Brief thoughts from reassembling my room:

I have lots of memories squashed into this little place, a small room in a big house in a small neighborhood in a medium-sized city in upper-middle class suburbia that was set aside just for me when I was five. First I had white furniture and a canopy bed, then I had brown furniture and red curtains, now I have clutter-junk heaped on my floor. If only those clutter-junk heaps didn’t mean anything to me, but nostalgia sweeps away the dust and memories seep out of the “things.”
Memories piling on the bottom of my closet, memories emerging from underneath an antique poster bed that takes up too much space, memories stashed in boxes--some things are stashed in closed boxes for a reason. (Lessons learned far too late and still so many to learn too late.)
Memories etched by gel pens in bright-colored journals. Memories drawn by colored pixels hanging on the walls. Memories aroused by all sorts of clothing.
Memories of my grandmother in the canary music box; memories of my first kiss in the New York & Co. halter top with orange flowers; Memories of Wyoming rain in a Turkish scarf; Memories of life abroad and Shakespeare’s dust upon my silver sandals, English gum still stuck to the bottom of them (how did I ever traipse around the UK in those sandals?); Memories of a thesis proposal defense in a gray dress, memories of a first date in another gray dress. Memories of spunky students who said they would miss me and always remember me found in a yellow folder; Memories of Niagara Falls soaking my shoulders in a dingy navy blue tank-top; Memories of baseball games in dilapidated ticket stubs (I was so excited about those ticket stubs, once); A scarf that saw the Rocky Mountains & a scarf (or 6) purchased on a San Francisco street; leggings that were washed by the Pacific Ocean; jeans that were rarely washed the year I wrote my thesis; a hat that hiked down into the copper Grand Canyon; an ODU sweatshirt worn during movie nights with my college friends; those platform sandals that clicked-clicked-clicked down the dorm hallway (the ones I wore with sweatpants, sometimes). Memories of my cousin’s wedding in a bouquet of silken purple; memories of thrift-store shopping with mom in a stained-glass lamp. Memories of my first (and last) college party in a black, lacey top; memories of weddings in swishy, pastel dresses; memories of the excitement of high-school softball games in a royal blue jacket (how proud I was of that jacket once); memories of middle-school basketball in a fading certificate that says “D.O.B.”: distributor of bruises (what a lovely title that was). So much life found in this little room. It was on my floor I prayed to God for the first time and it was in here when I had the hardest conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Some memories I’ve tucked away in a small corner drawer and others I’ve given away; some I’ve thrown into plastic bags never to be seen again. I've been through some changes and so has this little place-- the place where God calls me and where I answer Him, and these four walls contain the memories with which He’s shaped my soul—and now we’re making it new.

In baseball, I believe a hitter's confidence is key, and that sometimes his thoughts are mightier than his bat.
Some fall victim to the "dark cloud": believing you've failed before you actually have. Sometimes this is also called "stinkin' thinkin'." I stand guilty of this mentality.
But,
I have a sweet friend who, after I strike out in slow-pitch softball, gently tousles my hair after I mutter an ugly word on accident because I am mad that I swung at bad pitches.
There was a runner on third base and we were down by two runs and a base hit would have changed the whole game (in theory) . In my uncharacteristic fury, he tells me that, in the morning, this momentary failure will be inconsequential, and he tells me not to listen to the voices in my head that say I'm an easy out or that I am terrible at this game or that I am nothing that a disappointment. This friend tells me that I am worthwhile and that I should stop comparing myself to others and that I should stop comparing myself to the softball player that I was ten years ago when I was a decent athlete with resolute determination.
That athlete once wanted to catch a foul ball so badly that she ran into a fence with all of her might, thus smashing her metatarsals to fragments.
That aforementioned friend still took me to prom that year despite my transient handicap, so I hobbled around a hotel ballroom in an ivory gown-- I decorated my crutches, even. I still remember a teacher asking me if I wanted to go to prom because of my injury. In my head I thought, "of course"; out loud I said "I guess so." Sometimes I don't speak aloud the extent of what I am thinking.
That broken foot and prom date was 9 years ago, in May.
Some things I thought I had left far behind in my past have actually met me in my present.
I didn't think the determined, hustling athlete remained in me; I didn't think I was capable of that competitive fierceness anymore; those voices of self-doubt on the playing field had long since disappeared (until that moment last night).
I also didn't think that sweet person who befriended the girl with the broken foot would set his gentle hand on my head, tousle my hair, touch my cheek, and tell me that strikeouts don't matter and that they'll be long-forgotten in the morning. With that, he hands me my glove and I run to the outfield (staying clear of any fences that can apparently break feet).
The dark cloud dissipates for now, but I try to talk to God in the outfield so that I don't screw up anymore.
He tells me that screwing up in softball does not equate to screwing up in life.
So then I decide to talk to God about all of my other recent and not so recent screw-ups.
He tells me, "as far as the east is from the west."
God forgets our strike-outs too:
Imagine that.

