Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.

Not Cinderella

I'm a shoe girl.

I.
LOVE.
Shoes.

I know, I know!  It's cliche.  But, hey!  I'm a redhead whose favorite color is red, and while I don't mind a margarita or glass of wine, I'm definitely a whiskey girl.  I'm used to being a cliche.

My shoe closet pretty much holds the spectrum of colors and patterns: glittery ruby slippers, blue suede wedges, black patent leather stilettos...heck!  I even have a pair of pumps that have The Avengers all over them.

And they glow under a black light!

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that a certain pair of glass slippers crosses my mind on a fairly regular basis.  Glass.  Slippers.  (Or possibly fur slippers, if you're sticking with the original telling.  There's some controversy over the translation.)  There's no doubt in my mind that if I had a pair of those suckers they would be in my regular rotation.  Because functional glass slippers?  Yes, please!

But even with my slight shoe obsession (fetish?  No...okay, yes) it hit me the other day that I am not Cinderella.

Now, before I get to the moment in which I had this epiphany, I feel the need to say something:  I don't hate Cinderella.  I don't dislike Cinderella.  I don't have anything against Cinderella.

I LOVE CINDERELLA!

In some ways Cinderella is a perfect symbol of fairy tale princesses.  I would love her for that alone, but there's more.  Whether we're talking the Disney version or the Perrault (and then Grimm) version, or even the Egyptian story of Rhodopis, I am a fan.  She has incredible grace under pressure, is an example of perseverance and kindness in the face of hardship and hatred, and it's great that those traits are rewarded at the end of the story.  I think, "Go back!  Go back!  There's blood on the trail!" is an awesome - if Grimm -  refrain, and "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is equally wonderful.

And don't even get me started on statements like this:

Who says these ideas are mutually exclusive?  Why can't I love fairy tales and dreaming and whimsy and still be a strong, successful woman?  I will make it rain shards of glass while wearing glass slippers.  I will chase my dreams in my cutest pair of shoes.  When I have kids they will be taught to dance and dream and demolish that glass ceiling.  You do not have to sacrifice one at the expense of the other.

Honestly.





Anyway, all that to say: I love Cinderella.

But I am not Cinderella.

Some of you may know that I've been doing the online dating thing for a bit.  While it's cool to meet new people and I always enjoy getting dressed up, I'm not stoked on it.  The guys are nice enough (barring, of course, those who think it's alright to ask for naked pictures right off the bat), but I find I'm in a strange mindset about relationships right now.  I don't want anything serious - but I'm open to that if it happens - and I definitely am not looking for a one night thing.  So something casual and with no pressure, but with the option to explore more if there's a connection.  And no hookups.

See?  It's not fair.  It's kind of setting the poor guys up for failure.

A couple days ago I got a perfectly nice message from a perfectly nice guy who was wishing me a good day at work.  I suddenly felt very clearly and heavily in my heart that while he may be Prince Charming I am certainly not Cinderella.  I looked at my phone and sighed, "I'm not The One, guy," before I typed a short and cheerful response thanking him for the kind thoughts.

Cinderella is delicate and strong, persevering and gentle.  She is faith in good things and working solidly and steadily at the task that has been set before her, all while never giving up on the dream of something better.

I am a temper that is contained 96% of the time and fierce the other 4.
I am constant vigilance against the threat of bedbugs.
I am a laugh that is just a touch too loud.
I am bottles of kombucha abandoned with 1/4 of the drink left.
I am Christmas music year round.
I am lying on the floor when writing feels too hard.
I am SO EXCITED to go to Disneyland.  Always.
I am quiet moments at my grandma's grave, telling her about everything going on in my life, and listening for the little bell of her answer.
I am always going to laugh at a fart joke...and most raunchy humor.
I am a dirty mind (*ahem* sexy imagination) that hangs out behind an innocent face.
I am incensed when anyone implies - or states - that I need to dress in a more modest/conservative/ladylike/whatever way.  Incensed.
I am not quite afraid of the dark, but I sleep much better with just a little light in the room.
I am conversations with random strangers about what on earth it means that they dreamt about that weird thing.  And also they swear they saw their grandfather after he passed away.

