses of hot water. I poured it in and took my ice pick out. Pretty soon, I got three flushes of slushy toilet water down. I finally had an open bowl. A landing strip. I could relieve myself.

At 2:00 a.m. I had had enough. I got the biggest flashlight I could find and I went on a hunt for the critter who was licking his paws and eating. It was all very Blair Witch Project. And then I found him. Whoever he was. He was running around inside the ceiling... and I went to bed peacefully dreaming of a little squirrel family, The Nelsons, who sang songs and worked their days away in the ceiling of a lovely lake house.

And that's it people. There's no proper way to end this story. I've thought about it. And there really is no ending. After getting over my fears and spastic tendencies, I spent the rest of the weekend eating fruit, cheese, and bread and writing my little heart out. And besides a big black poisonous spider that hung out in the shower and made it impossible for me to bathe... it was the perfect getaway from the world.

And I did it all by myself.

Snow Day Number Four...