Tonight,
Scrutiny scares me,
Stevie Nicks comforts me,
Silent thoughts intrigue me,
Sorrows sober me,
Stories sustain me.

Helpful & pretty . . . say . . . cheese!

Sappy fact of the day:
The kitten kisses my nose before he falls asleep. He gingerly steps onto my chest, presses his nose in the crevice between my nose and lips, then curls up with his fuzzy blankets and dozes off. He's done this the last two nights in a row: a good night kiss for the hand that feeds him.
If only he were this sweet all the time.
I have my battle wounds from this little beast, particularly when he switches off into "I'm roaming the African plains in search of my next meal" mode. In his imagination, I'm sure he is ceremoniously dragging an antelope into his den, where he can ravage his dinner for the whole pride to see and feast. But in reality, Cat prances proudly in the living room, red octopus toy hanging out of his mouth, red octopus toy swinging side to side, red octopus toy clawed and beaten into a bedraggled state, red octopus is now missing the pom pom that once decorated his head.

He is quite the robust toddler-cat.

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
--Mary Oliver

It's been a week and I've long since washed Florida out of my hair. I wish for just one more day, one more day to swim in the Gulf of Mexico, its warm waves tousling already frizzy hair; its salt streams seeping into my skin; its soothing sound quelling my worry, drowning out the pain of the past year with a gentle, steady tide.
I've grown up next to the ocean and I've seen the place where land ends many times, but I've rarely wished for just one more day. Many times I've crossed the threshold of shore and sea, yet I never realized that my perception the ocean's steady sameness is a lie. The ocean is change: it shapes the land; it's never ceasing; it's always moving, and while it's constant, it's a constant newness. You can't step into the same ocean twice. The irony of the ocean's consistency is that it's always changing, allowing nature to make it new and making nature new in turn.
The Gulf's salt scrubs and soothes as it seeps deeper into my skin. I lie flat on my back, allowing the waves to push me around a bit, occasionally jolting me from the deep blue trance. Here I am, at the world's edge for the umpteenth time. I relish it for once. I sink my ears into the sumptuous water and tilt my chin to the sun. I close my eyes and give thanks.
Now I am all here. I am present in the moment. I am noticing every minute detail, the way my toes curl in soft sand, the way my fingers filter the water between them, the tiny sea weed flowers that float to the surface, the silver specks of fish jumping in the distance.
I've never done that before; I've never noticed these things. I've never thought that the frothy waves remind me of foamy cappuccino or how the water is so blue that it melds with green and miraculously becomes blue again.
For the first time in months, I am content. I have learned to see and feel and hear all over again. All I needed was a reminder that the ocean is ever constant, never ceasing, ever new, never stagnant, ever alive, never stopping : just as I should be living.

My cat has a really great imagination. Right now, the keyboard;lOLLLLLLLLLLLLLOlsp-0wzxxxxxxxxxxx3 HAS been commandeered by Oscar who thinks he is a lion on the African plains pouncing on my dirty laundry (an antelope) with determined fury. His kennel zipper is also worthy of mauling, and my bed is a rather large and exciting terrain full of mountains to scale (pillows) 3w2y]\ /fdfrassssssssssssssaaddddddddddda ;p and valleys (the space between the pillows) to leap.