I am not Cinderella.

And so when well-meaning people tell me to have faith, that my perfect Prince Charming, with his pristine background and white steed, will come soon, well...I cringe.  Because I don't have time for you, Prince Charming - for you or your perfect posture and bizarre insistence that you will marry a woman you danced one silent dance with.

No.  For as much as I love fairy tales, and believe in fairies (well, faeries), I'm not looking for a fairy tale romance.  I need someone who will suit up and show up.  Someone who will don his armor and step into the gladiator ring to fight alongside me.  Someone who will push me to try new things and who doesn't care that "delicate" is a word that has never been used to describe me.  Someone who will embrace and explore life with me, who will hold my hand when it's scary or hard, or simply just because.

Frank and Sadie from Beyond Belief (Thrilling Adventure Hour)...Relationship goals.

So, until I find him - until we find each other - I'll just keep putting one well-shod foot in front of the other.  And to all you Princes Charming or Fairy Godmothers, I will never turn down the gift of a great pair of shoes.

Never.





Any pictures that are not mine were found on Pinterest, and as such photo credit is not given.

Just A Story Written For LOG...

A few months ago I was asked to write a story for a LOG activity.  This is what I came up with.  Figured I would share it.

The Young Boy grumbled to himself as he stomped toward the well.  This was not a man's work, gathering water.  He hunched his shoulders against both his anger and the heat of the afternoon.  His mother had sent him to the well, too caught up in caring for the Boy's crying infant sister to gather the water herself.  She had yelled at him of the importance of water.  Would he rather them all die of thirst than swallow his pride and carry one jug?  And after all, he was still just a Boy, while she was his mother.  He must listen to her.

The Boy could not deny the importance of water for survival.  It was true that every creature, every living thing needed the water.  Living in the small, Samaritan town, the Boy was well aware of this need, even at such a young age.  The weather was harsh and unforgiving, and if a person was careless or lazy he would regret it greatly.  But at eight years old the Boy chose not to consider this.  He kicked a stone out of his path, cringing when he felt the pain in his toes.

As he approached the well he stopped abruptly – Photini was walking in the direction of the well, carrying a large jug.  Everyone in town knew of Photini.  The Boy's mother would be horrified if she thought he spoke even the shortest greeting to this woman.  He was stuck, unsure of what to do, when he noticed a Man sitting at the well.  The Man greeted Photini kindly, then asked if she would give Him water.  The Boy wondered briefly if this Man knew the kind of woman he spoke to, but then realized with shock that He was a Jew!  What on Earth was he doing speaking to a Samaritan woman, especially one like Photini?

The Boy inched closer to the well, curious to hear what the Man was saying.  “If you knew Who was asking you for water, you would ask Me for water, and I should give you living water.”  Living water? The Boy thought, amazed.  He had never yet heard of living water.  He stepped closer, eager to hear more.

Photini and the Man were speaking about her life – the Boy wondered if he should cover his ears – when she suddenly ran from the well, leaving her jug behind.  As she ran past, he heard Photini calling out about the Messiah.  The Boy looked back toward the Man, who seemed to be watching a group of men walk up the hill toward the well. 

“Come see me, my Boy,” He said.  The Boy jumped; he had thought he went unnoticed.  The Man turned toward him, and beckoned him to come.  The Boy nervously walked forward.  “What is living water?” he asked the Man.  The Man smiled gently, and reached out to touch the Boy's shoulder. 

“It is the water that I give.  Whoever drinks of this water will never be thirsty again.  The water that I give will become a fountain of everlasting water, springing up into eternal life.”  The Boy simply shook his head, not understanding what the Man meant, but knowing somehow that this was important, that this Man was no ordinary man.

“I'm sorry.  I don't understand.  How could anyone not need water again?”

The Man chuckled, and reached into a pack that was resting at His feet.  He pulled out a small, clay cup and a leather strap, and began wrapping the strap around the cup even as He spoke.  “Tell me, my Boy, why you feel water is so important?”

The Boy thought this was a silly question, but he answered anyway.  “It gives life.  No one can live without drinking water.  We would die without it.” 

