cottagecore

A Breath of Life

Mabel2 Comments

Hello Strangers, 

Sometimes, a person finds themself in a place they don’t want to be. There could be any number of reasons why they ended up there, but it is a deeply uncomfortable thing. And it will shape them. Maybe it was a job, a sin, a hiding spot, maybe any one or all of those things of those things and an opportunity. But whatever the reason, they wake up in the morning and look at the edges of their world, and they feel trapped. 

That’s happened to me many mornings in the place I am now, and usually, I’m able to look past it. I’ll find beauty in the sunlight and trees, or the stream behind my house, or even the insects that buzz around my feet when I walk through the wildflowers on my way to the compost heap. I bake, or write, or paint, or pray, or in a moment of exhaustion and defeat, collapse in a heap to watch a beloved tv show. But last week new details emerged about an animal cruelty case that we’d been following, (my family knows the animal) and I couldn’t just ‘get past it’ like I usually do. This had to do with people we know. And it’s just one case, there are thousands like it in this area. I wanted so desperately to run away but a stone sank in the pit of my stomach when I realized just how far I’d have to run to truly get away from this. 

Sunday came around, and we didn’t go to church. And I felt guilty, but on this particular occasion I was relieved; my heart wasn’t right. My father suggested going to the mountains where there’s national forest and parklands. There’s this travel stop on the way that has the best sandwiches; ham and bologna clubs with fresh veggies, pickles and mayo…Ice cold. I’d been craving those sandwiches for a month. It was the perfect distraction. I only wish we could have stayed longer, because it was a gift from God. 

The roads began to wind, and the country was different from what we usually see. Brighter and cleaner. One of the park sites had a long stone stairway which led to shelves on a beach. The water was teal and rushes of white water burst forward in swells. And it was cool out, but it smelled like spring. I felt like I was able to breathe.

Earlier that week, I’d stumbled across Psalm 19, the first half of which is dedicated to describing how nature itself praises God. I’d wanted to write a post on the benefits of being in nature that week and I was inspired by a speech my little sister wrote. But every time I tried to write it, I got blocked. Nothing came out right and I was frustrated. Then that horrible thing happened, and I just felt angry and defeated. That defeat that so often comes with this place. But all along, God had the perfect moment lined up to show me His hand in the situation, and to provide relief and joy. And in that moment, on that day, there was absolutely no denying that that had been His plan. I’ve felt distant from Him, and like He was distant from me. But here was a gift I didn’t deserve, given to me when I was steeped in darkness, and which lifted so much weight and sorrow off of my shoulders. That’s who God is, and that’s how nature refreshes the soul. Because He made it. 

I came home and the world was still dark. The problems were still there. And I still feel like I’m looking at the borders of my whole world. But I’ve got a light I often forget about, and as for the edges of the world? That’s just a feeling, and it will pass as all feelings do. Thank God for the reminder that I have things to do. That we have things to do. This life is not hopeless; you get a breath of fresh air and get moving. 

1 The heavens tell of the glory of God;
And their expanse declares the work of His hands.
2 Day to day pours forth speech,
And night to night reveals knowledge.
3 There is no speech, nor are there words;
Their voice is not heard.
4 Their line has gone out into all the earth,
And their words to the end of the world.
In them He has placed a tent for the sun,
5 Which is like a groom coming out of his chamber;
It rejoices like a strong person to run his course.
6 Its rising is from one end of the heavens,
And its circuit to the other end of them;
And there is nothing hidden from its heat. – Psalm 19:1-6

This is what the Sovereign LORD says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the LORD. – Ezekiel 37:5-6

And thank You, Lord, for all You’ve done.

All love,

–Mabel

cottagecore · Uncategorized

Easter: No Longer Separated

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Hello Strangers, 

As I was doing the daily devotional for Good Friday, the closing statement said that Jesus’ death on the cross meant that we could never be separated from God’s love, and asked readers to reflect on that before finishing and going on with their day.

In my mind, I couldn’t visualize what that meant. He has always been with me from the time I was a child and came to know him, but what specifically does that look like? All I could see in the present was a blurry haze, so I thought back instead to what that has meant for me in the past. 

