“I like that,” said Sally. “It leads one on and on. Who said that?”

“Isaac Pennington. How I do run on, dear! It’s old age. And I want to show you the linen cupboard.”‘

(Pilgrim’s Inn, by Elizabeth Goudge)

It is strange how much love can be held in a little structure of glass and metal. It is even stranger how easy it is to stop seeing it.

The terrarium has hung over my bookcase for months now, a shining reminder of my husband’s love. But over time it has melted into the fabric of our home, so familiar and comfortable that it’s become at times invisible. I forget it is there, until something reminds me. . . candlelight, or, like tonight, the glow of a New Mexico sunset.

It wasn’t the substance that drew my gaze, but the shadow of it. . . there on the wall, rich with the colors of the sky.

The shadow.

****

Robert is on the other side of the world right now. . . his today is my tomorrow and he is falling asleep at night as I am waking up in the morning. And while I truly have never felt any major shift in our lives, that abrupt end of the ‘honeymoon’ phase that was supposed to happen one day, I have realized in these quiet days of his absence that I have lost sight of something precious since the early months of our marriage. I’ve grown so accustomed to the beauty of life that I’ve stopped seeing it in the bright places where I once saw it so clearly.

I’m finding it again, now, in the shadows of his absence — in the scent of cedarwood and the vastness of a queen size bed. And the shadow of a glass case in the sunset, saying ‘This is the bright love you’ve been given. . . see its shadow on the wall? Feel its flutters within, growing ever stronger and more insistent?’

****

Yes, my eyes are weak, and sometimes I need the shadow to remind me of the substance. But so do we all, because we are human. And God knows this.

I was writing lesson plans this evening for the language arts class I strive to teach, and as I wrote I pondered how very many shadows God casts for us in Genesis. We’ve seen the substance so many times — Christ, dead and raised — that sometimes our eyes are blinded and we must see in a glass darkly to see at all. And so God shows us the ram caught in the brambles and the king of Salem serving wine and bread and over and over the shadows dance so that the substance may glow again in our minds.

****

The sunset has long since faded, but tonight, there is a candle glowing behind the glass walls of his love, casting shadows that remind me the substance is real.

When I first moved here to New Mexico, with a new ring and a new name, I was happily hermited in our little base camp (of which I intend to share pictures soon), happy in the creation of the atmosphere of our home and our life together. We have not finished this creation, of course; it is the endeavor of a lifetime. But at least the flavor of this atmosphere has in many ways been set, and I have of late felt the need for another pursuit: for growth in knowledge and proficiency, for intellectual and literary stimulation, for a community in which to thrive. My heart had grown a little parched here in the high desert of New Mexico. Several months ago, through God’s gracious orchestration of events, I found my way to Oak Grove Classical Academy, a Christ-centered, university-model classical school about fifteen minutes from base camp. A well in the desert.

“‘Do you hear?’ said the little prince. ‘We have awaked this well, and it is singing.”‘

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince)

Here I have stumbled upon community: a community of believers who are dedicated to growing in the knowledge of Christ, of His beauty and truth and grace. A community who live their lives reading and learning. . . drawing in beauty into their bones and pouring it out again, as Elizabeth Goudge writes of in ‘Pilgrim’s Inn.’ I was invited to join a group of women who make the time to gather monthly to read and discuss literature…not as an escape from their children, but in part to demonstrate to their children that the process of learning and growing does not stop when you graduate, nor when you are well-and-truly an adult, or married, or managing mortgage and homeschooling.

And by the grace of God, I not only get to be a part of this community, spurred on by it and held accountable by it, but I get to participate in the Conversation that has been going on for thousands of years. I have the intense privilege of pouring, as accurately as I can, the beauty and splendor and wisdom of the God we serve into thirteen small minds twice a week.