“This is true,” the Man answered.  “You mother, your father, your baby sister – all of you need water to live.”  He looked up and smiled at the Boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Him.  “But would you like to know a secret?”  He leaned toward the Boy, who nodded and came closer to Him.  “Your soul,” the Man touched a finger to the Boy's chest.  “Your soul needs something else to live.  Your soul needs Me, and my Father Who is in Heaven.  And I will give your soul living water.  And it is through Me that you will find eternal life – life that far surpasses your life here on this earth.  Would you like to hear something else?”  The Boy nodded again.  He had felt power in the simple touch to his chest.  He felt as though his whole body was shining.  The Man looked at him as though He knew what the Boy was feeling.  “Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water,” He said.  “I give you My living water, and you pass that along to others, who can pass it to others, and so on.”  He handed the Boy the cup, which now had the leather wrapped around it in such a way that the Boy could wear the cup around his neck.  He did so now, feeling that the cup was somehow sacred.  He knew he would never lose it, even if only because it would make him think of this Man.

The Boy turned to face the group of men who had just reached the well.  They called out to the Man cheerfully – they obviously knew Him well – and the Man acknowledged them with a wave.  He turned to the Boy and placed His hand on the Boy's head.  “Go, my child, and let the rivers of My living water flow from you.  And remember, if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.  Anyone, my child.”  The Boy nodded and ran toward home.  He was almost to his house when he realized he had forgotten to gather the water.  He looked down at the pitcher he held in his hands and almost dropped it in amazement when he realized it was full.  He walked into his home, feeling lighter and stronger than he had ever felt in his life.  He took the small cup from around his neck and poured some water into it.  With that in hand, he went to his mother and said, “Mother.  Come sit, and drink, and listen as I tell you about the Living Water.” 

In Which I Look At A Song

I'm putting a plug for a facebook friend into this blog.  Forget the fact that we've only met in person once.  I am excited for him.  I am so glad he is following his dream, and since I, myself, am a bit of a dreamer I fully support him.  And will do what I can to help.  And so I am putting a plug for Antony Bitar in here....

I know a few songs about getting butterflies in your stomach but I can honestly say this is one of the best.  Yeah, I can go into how much I love his use of staccato with the piano, or the syncopated rhythm (I do so love variety in my music!).  I can sigh about the whimsy that enters the song with the strings.  I can mention the fact that the melody lends itself nicely to tight harmonies and is perfect for humming along.  I can tell you I think it's awesome that he stayed true to himself during the video process - I was pretty stoked to see that prayer rope on his wrist in the video.  And I can wax poetic about Antony's voice, itself, with its smooth and, strangely, comforting tone.

But I won't.  The reason I think this song is amazing is really because of two lines.  See, songs that talk about getting butterflies tend to be cute, and this son is no exception.  The difference here is that with all the imagery Antony puts into the song - you can easily put yourself in the singer's place - there are two lines that cut through and strike my heart.  It is because these two lines this song is - officially - the top played in my iTunes library...By a lot.  They are, "It's the feeling you get when your eyes first meet, a little glimpse of what it feels like to be complete..." and "...lead you to your destiny and really show you all of me..."

As someone who is very single I can attest to the drive of these concepts.  I know when I see someone who does, in fact, give me butterflies my imagination soars and I create a future.  It's amazing...Suddenly you feel strangely more alive.  Or at least more awake.  As if, suddenly, you are aware of so much more and can feel so much more.  And, let's be honest here, who doesn't long to show all of us to someone?  We want so badly to be able to have that intimacy with one person - one person who will see us and accept us and tell us that maybe, just maybe, we aren't so bad after all.  Mayhap we do deserve the butterflies they give us.  We want to connect - God didn't make us to be alone.  He made us to be with others. 

It's undeniable:  Butterflies are fun.

