Charlotte Perkins Gilman might disagree, but I adore the colour yellow and how it can brighten up anything: a mood, a room, a movie, an outfit, a day. Nothing like a winter night to make you dream of egg yolk yellow and bright sunny afternoons. Hopefully this reawakens some of your joie de vivre!

sources: 1) european style burst of colour, via here 2) carolina herrera dress, unattainable but lovely to look at, 3) dreamy linen armchair from anthropologie, 4) flowered topshop snood, 5) whale tissue holder from this shop on etsy, 6) screenshots of amelie, via here and here.

PS. Serifs are so sexy. #typographynerd

this is a spoken word poem by derrick brown, “church of the broken axe handle.” subtract the drinking part. but listen to this. this is what i think god desires for us. can we open our arms like this. can we be a house for the broken. can we let mercy toll through our electric confession like this. i feel for derrick, because you can hear his cynicism towards church. but i have hope. god makes all things new, even the church.

2. what is beautiful? having a home. the dog eating teal playdoh off the floor. the mustard seed’s new housing unit slowly emerging from dreams into the air. the poets in my group fleshing out their words and coming so faithfully to every workshop. i am astounded by their capacity for wit and for feeling. i’m trying to get in contact with people for a reading. i can’t wait. i want this to happen.

3. quietness, even when fighting tears. solitude and that slow simmer of the moon and the night, a sliver of god. i write stories. my grandparents are fighters, they are warriers of history with one foot on the ground and a hand in the sky, they have given everything to keep the family tree growing through storms. i write stories to get to know them better. i try to hear them on the page.

4. i see more and more that jesus is so, so alive. i haven’t ever really truly doubted this. but i think he is closer than ever. no, i don’t think he is closer. maybe he is warmer, maybe his tune is more familiar to my ears. i remember times of vulnerability a few years ago with friends and how we split open our hearts to each other. we cried and prayed in the dark, the pressing intimacy of that. i think now of worship in terms of landscape. i look everywhere. i don’t always find but i look.

5. the old becoming new, like gungor singing st. augustine’s prayer. or reading about w.h. auden and his “vision of agape” when he was sitting with fellow schoolteachers in june 1933. he said that he suddenly realized he loved them for themselves, that “their existence had infinite value for him.” isn’t that beautiful? i love that. i often have crushes on dead poets.

the year has slipped under my skin and dug in fingernails and yet here it is. here i am,
flicking the page and trusting that whatever’s on the other side can breathe beautiful through the ugly.

i’ve lived here too long to be romantic about this city,
and yet at new year’s eve an irrational hope swells in me and i can’t help but believe
in the strength of spirit, the magnificent generosity of what people can be. what i can be.
i am all courage in this moment, i am all love
and though i know my corners will be worn down by the tide and edges roughened
i know, suddenly, that wonder still exists, that i can help uncover it and spread it over the night in fistfulls.

so weave me in cross-stitch over the universe’s eyes
let me never forget how to be surprised at how stories end
throw me through the branches of history’s tree so i barely grab the trunk in time
let me be a constellation-carrier, let me never fear the dark
if i carve question marks into ancient stone let me not leave them
for churning emptiness to fill. let me be still and know
how little i know and swerve up their curved spinal cords
and remember how to be cradled by mystery.
let me be a birdsong in the throat of God
thirsty for grace.

let me face everything with unquenched eyes
let me taste sea salt at the corner of my lips
long before i can hear the roar of the ocean

let me abide,
let me remain,
let me change,
let me love more of the new,
let me love more of the same.

christmas, while so full of light and joy, can be dark and bruising and hard. some vague statistic i remember is that it’s the second most common time for people to commit suicide, after valentine’s day. there’s a church family that lost their dad last christmas, there’s poverty and people without homes who have to sleep on mats breathing their neighbour’s breath and dreaming of someone they’ve lost. there’s heartbreak associated with christmas all over the place. i know i bear marks of it. i know that maybe you do too.

chris said on sunday that one of the things we should do during advent is not only remind ourselves of the magnitude of the hope that christ brought when he came, but of the weight of the darkness that surrounds us. and that’s what makes that hope so amazing. of course, going to that place is pretty terrifying. but isn’t it true that we only understand sorrow and pain after experiencing it ourselves? all of us who bear war wounds because of its onslaught: our eyes are opened wider to those people around whose spirits are on ledges.