Perhaps, if these things were relative, the task of teaching them would not be so daunting. But they are not. Neither truth, righteousness, nor even beauty are relative. Our perfect and holy God sets an absolute standard for each, and woe betide the person who calls good bad and bad good. . . and particularly the person who leads little children astray. It is a responsibility which I take on with gravity and soberness, this instructing of little children. It is a task about which I am both deeply thrilled and thoroughly terrified.

C. S. Lewis describes the teacher’s task as “irrigating deserts.” To irrigate, you must have water. . .and I have been sent scurrying to irrigate my own mind, to pursue knowledge and beauty and truth so that I may pour it out again, accurately, into the minds of my students. And in so doing, I feel that I have taken a draught of the water I have been craving for many months. It is as though, in the books and habits and community in which I have found myself immersed, I have found a well in the desert. . . and the more deeply I drink, the more I crave. And though teaching and reading have kept me quite busy (particularly when combined with rock climbing, spontaneous weekend trips, and home life…which, again, I hope to write of soon), I intend to take some time weekly to pour out a little of that water here; or, perhaps, only to scribble some of the swirling thoughts in my head. Will you join me in the Conversation?

‘I’m on the shore now of the wildest river…’

(Chris Rice, Thirsty)

We celebrated our anniversary a few weeks ago, with a trip to Iceland, and so yesterday we just spent a quiet evening with each other. We settled in with a slice of cheesecake and a glass of wine and a year’s worth of memories, and it was an evening of quiet wonder.

I could write a list (a very long one) of things I have learned in this year of being married, or things I am grateful for. But the thing which struck me with the most force yesterday was not a list of things I have learned in a year of marriage, but that, Lord willing, we don’t get just one. Marriage doesn’t end after the first year. Yesterday we celebrated one year of marriage, and it was wonderful. . . but this morning, we woke up on the first day of our second year. And I made coffee for two and my best friend kissed me when he left for work, and please God, we will get to do this another year, and the year after that, and the year after that, and my breath catches when I realize the enormity of this gift God has given us. I am so inestimably grateful for this year, so very thankful for the gift of this year that we didn’t deserve. And I am so very, very thankful that, if God pleases, we don’t get just one.

This is the first day of the rest of our lives.

photo credit: sarah marcella

Madeliene L’Engle, “A Wind In the Door”

Young wife, you are returned at last from roaming the earth with your husband. Your body is weaker than it was, thanks to the grueling days of travel and fever and not-eating with which you said goodbye to the quiet wilderness of Iceland. But your heart is strengthened by the Love who carried your backpack and stroked your hair and in the end brought you safely home. (And who the next day worked a full day and bought you juice and grapes and cooked you tacos while you slept on the couch.)

And your imagination, so long snuggled deep in the contented nest of this love, begins to ruffle its feathers and stretch its wings and peer about at the great world which you have glimpsed. Do you wonder, as it opens its bright eyes, where its purpose lies? Why anyone would encourage it to fly, and then scribble down its wandering paths? Why retell these stories, why tempt the imaginations of children to peep out of their nests and stretch their wings to fly, too?

The call of the “real” world is strong, and rightly so. You live in a material world that is real, and you know, young wife, that practicality is a precious art to be loved and embraced. But this very real world that we see and breathe is metaphor and a veil for another world, equally real but unseen and unseeable…except through faith.

Young wife, you have seen incredible things in this beautiful, material world. You have seen a dying sun and a coral moon balanced low in a blue sky like a pair of cosmic scales. You have seen glaciers flowing painfully into valleys, like some arthritic monster advancing his territory with agonizingly slow steps. You have seen desolation trying its best to keep its grip on lava fields long ago cooled, and being overcome by living moss like grace.

Young wife, you have also seen incredible things in the beautiful and immaterial world in which you also live. You have seen that the monsters who hide in the valleys of your soul are real, and that the grace of God overwhelms all that is desolate. You have seen the reality that is beyond the reality. Only in glimpses, perhaps. . . but, young wife, the secret to those glimpses lie in the bright eyes of your imagination. Not because all that you imagine is real, but because all that is real cannot be known or seen–and imagination teaches you to look beyond that which is seen. Imagination teaches you how to pull up the corner of the curtain and peep behind it.