So, without further ado, please enjoy the song, itself!  Here is "Butterflies," by Antony Bitar:

A Teller of Tales

In a world without morals I would be a con artist.  I have come to this realization slowly - over a few months, really - and have very mixed feelings about it.  (Probably because I do live in a world with morals.)  It's so intriguing to me, and yet so very, inherently wrong.  I take some comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn't con people out of necessity, or addiction (as there are people addicted to the con out there).  It wouldn't be because of the rush I would get from selling the con.  It would be for the simple joy of telling the story.  It's an intense story, when you think about it, and demands plenty of detail and attention, yet for obvious reasons must be simple and vague.  Yes, the life of the con has always fascinated me.  Maybe that's why I love storytelling.

I took a storytelling class in college.  It was the easiest class I had, although my professor told me straight up that I was the best storyteller in his class - the storyteller with the most promise, the most knowledge of fairy tales - and because of this he would grade me on an entirely different scale than the rest of the class.  I gave a non-committal sort of nod, tried to wipe the confused, yet frustrated expression off my face, and found my revenge in doing spirited impressions of him for my classmates.  (Well, that and acting out the piano-playing scene from Big in the middle of class.  I was horrible, really.)  Two of  my roommates were also in the storytelling class that quarter, although they had the other section, and while they weren't too stoked on the assignments I was.  The textbook we had on using stories in the classroom and using tales as tools was strangely interesting to me.  And although I had little respect for the teacher - despite the fact that he handed me plenty of compliments with my sub par grading and asked me to tell a tandem story with him (yeah, I know I have some brown on my nose) - I did, and do, have great respect for storytelling. 

When I was telling a story it took my entire focus.  I wasn't up there putting on a show for my classmates.  I wasn't wearing a costume, although I did put a lot of thought into how my outfit might best portray some small aspect of my story.  It wasn't a game, although it was very fun.  I had rediscovered a story (one about the "hedgehurst" and another about Brer Rabbit) and needed to handle it in the best way possible so it might reach each listener and hit her in the same place it had hit me: my soul. 

Stories are interesting things.  They are like wild animals that are tamed but never broken.  There's danger in telling stories.  We've all learned that lesson, whether we witnessed, felt, or caused the hurt stories about other people can inflict.  When I approach a new story, whether it is a retelling or an original, it is with a cautious sort of delicacy: How will this story react when I take it in my hands?  When I mold it?  When I retell it?  Many stories demand a certain tenderness throughout.  One rough press and the entire piece crumbles.  Some require tight pressure and a heavy hand when it comes to molding.  Without restraint the story can become too formless or unmanageable, or both.  And once a story has become molded into the correct form it needs to be harnessed.  A runaway story can become a wildfire where it should be a simply a candle. 

I lose myself in stories all the time.  My cousin (in her life of a dreamer blog - go look at it) wrote about how she is constantly creating stories.  Every moment in her life, every passerby becomes caught up in the whirlwind of creation.  I loved this post especially because I do the same thing.  I lose myself in a moment.  It must be disconcerting for the people around me: I am sitting with a child, trying to help him build with blocks, when a character forces herself into my head.  She tries to show me part of her history, whether it is based on my work or totally random, and I am off, following her into Fairyland.  When I come back to the real world, usually only a second or two later, I am struck by an uncomfortable vibe I get from the kid's parent.  I was there in body but absolutely not in spirit.  The body was an animated but empty shell for that second, holding a block suspended for a child to reach and then with a sharp intake of breath and quick blink of the eyes was suddenly refilled.  I have been in the middle of saying something to a friend and will trail off because I am shooting off toward the stars, wondering how the world looks different when seen from above.  A soft, "Steph?" or redirection to the conversation usually brings me right back to Earth and with a shake of the head I get back into it. 

I come by my storytelling honestly.  (At least, I assume it's honest since it so obviously runs in the family.)  And like my cousin I so strongly dream of being a published author.  And while I was definitely inspired in this post by her blog, it also came from my readings on fairy tales and their tellers that I have recently jumped into (well, that and a couple of books about art fraud).  Fairy tales absolutely have their place in my life, and that's where my interest is right now.  So don't be too surprised if I write more about them in the near future.  After all, it's better fairy tales than cons, right?

Daydreams

Sometimes I wish I was somewhere else. 