so let’s be present. let’s be presents to everyone who needs the gift of someone there. i mean, that’s what jesus did, right? became present. God’s greatest act of love was this, to come among us and feel our pain beside us and eat with us and hold our loneliness.

love in the little things. maybe what Christmas needs isn’t the Christ restored to it in its name, but in its doing. at the grocery store, or at the mall, meeting eyes and still smiling, asserting the dignity of those poor sales clerks, or the neighbours who walk past when you’re walking the dog whose names you still have yet to learn. let’s love each other, eat and bake and make gifts together, hold each other’s loneliness like Christ did. let’s look around for eyes wild on ledges and draw them back into warmth and life with community and songs and being alive.

it’s christmas time, after all. for all the weight of grief, there’s still the star on high and the promise of peace on earth because of a message of grace and redemption. falling into us like the night, quiet and holy. let’s not deny the heaviness of pain, but let’s embrace it together, carefully warm it in each other’s palms. let’s let that heaviness fall to the ground and remember how to dance to christmas songs – jesus came so we could let our hearts be light.

you need:

• 1/2 can of coconut milk (around 1 cup or 200 mL)
• 2 earl grey tea bags
• 1-2 pears, peeled and sliced
• 1 teaspoon sugar/honey (or to taste)
• sprinkling of cinnamon
• sprinkling of nutmeg
• sprinkling of cardamon (optional)

bring the coconut milk to a boil. put in the tea bags (cut off the paper label so they can swim around). add spices and sugar/honey. add pears. cook on medium/low until tenderish but not mushy. remove tea bags. sprinkle with a little extra cinnamon or nutmeg to serve. serves 2. enjoy!

The woman I met almost every time I walked the dog is out again, on the last walk of my stay. Her golden retriever is loping, old and playful still, with fluffy fur that sticks up on the top of his head. She knows my dog’s name and I know hers, and all four of us meet like old friends. I tell her goodbye and she says it was nice to meet me. She has a bright smile and lined face that makes the smile look more beautiful, a treasurebox lined in silt and dug up daily. After I leave I realize I never got her name.

This neighbourhood is lovely, full of families and backyards that open up into green space and blue sky. One time my neighbour gave me permission to take a few of the apples from her tree. I baked a crumble and burned part of it, but ate it anyway. On another walk, an old man hobbled to the skating rink and stood just to look. His cap tipped, his eyes quiet, staring out at the empty pavement. As I walked past I wanted to ask him about his story. But I wasn’t brave enough, so I made it up in my head.

Walking the dog everyday has taught me a lot about devotion, and the blend between the routine and the spiritual. Living alone helped me give solitude room to breathe. When the fuse blew in the bathroom, I showered by candlelight. When the soup was simmering, I played Christmas music and danced on the linoleum with only God to watch and laugh. I have become more meditative. And I don’t find it uncomfortable to be alone.

I’m back home with my roomies now and refinding rhythm once again. I’m thinking about all I’ve been blessed with this year. There are gaps and cracks in the clay of my heart and I don’t know if they will ever be replaced, but oh the grace that spills out and envelopes it all. What I want to be is love. What I want to be is an envelope of grace sealed by God’s mouth and unsealed by his hands, every day, crinkled with use, both spiritual and routine.

image: window view from temporary home

curried cream of vegetable soup
(tweaked from these recipes)

you need:

• dash of oil
• 3 cups water
• 3/4 cup coconut milk
• assorted vegetables. ex: 
• 1 carrot, chopped
• 1 head of broccoli, chopped
• 1 head of cauliflower, chopped
• 1 heaping tsp curry powder
• 2-3 cloves garlic
• 1 onion
• 1 tsp minced gingerroot (or powdered)
• salt & pepper to taste
• cilantro (optional)

heat up oil in a pot over the stove, on medium. mince the garlic and dice the onion. add to pot and cook until fragrant, stirring occasionally. add curry powder and ginger. add vegetables and water, and bring to a boil. cover, turn down the heat, and simmer until soft (around 15 minutes). add coconut milk and stir in. puree. (note: if you are using a blender/food processor – watch the lid, the heat can ramp up the pressure. you might want to use a paper towel to cover the hole at the top instead of the plastic cover.) add salt and pepper to taste. stir well. if desired, garnish with a little extra coconut milk and some cilantro. yum!

ever since i got back from montreal it’s been hankering after nothing but soup and bread everyday. i don’t mind.