Do you remember that this is why you love to write? Do you remember that you love the words with which you can, for a moment, cross between the worlds of seen and unseen? Do you remember what it is like to look on a tossing sea or a child reaching for her father and see the swirling metaphor and poetry and color that lies beneath that moment? Your imagination stirs and wakens. . . let it scramble to the edge of the nest and become the flurry of words and wings, singing of true things, real things, the things that lie behind the curtain of mere water and rock. Trace the flightpaths and re-sketch them in paper and ink so that others may follow. This is why you imagine; this is why you write. Remember these things, and stretch your paper wings once more.

My dear friend, Liz, was our wedding coordinator and did a really amazing job of pulling all of our ideas together and helping us stay organized and focused. On our wedding day, she made sure that we had time built into our schedule in case some things took longer than we expected, or in case we ran into technical difficulties. . . but she and all of the wonderful people who helped behind the scenes kept things running so smoothly that we didn’t end up needing all of that extra time. So, the day had a really relaxed, laid-back party feel, which was exactly what we had hoped for.

After the ceremony and family portraits, we still had a couple of hours before we had planned to make our entrance to the reception. We decided to move up the reception, but Robert and I were able to first sneak away for a walk and some time to just be alone together and try to realize that we were husband and wife.

The first thing we did when we rejoined our guests was our first-dance-as-a-married-couple, to the song ‘Lucky’ by Colbie Cailat and Jason Mraz.

(We get to kiss now and it is amazing.)

When ‘Lucky’ ended, James (friend and sound-booth runner) switched to ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ by Frank Sinatra, and my dad and I danced.

We wanted to encourage people to get on to the dance floor, so partway through the song, our family members began joining us and pairing off.

Now, just a word about the cheesecake. Our friend Wanda, from church, gave us an incredibly generous wedding gift: three beautiful, and delicious cheesecakes, in our choice of flavors. We picked pumpkin and mocha (layers of each), and those cheesecakes have now spoiled us for all others. I had a hard time eating anything that day, and Robert resorted to counting my bites of dinner to make sure I was eating enough. He didn’t need to count my bites of cake.  =P

The foxes were a gift I gave to Robert long before we were ever engaged, and when we were trying to decide on how to decorate the dessert table, they seemed like fitting cake toppers. We stacked antique books to put the cake stands on.

Our dear friend, Lynzie, and her husband, Leonard, flew out from Montana for the wedding. Leonard was gracious enough to do the honors as M. C. for us, and Lynzie agreed to be in charge of providing and setting up the communion table for the ceremony. We were so humbled by her giving us the beautiful antique Lord’s Supper plate and wine glass which had been in her family. She even found some special charms for the glass with our initials, a fox, and a nest of fox eggs.

After Leonard led us in prayer before the meal, we got in line to eat dinner. We had set up long, family-style tables for the reception, with no assigned seating. Because Robert and I didn’t have a head table, we got to just move from table to table as we wished and were able to visit with guests throughout the afternoon, which I really enjoyed. What this also meant is that the dinner line was strictly casual, and we wound up pretty far back in the line. People kept telling us that it was ok to cut, as bride and groom, but we really enjoyed meandering our way to the front and getting to visit with people along the way.

Dinner was a variety of homemade dips. Lita (my mom’s mom) made her famous chicken mole (a Mexican sauce), Robert’s mom made hummus, and I made marinara sauce and chicken tikka masala. We served these with corn chips, veggies, bread, and naan, respectively. Robert was excited about the tikka masala, but I had spent so long smelling it while making it that I was not excited about eating it. I was also, at this point, wondering whose brilliant idea it was (mine) to eat three different types of red sauce in a white dress.  =P

Although Robert was insistent that I eat something, ‘Don’t Stop Moving’ had just come on the playlist and we ran off for a quick dance before we ate.

I had promised to take a silly selfie with Maggie on our wedding day, and our photographer got proof.

