Home. Right on target.

My friend Erin gave me a pocket journal the night before I left Charlotte. On the front of its warm yellow cover is playfully written, “She decided to start living the life she’d imagine.”
Perfect.
It’s absolutely perfect.
It brings to mind my two worlds. The stark contrast of my past and my future and that great glimmer of hope that has become my present. Erin has challenged my ability to love. She has forced me to love wildly and without bounds. And in this challenge I am discovering what Brennan Manning terms ”the second call.”
Briana, another fiercely bold friend of mine, landed this book on my front steps and challenged me to read it. It’s quite funny actually, how I come by my reading material. Funny to me because I have to laugh at my stubbornness in order to get past it. But this book, “The Ragamuffin Gospel,” has been showing up in my life for the past two years. That’s how it happens. There is nothing and then…it’s everywhere. At the airport in the hands of a fellow passenger, an ad in a magazine, recommendations, a reference in the last three books I have read. These pieces of literature show up all around me until I finally give in and crack them open.
And then I devour them.
What is it they say about God’s timing…?

Manning writes beautifully that “second journeys usually end quietly with a new wisdom and a coming to a true sense of self that releases great power. The wisdom is that of an adult who has regained equilibrium, stabilized, and found fresh purpose and new dreams. It is a wisdom that gives some things up, lets some things die, and accepts human limitations. It is a wisdom that realizes: I cannot expect anyone to understand me fully. It is a wisdom that admits the inevitability of old age and death. It is a wisdom that has forced the pain caused by parents, spouse, family, friends colleagues, business associates, and has truly forgiven them and acknowledged with unexpected compassion that these people are neither angels nor devils but only human…we are aware that we only have a limited amount of time left to accomplish that which is really important.”

And then I realize the vast differences in what is important to me now and what was important only a few short years ago. If you had asked me then to describe my idea of a successful life, it would have included wealth and recognition as a film director, living a luxurious life in my ultra-hip New York City loft, with views in all directions from my rooftop garden. My “rock-star” husband and I would split our time between NYC and Paris, and if my personal trainer could guarantee, in writing, to get the baby weight off of me in 30 days or less, I might have considered having children.
I don’t even recognize that person anymore.
Good riddance.
But she was real.
Really scared.
And she fed into all the bullshit that was fed to her about what makes a success.
And worse yet, she created her own timeline and criteria. A measure of worth and value. And she slowly crumbled under the unrealistic pressures she created for herself. As she missed deadlines and failed to measure up, her perfect life--My perfect life, floated up ahead, just out of reach. I created a prison for myself, trapped in plot lines and the glossy pages of magazines.

“I see all this potential and I see squandering. God, damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need…You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking kakis.”

I sincerely hope that you broke Tyler Durden’s first two rules about Fight Club!
I hope you talked about it whenever you had the opportunity. And I hope you continue to do so. And I pray that these truths outweigh the one-liners thrown out by a shirtless Brad Pitt. Because in the midst of the fancy camera work and the blood and violence a very true message screams out: “The things you own end up owning you…it’s only after you’ve lost everything that you are free to do anything.”

I think it hit me back in October when I was driving with my friend Nate. I realized how much stuff I had managed to accumulate over the years and how trapped and pinned down that made me feel. I had a house full of stuff. Things I had purchased for a life I no longer had. And I didn’t; want those things anymore. I wanted a fresh start. To purge my life of those reminders. And I began to see how things were connected. That I could proclaim one morning that “I have nothing to wear” but then manage to fill five bags with clothes to donate to the Salvation Army that afternoon.
I want to be satisfied with what I have.
I want to be grateful and find joy in the moment.
And I couldn’t do that worrying what would happen to me if a fire erupted or robbers broke in and I lost everything. All my shinny possessions.
My tally marks of worth.
So I figured out what was important to me. What was wasteful to get rid of, and what I loved but never used. I realized I have strange attachments to things. I had a shirt I bought in Paris and a coat I bought in New York City and I loved them both. But I never wore them. I would put them on and only be reminded of painful memories and another life.
So I finally parted with them in hopes that they could bring happy memories to someone else. After all, these pieces don’t define me.
That’s something I am learning as I go.
That the things I love do not define me.
I run. I am not a runner.
I take pictures. I am not a photographer.
I write. I am not a writer.
I am however, a dearly loved child of God, and as such, by refusing to be bound by these worldly labels, I am making room for words of life and light.
Words like Hope. Trust. Joy. Gratitude. Beauty. Grace.
By denying these earthly shackles I am answering the call. “I am a limited creature called to limitless joy” (Stronger Than You Think).