Don't get me wrong - I love my home and I love my family and friends and the people around me.  I know if I really did leave it would be extremely difficult, like transplanting a tree whose roots are intertwined with countless others.  Possible, but terribly, terribly painful.  But sometimes I just want to leave and explore and maybe stumble upon an adventure.  What's so surprising to me is that in one day - in a span of about 3 hours - I can daydream about being in two entirely different places.

One thing I love about my job is the freedom to meet my clients (read: preschoolers I work with) at places other than a house or preschool classroom.  As it's October plenty of parents (and I) feel that going to the pumpkin patch would be a fun, seasonally appropriate thing to do.  Here in Santa Barbara the only true pumpkin patch is Lane Farms: a smallish family-run farm that has pumpkins, a hay ride, scarecrows, a corn maze, and farm animals. 

As I walked around Lane Farms with my 2-year-old client and his mom and aunt I lost myself in the whimsy of the farm.  Now I realize true farm life isn't sentimental.  I know it means being up before light and down after dark.  I know it's a physically demanding life, and that - more than other occupations - farming begs the mercy of the weather. 

Yet, even knowing this, the simple beauty of the farm drew my mind away from the chaos of balancing work and home and stress, and into a pleasant, if instantaneous, daydream.  For a split second I was miles away, walking in the sunshine and watching a tractor working.  I looked up at my client's mother and asked, "Can you imagine what it would be like to live like this?" I gestured to the still tractor.  She wrinkled her nose.

"I know, right?" she answered.  "It would be terrible." 

Not quite what I was thinking. 

I nodded and made a non-committal sound and turned back to her son with a small sigh.  Thoughts of farm life would have to wait until I was no longer working.

However, as soon as I left Lane Farms I was rushing to get ready for a concert with the girls.  At 6 o'clock I pulled into my friend's driveway and within 15 minutes we were on our way to the Santa Barbara Bowl.  We arrived at our seats in time to hear the opening act sing her last 3 songs.  This was a surprise, because the opener started exactly on time - unheard of in music.  I don't have much to say about her...I'm sure I would have enjoyed her songs, but her voice was breaking by the end of her 40 minute set.  She also announced to the crowd that this was her first official show.  I turned to my friend.  "If her voice is this tired after her first show on her first tour I don't think she will last very long."  It will be interesting to see what happens with her carreer.

But the opening act (whose name I just can't remember) is not what triggered my next daydream.  No...Jason Mraz did that. 

If we are focusing on quality of voice, well, Jason Mraz's voice was almost stronger at the end of his set than at the beginning.  And he had a way of singing and interacting with the crowd that almost made it seem like he was singing directly to Section G, Row J, Seat 14. 

Let's ignore his commanding stage presence and skilled dance moves, the emotion of his singing and lyrics that reach out and grab the heart-strings.  The moment that stands out most clearly in my mind is the moment I have come to expect at every concert I attend.  Every person in the audience was standing and singing the lyrics back to Jason Mraz.  He stopped singing and closed his eyes and listened to the sound of thousands of people serenading him with his own lyrics.  It was that moment when I had the wistful thought of, 'I wish I was on that stage right now...' 

Suddenly I was gone.  I wasn't standing in the audience.  I was in another city, standing on a stage, listening to the sound of thousands being touched by my words.  

Somehow, not even three hours after wishing to be wearing a sun-hat on a farm I was now dreaming to be living the life of a musician. 

But, in all honesty, when the concert ended and I yawned, exhausted from the work week and the excitement of the evening, I was simply happy to be one of the girls.  Stumbling from laughter and - for the moment - carefree, I was happy to be me: A child development specialist living a quiet, sometimes stressed, mostly happy life in Santa Barbara.

Psalm 139 :7, 9-10

A Bit of Whimsy Inspired by the Season....

"How very refreshing," the yellow Upright sighed to his friend across the field. 

"What is?" came the response.

"The rain, of course.  After standing in last week's heat this is wonderful." 

"Won't make things easier for tonight's game."

The first Upright thought for a minute.  "Perhaps not for the players, but the fans will be entertained."

"If they're not too miserable from being soaked through."

"Well, I will be entertained," replied the cheerful Upright, set on staying positive.

"I guess I will be, too," said the grumpy Upright after a moment's pause. 