We snuck away from the party at sunset with our photographer, Sarah, to take portraits of just the two of us. We had a lot of fun…basically all we had to do was kiss and snuggle, which we were only too happy to do. I’ve never enjoyed being in front of the camera, but this was actually fun.

When we got back from the portrait-taking, it was time to say goodbye.

Everyone outdid themselves in making it tough for us to just drive away in the Jeep. They turned our mirrors, tied up the windshield wipers, and — what really kind of scared us — unlatched the hardtop. They did do a good job of decorating it, though. Someone drew a fox on our window, and when we cleaned off the rest of the Jeep, we left the fox. It’s been through lots of rain, snow, and hail in the almost-year that we’ve been married, and while most of the fox is gone now, the tail is still on our window.

Robert got the Jeep into driving-order, and we ran away for two weeks in a cottage on the coast, and then a road-trip to our new home in New Mexico . . .

photos of our wedding ceremony.

shannon didn’t toss any leaves until the very end when she got up to mom’s seat, upon which she decided to empty her basket with zealous leaf-tossing.  =]

the next couple of photos always make me laugh. i wanted to get a picture of all of the married siblings kissing. my brother and his wife didn’t really want to stop.  =]

(he will want me to clarify that this is because they got a late start)

photos of the reception coming next.

]]> http://teaandfigments.com/2015/08/25/parachute-sky-part-2/feed/ 1 http://teaandfigments.com/2015/08/07/parachutesky-part1/ http://teaandfigments.com/2015/08/07/parachutesky-part1/#respond Fri, 07 Aug 2015 19:20:04 +0000 http://teaandfigments.com/?p=1765 ‘you said you had something to say

and, in a delicate cage, you gave me the sun.

four months we dreamed, the sun and i

of kisses and a parachute sky. . .’

On June 13th, 2014, my best friend gave me a ring with a sun-colored stone in it, and asked me to be his wife. Four months went by, four months that were simultaneously eternal and whirlwind. summer ripened. Robert and I did a lot of daydreaming and phone-talking and future-planning and wishing desperately for October. In the meantime, our people–our families, my church, so very many dear friends–came together to help us plan our wedding. And not only plan it, but craft it into something so special and meaningful and altogether lovely. It was so very humbling to be surrounded by so much love. We are inestimably grateful to you all.

On October 18th, 2014, I put on a white dress and married my best friend in his parents’ backyard. These are some of our photo-memories of that day, courtesy of our wonderful photographer, Sarah Marcella. She did an amazing job not only capturing our wedding day, but also making us feel comfortable in front of the camera. This was a pretty big feat, seeing that we are both used to being behind it! Even though I felt so much more present and in-the-moment on our wedding day than I expected to, my memory has quickly faded to just those things for which we have documentation. That being the case, I am even more grateful to Sarah for these lovely images that help us remember. I have tried to limit the number that I share here, but I was only able to narrow it down to 145 of the original 600.  =P  Also, I am still learning how to size photos on the new blog design, so please bear with me.

****

At the time of this photo, these rings had never been worn, except for a moment to make sure that they fit (mine with my eyes shut, since the ring was a surprise). Now, after nearly a year, the finish of the gold is growing scratched. The diamond has gotten caked with bread dough and cleaned off anew. Our fingers have wedding-ring tan lines. And I love every scratch, because every one is a sign that we are married people who are learning and growing and loving each other more each day. I am looking forward to these rings collecting more scratches in the years of adventures we have ahead of us. . .

My man. =]

Because we got married on Robert’s parents’ beautiful property, he and the guys got ready in Robert’s own room.