So, now, at the very beginnings of my “second journey ”I find myself a little lighter in wares, but still fighting that “IKEA nesting instinct.” I recently took a trip to Target to develop photos (whereas a trip to Target in Charlotte consisted of a two minute hop-skip-jump Uptown, it is an hour long haul up to Bangor from my mom’s house) and my mom laughed at me as I marveled over the isles of bright-and-shinnies like I had never stepped foot in civilization. It was rather disgusting. But I craved that “normalcy.” It brought back the same sensation I felt when I stepped inside that boutique in Paris just to listen to the Coldplay song that piped through the walls. After two weeks of wrestling French translations, Chris Martin’s English words were like home. Effortless. Comfortable.
I liked this feeling. It made sense. And again I was disgusted.
Commercialism. Consumerism. The effortless comfort of this iPod world.

(I am typing this on my MacBook, by the way. Barf!)

Where is the balance?
Where is the equilibrium?

I am getting ahead of myself. Baby steps. I am still in the beginnings. But already I can see a grand transformation in the things that hold substance and value for me. I am trying desperately to “really accept the message that God is head over heels in love with [me]…that Jesus didn’t say that maybe God was love, or that it would be nice if God were love. He said GOD IS LOVE—period. But there is more to the message of Jesus. He insisted that his Father is crazy with love, That God is a kooky God who can scarcely bear to be without us!” (Manning) And this message changes the way I look at things. It filters them through. Asks the hard questions.
And I imagine the life I want to live now. A life of adventure.
Four walls and a warm bed.
A gas stove and an enormous dinning table to fit all my friends.
A Christ-loving husband who understands the key to my heart lay more in time he attended to choosing the words he proposed and the attention to detail with which he planned the presentation of my glorious $16.99 cubic zircon Target Special. (I'm not a diamond girl.)
And oh how my heart longs for children. To raise them up in a home where they spend every moment free from doubt that they are loved. To teach them. And learn from them. Failures and mistakes. To witness their journey, walking along side them, cheering them on.

But I pray that I can be content with whatever life the Lord provides me, knowing full well that even this description has placed limitations. Drawn a slightly larger box for myself. But I’ve got more room now and I’m readying for risk.

“Many of us are haunted by our failure to have done with our lives what we longed to accomplish. The disparity between our ideal self and our real self, the grim specter of past infidelities, the awareness that I am not living what I believe, the relentless pressure of conformity, and the nostalgia for lost innocence reinforces a nagging sense of existential guilt: I have failed…The ragamuffin who sees life as a voyage of discovery and runs the risk of failure has a better feel for faithfulness than the timid man who hides behind the law and never finds out who he is at all…” (Manning)

And so “on the last day when we arrive at the Great Cabin in the sky, many of us will be bloodied, battered, bruised, and limping. But by God and by Christ, there will be a light in the window and a Welcome Home sign on the door. “ (Manning)

Blessings on your journey. See you at home.

brown paper pagages tied up with string...

These are a few of my favorite things.
(A little list of things I find entertaining at the moment, or that make me smile pretty big)

Spooning with The Marley Dog for five minutes before I take him for his morning walk.

Lawnmower stripped grass.

Lightening bug "light shows".

Coffee in bed.

Morning runs with my mom.

Good books.

Rosemary Focaccia. (I'm adding this one to my repetoire. It's pretty much heaven in your mouth.)

The Public Library.

Sailboats.

Pinetrees and Cinnamon.

The smell of burning wood.

Hobbit Fences.

To put it [Blunt]ly...

"Dating is not an option."
That is what I was told recently.
Rejected.
No, that is not the right word. I would have to be a consideration in order to be rejected.
Branded.
Undesired. Unwanted.
I wear it like a badge. Heavy. Constricting.