The two stood in silence for some time, one determined to enjoy the rain, the other determined to resent it. 

"You know," said the first, "I bet there are a lot of fumbles tonight."  Caretakers were starting to appear on the field, taking care of game-day business. 

"Of course there will be," the second scoffed.  The lights came on in the stadium, highlighting the raindrops.  The wind picked up speed, whistling where it had been whispering.  Both Uprights shivered.  "Not so refreshing now, is it?"

The first Upright stood in stony silence, unwilling to be provoked. 

The grumpy Upright grew uncomfortable.  He watched fans filing into the stadium, loaded down by ponchos and raincoats, blankets and towels.  Unable to distract himself he finally spoke.  "Hey, want to bet that there's at least one missed field goal tonight?"

After a few more moments of silence he got his response. 

"You're on."

Glass-Blown Fairytales

While in Nashville visiting Amanda and Elijah and their twin daughters Aida and Sophie, Manda, the girls and I met our Granddaddy at Cheekwood (the botanic gardens of Nashville) and saw the amazing glass art of Chihuly.

Now let me be honest here: I was much more excited at the prospect of being with Amanda and her daughters for the day than looking at plants and glass. Don't get me wrong - I expected the exhibit to be interesting and cool, but I wasn't planning on falling in love.

I was suitably impressed when we arrived at Cheekwood and the girls cried, "We are at Cheekwood!  We are at Cheekwood!"  My nieces are so clever to be able to recognize the road leading to Cheekwood.  Manda pointed out the first Chihuly display as we drove into the parking lot.  "It's macaroni and cheese!" Sophie yelled from the backseat.  She had a point: it looked like an enormous pile of mac and cheese - giant yellow, orange, and white tubes twisted and intertwined, climbing higher and higher. 

Sophie has a point, doesn't she?  

When we walked up to the "macaroni and cheese" and I stood there in awe.  The sculpture was humming - apparently they light up at night, so this was an electric display - and I imagined it was singing itself a little song of contentment.  I hurried to keep up with Amanda, Sophie, Aida, and Granddaddy and we wandered across a dewy lawn to a pond full of glass "Walla Wallas." 

The Walla Wallas in the pond.

I expected them to float into the air at any given moment.  Or maybe if I looked away, but turned back quickly enough I could catch them flying around.  I tried, slyly.  It didn't work. 

My main moment of amazement, however, was on the other side of the pond.  It was a piece called Sunset Boat and this is where I fell in love.  Red, yellow, orange and white glass filled a boat to the point of overflowing.  Points shot out while spirals slithered within the boat.  Globes rested quietly in the middle of chaos and I swear I saw a fairy dancing on the water.  I was smitten.  Even after walking away and looking at other pieces I saw the Sunset Boat in my mind.  I had to go back and look at it.  I felt the subtle sting of tears as I borrowed Amanda's camera and took a few pictures.  I needed, somehow, to keep this boat with me. 

I was in love.

Sunset Boat

Eventually, however, we needed to move on.  (I mean, really, we had two 3-year-olds with us...They needed to keep moving.)  In the house at Cheekwood were some more glass displays: chandeliers. 

I was struck still again by a huge white, champagne, and gold chandelier that immediately brought to mind Christmas.  Glass ribbons and spirals hung midair and I could almost hear sleigh-bells ringing (despite the warmth and bright sunshine outside).  Chihuly's blend of elegance and whimsy was magical.  I was transported to a different time and place.  I'm sure it was only the presence of Amanda, the girls, and Granddaddy that kept me from completely losing myself and becoming "that weird girl" that stood at each display much longer than was necessary. 

A close-up of the "Christmas" chandelier

The stairwell with the "Christmas" chandelier

Another chandelier.  Amanda loved this one.

I know fairytales aren't real...But as I have mentioned before I am inclined to want to believe in them.  And at the Chihuly exhibit at Cheekwood I found something that allowed me to do so: Glass-blown fairytales. 

All of the pictures are from newspaper articles or other blogs.  The use of cameras was prohibited inside the house at Cheekwood and I don't actually have a camera.  So special thanks to those people from whose blogs I snagged the pictures. 

Genesis 1:14-19