I hope you enjoyed this post written by both Anne and Oscar Wilde-cat. Here he is in pictorial form:

Today I asked for mercy for an undeserving heart. I have no trouble asking for mercy, but sometimes I don't know how to open my heart to receive it.
It all comes down to a lack of trust.
While I've made mistakes (the same frustrating mistakes over & over), I don't seem to trust that He Does what he Says He'll Do: Forgive.
On paper, I know my God forgives, seventy times seven and thousands time more than that.
On paper, I see the words of a God who says that he is slow to anger and abounding in love.
On paper, the Red Letters tell us that forgiveness brings restoration and that God accepts His wayward children.
I am a church girl; I know what the Words say.
I am also a skeptical girl, and while I believe those Words I also doubt them in the deep, dark corners of my heart.
I know, but I unconsciously doubt.
How could a church girl like me doubt? I know God; I know He is Who He says He is; I know He does what He says He'll do; I believe, but I also need help with my unbelief.
My doubts could stem from a great many things:
Maybe I am too worried what people think about me. I am too worried that people won't forgive me or look at me in the same way because of mistakes I have made. These thoughts parch a dehydrated heart-- Dehydrated because it's refused to trust that an Ocean of Grace is ready to engulf and drown its misgivings, its doubts, its sorrows, its shallowness, its worries, its timidity, its arrogance, its low expectations, its fear. Dehydrated because it's tried to beat on its own, driven by praise and perfection. Dehydrated because it feared failure to the point of paralysis.
Dehydrated simply because it did not ask for water, or when it did ask for water, it did not open its mouth to drink.
While we are often told to forgive others, it's important to remember to allow yourself to be forgiven-- guilt too easily entangles and languishes the body. I think I'm going to try and allow God's nourishing peace to reign instead.

Orange Animals

Today I observed that all of the animals in my house are orange. I think that's funny.

The cat is a tumbleweed. He's calm and then he's hyper. He's calm and then he's hyper.

He ponders my movements with big, blue eyes. He needs to know where I am so that he can maneuver elsewhere. His latest shtick is climbing in between the wall and the bed to escape my ubiquitous gaze. I am going to be one of those over-protective mothers. I freaked out when he tried to eat my Cheetos (no junk food!). I do not want him out of my sight for fear of some sudden calamity (no jumping on the bed!).

I am watching him as he is watching me and his eyes have gradually closed into tiny slits and, as I take a deep breath, he opens them quickly before he dozes off again. He is still watching me as he simultaneously falls asleep. He has tucked his head into the nook of a teddy bear-- a present from a boyfriend--now he looks like a puzzle picture-- the kind you see at Walgreen's for 99 cents. To me, he looks not like a George or a Bunny or an Atticus or a Scout-- he looks like Oscar. Oscar the cat-- it sounds just enough like Rascal.

This weekend, I decorated my future home (that does not exist), planned my future wedding (which is nowhere in the foreseeable future), contemplated writing a children's book (which has no idea how to launch itself), and bought a cat named Bunny (who sleeps and scratches things in sixty-minute intervals throughout the day). So, what am I not good at? Practicality. I did not need a cat. I did not need to pick out color schemes for functions that have no date, address, or groom.

Thus, despite my dawdling daydreams, I am proud of myself for this sole accomplishment: I resisted the shoe sale at Dillard's.
(But I did buy a cat . . . )

All of my tomfoolery this weekend reminds me of a quote from my dear dead friend, Thoreau (Whom I have never met but he did take up a significant portion of my students' final exam):

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

Henry David Thoreau

I'm good at the castles part but working on the foundations. Oh well, here's my cat:

I wanted to name him Atticus, but that was overruled. So now I present to the world George Herbert Bailey who has become known as "Bunny."

Hi my name is Anne and grocery store coupons scare me.