How am I damaged-goods, but my ex-boyfriend is engaged.
I owe this news to the glory of MySpace.
One minute I’m searching the Internet for Dave Barnes songs, and the next moment I am staring at familiar faces. West coast moves and marriage proposals. A few clicks of the mouse.

Christmas Eve a couple years back I returned home from my friend’s house to find a note by my computer and iTunes looping James Blunt’s song "You’re Beautiful". My ex had left both for me to find. The note read something like I’ll always love you…please don’t try to forget me. Very comical considering he is the one who left me. Traded in our life together for a beautiful tattooed girl who blew him in bar bathrooms and fucked him in the band room while I was home, asleep.

I am better off without him. I know this. But it gets to me. Makes me wrestle trust.

cultivate gratitude.

"Cultivate gratitude." That is a quote from the novel Eat Pray Love.
And it has stuck with me for months.

I received a package in the mail this morning. I little something from my peeps in CLT. And my mom got all excited as she came in from the post office, to hand it to me.

"Your friend's sent you something. I think it's a cd." She was convined you all had made me roadtrip mixes and she marvelled at how wonderful you all are...until I tore open the envelope.

Then she burst out crying--Now I know where I get it from :)

I don't even know where to begin.
You all amaze me. And I would not be doing this had it not been for all of your love and encouragement. You are all written on my heart. You are in my thoughts daily. I barely made it to Baltimore before i realized how difficult it was going to be to leave you all behind.
But you aren't. You are here with me. And I am so grateful for the time we spent together and can't wait for more.
Thank you for caring for me even in the moments when I am fitfully unable to receive it.

yours always,
audrey

PS. *B*, it only coun't as stalking if it's undesired or unknown. I'll try to make your efforts worthwhile. Adventures...enough to go around!

thyme & money.

My neighbors from Pennsylvania, Lee and Michaella, retired to Maine a few years back. They stayed in a cute little cottage until they decided to build their dream home. The place they always wanted, complete with fishpond and gazebo, waterfront view and room to sleep plenty of overnight guests.

These are the same neighbors responsible for convincing my mom to move. They revealed their detailed conspiracy over pancakes a few visits back. How they mischievously plotted and planned and quite easily swayed my mother’s approval on her relocation. They had invited her up for a respite. A few days to relax and get some fresh air. Then they pounced. They introduced her around and found her a house to rent and by the end of her visit they had converted her to an “Away.” (That’s what the islanders call people who have moved to the island. There is a weird hierarchy in the area. Islanders. Aways. And at the low end of the totem pole…Summer-People).

Now they plan dinner-parties together and shopping outings and garden and go to the theater. They are best friends. And it’s adorable. This couple is their seventies. They have lived amazing lives together. And now they share what they have with those around them and they enjoy their waterfront view and fresh brewed lattes and organic vegetables.

And yesterday I found myself pulling weeds in the early morning mist and fog that hangs over the harbor. Michaella hired me to do a little gardening for her. I had plans to work on a lobster boat, but as we all well know, plans change. (details in future post) So I spent the morning kneeling in the gravel path pulling clover and lupine seedlings that popped up undesirably. And churning mulch and arranging the beds in the medicine wheel garden. I like gardening. I like it for the same reasons I like vacuuming and mowing the lawn. It gives you a sense of accomplishment. You can stand back and see the work you have done. Instant gratification. Except you have to put some elbow grease into it, first.

The patio is flat and smooth. Pieces of flagstone fitted together like a puzzle. The cracks and crevices between them filled with gravel and walking thyme. It's the most amazing smell. Like home and lemons. And cozy places like the good spot on the couch. It's just plain thyme. The kind you can buy in the grocery store. The kind you probably have in your spice rack. But it's fresh and earthy and when your feet graze its leaves when you step, the aroma wafts up into the air and mixes with the salt and sea and lilacs and lilly of the valley and it's amazing.

I am helping Michaella with her garden because she is part of this co-op of friends my mom has that trade services and funds in exchange for other services and funds. Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's a meal. It's friends caring for one another. A community in it's greatest and best capacity. A family.
I am helping her because she needs someone with energy and a strong back.
I am pruning her thyme because she doesn't know how much time she has left.

Her cancer is back.