Shannon looks so proud of herself in this picture. =]

Robert’s sister, Becky, hosted us girls in her house while we all got ready. I loved the casual feel of our getting-ready time. We snatched turns at the mirror. My sister, Blair, and I traded makeup checks. Our friend, Abbey, and my sister-in-law, Darlene, helped me put on my earrings because my hands were shaking so badly. . .I wasn’t really nervous, just eager and perhaps amped up on a little too much caffeine combined with too little food. Our friend, Mrs. Youngs, brought us trays of food which my now-sister, Jessica, and Blair made sure that I ate (after informing me that the coffee that Becky made me in her aeropress didn’t count as food). My mom did Robert’s mom’s hair. My mom wasn’t really excited about the idea of wearing a corsage, so instead, our dear friends Cheryl and Maddie made two beautiful floral combs for our two moms to wear in their hair. (Cheryl and Maddie are also responsible for all the rest of the beautiful flowers that you will see in the rest of this post. They foraged for local greens and pretty plants, grew flowers in their garden, and sourced all sorts of beautiful and meaningful botanicals! Every element of the floral arrangements were selected with so much care, tact, and love.)

I was originally planning to make my wedding dress, thinking that there was no way that I would be able to find one that was in the right style, size, fabric, and price. My parents wisely pressed me to try my best to buy a dress, saying that they didn’t want me to spend my last four months at home holed up in my room sewing, especially since I was going to move away as soon as the wedding was over. So, I began the hunt. My requirements for the dress were that it be comfortable, as un-poofy as possible, and feel like ‘me’. I didn’t want to feel like I was wearing a costume. I was also hoping for a dress that would be modest, or easily-made modest, but still be pretty and flattering. It took some hunting, but I was able to order this simple gown from J. Crew. It was 100% silk, which made it so delightful to wear, and best of all…it felt dreamy and swishy, but not at all unnatural or costumey. It felt strange wearing so much white, but other than that, it felt very natural and ‘me.’ Another dear friend, Angela, made a couple of alterations (bringing up the shoulder straps and hemming it to the right length) to make it fit perfectly. The neckline was close to being high enough, but not quite, so Angela also brought up the neckline up ever so slightly, in a way that added to the style and design of the dress instead of making it look like we just sewed a chunk of fabric on to make it more modest. I love the way it turned out and am so thankful for the time and beautiful work that she put in making my dress perfect.

I made my headband out of a vintage necklace I found at a thrift store, and my mom made my veil. I didn’t want it to be at all poofy, so she made a drop-veil that didn’t have any gathers or pleats. Because the dress was so simple, she made the veil long, but still delicate with just the traditional de Leon tiny crochet detail all around the edge.

Once we were all ready, we went down the driveway to the bike path by the property for some photos.

Robert and I were so blessed to be surrounded by our siblings on our wedding day. His groomsmen were his sisters’ husbands and my brother; my bridesmaids were Blair and Robert’s sisters, Becky and Jessica. It was so special to have our family as our wedding party.

My littlest sister, Shannon, was the leafgirl (her basket was full of tiny leaves and Japanese maple helicopter seeds). Her sweet headband was another creation by Cheryl and Maddie.

I love this picture…all of the shoes, with Shannon trying to get the leaf off of the bottom of hers.

My mom.

My sister, Blair.

Now my family is bigger! My (Robert’s) mom.

My (Robert’s) sister, Jessica.

My (Robert’s) sister, Becky.

Blair, me, Shannon, and our mom.

The flowers turned out so beautiful, and so perfect. Purple foxtails and orange dahlias, eucalyptus…so many lovely things, and many with hidden special meanings.

Both the girls and the guys took some time aside to pray before the ceremony.

These hands now wear a wedding ring.

It is so surreal to think that when these photos were taken, my last name was different than it is now. We had never kissed. wWe were about to be married, but we weren’t yet. We had only hours to go…but they were still hours, separating us from each other, separating the old life from the new.

I will try to write the next post soon, the part in which those hours and minutes and moments ended and two of us became one of us. . .

Above our little house, above the foothills we nestle against, there is an iron forest ranged along the crest of the mountains. On clear and warm days like today, it looks like nothing more than a cluster of radio towers. At night, when it is shrouded in darkness, it becomes a bit more magical, because it glows with red stars. But it only shows itself for what it really is when there is a fresh snowfall, when it and the mountain it stands on fuse together in whiteness and become an ice-castle for a mysterious princess.