And as she tells my mom the news I can see them across the yard seated in the wicker loveseat. And I can feel that quiet moment where nothing is said and everything is said. There is fear and sadness and lonliness and anger.
And there are two friends hugging. Because that's a good thing to do when you don't know what else to do. It somehow makes things easier. Sincs up your breathing. Calms the nerves.
Hugs are magic.

I am reminded of why I am here. Why I couldn't sit behind my desk one more day. Mortality has pressed against me so closely this past year and I see in my grandmother's death and my sister's life these huge reminders of how short life is and how we don't have time for fear and shame. I am writing this in hopes that I will be inspired to get my 300 pages out of my head and on to paper and that someone, somewhere will enjoy even a few of them. And to challenge myself to live a life that I am proud of. No regrets. And to be open and love wildly. To live the life I dreamed and have faith and trust in my Lord. And to "know that I was never NOT going to be here"... in this moment.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

for your viewing pleasure.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie. Proof that miracles happen.
My mom's first pie...EVER!
And a family project. My sister mom and I managed to pick the rhubarb, grocery shop, mix and bake this pie...without killing each other! AND IT WAS DELICIOUS!
That's what I call a miracle.

My mom puts everything in jars. (a) to keep it away from mice (b) to keep it away from the devil of "plastic" and (c) because it looks so darn cute! CAUTION: Do not put the non-organic rasins in the organic rasin jar...heads will roll :)

This is my mom's gallery. (I made her the sign for mother's day...who needs flowers and candy!)

Fiddle Heads. (Fern shoots native to the island). They ACTUALLY sell these in the grocery store. I ACTUALLY ate them for dinner. They are ACTUALLY good. Kinda like asparagus.

free-range eggs. different shapes and colors? who knew?

Little house on the...harbor! This is my mom's house. (As viewed from the backyard).

This water is actually freezing cold...but Marley dog played in it like he was in the Carribean.

These flowers grow EVERYWHERE! And there is a big festival next weekend in their honor (I have a booth and am gonna show some of my photos)

lipstick and rouge.

My sister left today. And I finally had some time to decompress.
To exhale.
To go for a run around the island and sweat it out.
My sister is schizophrenic. Some of you know that. But a lot of you dont. And I don't talk about it very often because I get a strange reaction from people when I do. They get quiet and distant and I can see their eyes...they don't know what to say and they are praying for a subject change. But if i dont talk about it, it weighs me down. And I have held on to it for far too long. My friend Lauren W. told me I need to talk about the hard stuff because keeping it all inside gives it too much power. I've been told I'm good at asking the hard questions of others...but of myself...that's a different story.
I'm afraid to talk about my sister because of how it will make me look. I am embarrassed. And it's aweful and selfish but it's true. This disease is hereditary and I'm afraid people will start to wonder about me. My friend Carmen point blank asked me if I thought I might have it too. Back when we were in college and Hillary was first diagnosed, Carmen asked me and it broke my heart that she could think that. And it scared me to death because i woke up every day for months waiting for it to rob me of my life too.
And it did, in a way.
I had no idea how to cope with the late night phone calls and the emergency messages about her trips to the emergency room.
Listening in detail to how my mom held her hand while they pumped her stomach. The charcoal combating the bottle of tylenol she had taken. Her lastest suicide attempt. And I had to get a cell phone so i could be reachable at all hours of the day. And I felt like I was going crazy too, so it only made sense for me to hang out with the wild crowd at work. The kids at the restaurant I bartended at who had asked me to hang out a hundred times before. Their offers suddenly seemed more comforting than another night alone in my bedroom doing crafts because I couldnt sleep. So they kept me company and took me dancing. There is something so freeing about being there in the dark with that music playing and the bass line droning. You can't not move. Jenny E. paid me the most magnificent compliment; she said I was the most confident dancer she had ever seen. I love that. It has taken years to build up to, but I am free to dance in front of hundreds of people or in the confines of my own bedroom. And the performance is the same...kinda spastic, sometimes offbeat, but always alot of fun...and I think it has to do with the fact that it is one of the only things I can do entirely for myself.
So I danced and baked and rolled X and snorted coke and I looked to these people to save me. And I got frustrated when they broke their promises and left or died and I was no better off. I had just numbed the problem with sex and drugs and it was still there, waiting, haunting me.
But I'm talking now and figuring some things out. Ask me questions. The hard ones. It means you care. That I'm worth more than small talk.
And I've been watching movies. My mom still has our old VHS collection. And I've been watching my old favorites with my sister, like The Secret Garden, The War, and Dead Poets Society. They are so worn out and on their last leg but siting here with her and joking about the old days before she got sick, it was kind of nice and really sad at the same time.
I've been so selfish and so impatient and I sit here and listen to her talk about all the things she wants to do with her life and it breaks my heart to know that she wont be able to do most of them because of her meds or the disease itself. And it's a lot of pressure to know I'm my mom's only shot at grandchildren, and although i finally understand the amazing gift that a child is...I see no possibility for motherhood in my near future. And I get mad at myself for doubting this trip. I always thought I would make this journey with my husband but I'm still waiting on that part of my life. And I'm tired of waiting. I I felt like God was urging me to go. I hope I am being obedient. My neighbor asked me why I was leaving Charlotte and traveling and all I could think to say was "Because I can." Why are you running a marathon? "Because I can." I can't explain it. It doesnt really make sense to me either, why I would leave all the people I love to go somewhere you all are not. Sounds down right stupid actually. But I don't want to be left behind again. I have loved watching you all grow and change and create these amazing lives, but I have to get a life too. I can't just sit back and be a cheerleader. I've done that before and I wound up empty handed, broken hearted, and lost.

"I got all whole and healed...and you don't show up." she said at the end of Grey's Anatomy. I don't usually watch this show and it's because of Meridith's character. I hate her. I think she is pathetic. But seeing her standing in the grass lit by all those candles I can't help but to identify with her...and it really pisses me off.


So I'm taking this trip on my own. And meeting up with folks along the way, because a good life has two things: Love and community. And I'm realizing that I will never have it all together. That I am broken...and that is okay. There is no such thing as whole and healed. And broken can be extraordinary.

Why am I doing this, Lord?
Because I can.
Sounds like as good a reason as any.

Push America Country Music Marathon

Training for this race was a huge first step in this lil' adventure I'm on and i am so grateful for that time and the experience of not only the marathon, but the many days leading up to it. I learned so much more than I ever expected.

new recipe.

Recipe for Disaster::Also known as deskunker (the greenliving version...mais oui!)

1 quart 3 percent hydrogen peroxide
1/4 cup baking soda (sodium bicarbonate)
1 teaspoon liquid soap
Wet the dog, and work the formula through their fur. Leave the mixture to et on the dog for four or five minutes, and then rinse thoroughly. Throw out any leftover remedy.

So Marley Dog decided to get friendly with the local wildlife yesterday morning. While you all were getting ready for church or sleeping in your nice comfy beds, I was dressed in the most ridiculous outfit (because I had to throw the clothes out afterwards) wrestling Marley on the lawn to get him to hold still so I could spray him with the garden hose (the water contents of said water hose caused my fingers to go slightly numb...brrrrrrrrrrrnelly!)
That's right folks, Marley Dog made "friends" with a skunk. And not the beat up old stuffed animal my meme gave me when I was four...a real life "polecat".
It wasnt pretty. And it was only humerous for the first 30 seconds until I realized what he had in his mouth...that's right...he actually picked the darn thing up.
I watched the hole scene. I had just let him out to go pee and he darted across the driveway and there he was...Pepe le Pew, himself. And before I could utter one word Marley had him in his mouth-dropped him-and then stood dumfounded rubbing his face on the ground while Monseiur le Pew waddled off leaving the most magnificently grotesque smell in the air.
AND ALL OVER MY DOG!
Actually it was pretty well concentrated on the white patch of fur on his neck. And I bathed him with the concoction above and an entire bottle of tomato juice...lather-rinse-repeat!
He's had three baths since "the incident" and is almost back to normal doggie smell but he isn't allowed in the house yet. So while my mom is off to Boston to drop my sister at the bus station...I get to stay here and run the gallery and write and just genrerally exhale.
This week has been exhausting. I think I may sleep until my mom returns tomorrow night.
But I wont get to spoon with my marley dog...cause he has to sleep in the barn one more night.
Silly dog.
I hope you've learned your lesson.
Next time, atleast let me have my morning coffee first :)

half pint.