I keep meaning to write about it, the princess locked inside of the ice-castle. On quiet afternoons like this one, I sit down at my kitchen table in front of an open window, coffee in hand, ready to dream out a new story on paper. And when the coffee is gone and I look at what is written, I find that I have not written a story of an ice-princess, nor of a never-ending beach, nor of the whale that lives in the clouds of the painting we have thought of purchasing. All I have written is a love letter from an girl with an empty coffee cup to her best friend, who kisses her in the doorway when he gets home in the afternoon and who carries her whole heart with him when he leaves her in the morning.

I once thought that our love would inspire my words, my scribbled tales, my figments of thought. I was right. I just didn’t realize, then, that it would be so powerful as to make it nearly impossible to write any story other than that of our love. I realize it now. And the truth is that I really don’t mind in the slightest. I love this story, love the living and the telling and the writing of it, the way that it does not grow old, only worn in beautiful patinaed patterns like the gold band on an old man’s hand.

I love the beauty of this story of ours, this love we share. And I have come to a decision. I will no longer try not to write love letters–that has shown itself to be impossible. So, I will bow to this fact and write them, as eloquently and richly as I can. And I will try, if I can, to clothe these letters afresh–to wrap them with ice castles and beaches and the night-riders who live in our mountains. But the letters themselves, they shall stay there, tucked safely into the heart of the story, like the glowing golden heart of a daisy. Because without them, the stories are empty words, floating petals. There is a kind of beauty in flower petals, though they fade and brown quickly. But the story God has graciously given me to tell is one of much fuller and more lasting beauty than petals alone. Only the heart of the daisy, or the whole daisy will do. Our love letters are the heart. I mean to deck it with petals if I can…but if I cannot, then I will go on writing the heart. Because I must.

‘Pens and paint, a good voice production, and grease paint and things aren’t the only means of expression. Some people express loveliness just by loving. It’s the better way…’

‘…That’s at the root of all giving, don’t you think? At the root of all art. You can’t hoard the beauty you’ve drawn into you; you’ve got to pour it out again for the hungry, however feebly, however stupidly. You’ve just got to.’

(quotations taken from ‘Pilgrim’s Inn’ by Elizabeth Goudge)

you were curious about what it would be like, living in the high desert. used as you were to wine country, rolling hills covered in vineyards, oaks, and redwoods, you were not certain what you would think about living in a land of angles–vertical mountains, flat valleys, cactus spines and box-like buildings. you knew that, whatever you found, you would make it your home. but you didn’t know how easy it would be to make your home among the harsh angles, or much you would like it once you had. you didn’t know this, because you didn’t know that wells come in all shapes and sizes. they look different to each person.

but here you are, in your desert home, and you have found your well…or rather, he found you, and brought you here. you see, your well has dark hair and eyes that never seem to know what color they are. your well has strong hands, hands that wear your ring and open your doors and hold your hand and sometimes wipe away your tears. this is your well, and because of him your desert is beautiful beyond comparison. because of him, the stars pour out water for you to drink and you know the sound of footsteps that are different from all the rest.

you once drove through this desert, years ago, when he was only the name of a friend’s brother whom you had never met, and you thought this desert was the ugliest place you had ever seen. you thought that the land of enchantment was called that because it was under a spell, waiting for the return of the prince to set it free. perhaps that was only because you drove through the wrong part of it…but i think there is a better explanation than this. i think that it was ugly because for you there was no well as yet, and because the prince had not come. now your desert hides a well. the spell is broken. and so, now, this place that is a desert is a beautiful place full of light, adventure, and the most glorious of sunrises and sunsets. what makes the desert beautiful is that it hides, not just a well, but your well…your very own.

‘”hear that?” said the little prince. “we’ve awakened this well and it’s singing…”‘

(from “the little prince” by alexander de saint-exupery)

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