My mom's house.
Let me paint this picture fo you.
Little House on the Prairie meets Yogi Ashram...Throw in the Rainman in nicotein withdrawl and you've pretty much got a day in the life...
It's beautiful here. But cold. I'm wrapped in my sleeping bag right now. We had a fire last night. It's been rainy but I can see the sun creeping out through the clouds and think we are going to climb Blue Hill today, if the weather holds out.
The air is clean and salty. Not Like Wilmington, or the Jersey sore. Salty but different, somehow.
We went to the farmer's market and bought used books. I got A Seperate Piece and Walden. I know, completely cliche, but I figured I should just go with it :)
In the mornings my mom and I walk Marly dog around the yard while we drink fair trade coffee and she points out plants in her garden and lots of rocks. Stonington/Deer Isle is a giant piece of granite. There are rocks evreywhere! And Kelly, I can't help but think of you everytime I see one :) I miss you tons!
We celebrated our birthdays last night, mine and Hillary's. They aren't until August but we are never in the same place at the same time so my mom wanted to take advantage of the situation. We made lobster and Strawberry Rhubarb Pie for dessert. (My mom's very first pie EVER in 55 years on earth. It was DELICIOUS!!!) We picked Rhubarb from the garden. Apparently the leaves are poisonous. But you can eat the stalks.
Living on the edge, I tell you.
And we drink well water but we have to drink from a certain tap because there is arsenic in it. Long ago the legal limits were 50parts/ to a billion, but now there is no tolerance of my mom's 16. So we use the water from spicket "B" and go on our merry little way.

::A la Carte::
We made vegan pizza. The cheese doesnt melt, but it tastes great.
And I had soy ice cream.
And we are going to make a vegan chocolate cake. I don't know if this will make it into my repetoire but my mom swares it is delicious. But she is also the same woman who complained that it wasn't cold enough here last winter :)
We had fiddle heads. Which are actually the sprouts of ferns. And sort of tast like asparagus.
My mom puts flaxseed on everything. Hilarious.

I'm trying to be patient with Hillary but it's hard. I hate her for being sick. That makes me an aweful person. I don't know if it's possible to be honest and be polite. I promise myself I would be honest. I need this.
She pokes at me and demands certain things at certain times. I feel like Tom Cruise trying to appease Dustin Hoffman so he doesnt make a scene. She acts like she's eight yeas old most of the time, but then there is this incredible brilliance that peaks through and this uncrushable artistic streak that runs to her core. She is one of the most talented artists I have ever met. But her meds cause tremmors that have taken her steady hands and painting from her. But she still makes stained glass. Incredible pieces.
Amazing.

And I'm realizing through all this, how incredbly impatient I am. About everything. And everyone. I am patient-less. Completely devoid. I don't really know how I have survived this long, this way, and not driven everyone completely mad.
I am working on it. And trying to remain calm and focused. And not spin out when my sister sits ridiculously close to me and stares at some aweful blemish and offers her advice on how I can fix my life. Asks eight thousand questions about my life and talks incesently about my dad and how wonderful he is and how they are going to ride off into the sunset together, or something equally nauseating.
And I sit here and take a deep breath...Add a dash more flaxseed to the pizza dough...and go out to the barn to call ma'aw in for supper!

Seriously...my mom has a barn. But there aren't any horses. Just yoga mats.

aloha.

I just have to give a little shout out to my awesome roomies for throwing the best going away party in all the land! Thank you Jenn, Kelly and Staci! In case you all have been out of the loop the past year or so...here at "The Nut" we REALLY like theme parties!!!!! Sadly I didn't get any pictures of all the roomies together. I think the only Nut shot I have is this one from the ugly sweater party...

But the yard looked amazing.


I felt like I was on an Island complete with drunk natives (neighbors) falling down and good food and lots of dancing! We ended the night with a jaunt to Whiskey River where I finally cemented my claim to "southerness" ...

Listen & Like country music. Check.
Sell something at the pawn shop. Check.
Eat hushpuppies and grits. Check.
Say y'all. Check.
RIDE A BULL....CHECK!!! and totally hilarious! Staci, I hope you're proud :)


I love you girls. And I miss you already.