There was a time when I was struggling not just with sin, but with crippling guilt and shame over something I’d done. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone about it, so it stayed inside of me, festering, for years. I had panic attacks, developed really strange, awful tics, had nightmares, and grappled with my faith in a way I didn’t know was possible. I thought God had left me. Though this ordeal lasted over three years, it was about the first six months that I cried myself to sleep every night. I begged God not to leave me. I begged for forgiveness. I begged that any harm I’d done to others could be undone or healed from. I remember sobbing, “Stay.” 

Well at the end of that six months, I felt myself changed. I was exhausted. Drained. I was unhappy and sick. But I was also a fundamentally different person than I had been before, and that was the beginning of a blessing. 

As more time passed, I gained some distance from myself, and some clarity on what had actually been happening. I felt some calm and peace, though the storm was far from over. Every night that I’d hysterically cried out to Jesus, whether in anguish or terror, He’d been there. When I think back now, I imagine him sitting patiently in an armchair, listening to everything I said. As though I were gripping his arm as I asked him if He was there at all. It was a comfort. When the devotional said that nothing could separate us from God’s love, it was referring to Romans 8:38-39 which says, 38 “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,[a] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”  What I realized because of that time was that no matter what a person has done, if they’ve allowed Jesus to save them from their sins and trusted in Him as their savior, He saves them. And then He stays. And He continues to love them. He’s not leaving, and that’s final, and it’s fact. 

When Jesus died on the cross, a veil in the Holy temple was torn. (Matthew 27:51) Now it’s called a veil, but it was four inches thick, very long and very wide, and it symbolized our separation from God because of sin. When Jesus died, it tore in half from top to bottom with no human interference; God took away the separation. The significance of that is this: Anyone who calls upon the name of the Lord will be saved. No matter what you’ve done, no matter any failings, or pain, guilt, or shame, God is available to everyone. Many people think that Christians believe they’re better than everyone else and that their group is an exclusive club. Some Christians do feel that way, unfortunately, but God has made himself available to everyone. All they must do is ask Jesus to forgive them of their sins, and then turn from them. If they call on Him, He’ll heal them. 

After Jesus died, he rose again. Without that detail, none of the others matter. In that moment He defeated sin and death, and made life available to every person. If you’re interested in learning more about Jesus but don’t know where to start, I’d recommend any of the Gospels. My personal favorite is John. 

This world seems every day like it’s getting darker and darker. This Easter, I invite you to take up an eternal hope and light. Jesus loves you. Find Him. 

Photo by Italo Melo on Pexels.com

All love,

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 10

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Mornin’ Strangers!

I’ll be brief because this week’s dream will most likely never happen. (But maybe! Maybe.) 

I came up with this idea for a shop that in the spring and summer was a regular ice cream parlor. It would have herbs and flowers in window boxes outside, soft pastel colors, and fun brightly colored art in unique frames. The ice cream would be made in house but would be in the classic flavors. I’d have cold sandwiches and baked goods like blondies and brownies. 

But in the fall and winter?

In the vats that had held the ice cream, there would now be soup. Some vats would contain only broth; tonkatsu, fish, and chicken broth for ramen noodles, the special broth made for pho, etc., and some would contain whole soups like chicken and dumpling, chicken pot pie, beef stews like caldillo etc. The lighting and decor would change, the interiors would become more neutral, some small plants would come inside, and I would continue to serve sandwiches, hot and cold, and I would serve tea. 

Honestly, I might find a way to do that with a food truck someday, instead of a full-scale restaurant. Food trucks have plenty of their own challenges, but that might be really lovely. Ramen noodles and rice noodles and their broths, then some broccoli cheese soup, some stew…. Coffee, tea, and some bread. It could be absolutely lovely. In the summer I could switch to icees, frozen treats, and lemonade. It’s dawning on me that I’m beginning to talk myself into this. 

Photo by Steshka Willems on Pexels.com

It’s like I always say, the more dreams you have…The more dreams you have. It keeps life bright. 

I hope you have a bright day,

–Mabel

Art & Writing · cottagecore

Dear Strangers: A Letter on the Power of Writing

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Hello Strangers. 

Years ago, I lived with my family in the desert. My uncle, who lived in Arkansas, passed away. He was young. He was my favorite. I hardly knew him, a common theme with my extended family. I don’t think anyone realized how much I loved him, and no one really understood my reaction when he died. Around the time of his funeral, I was sitting on the bough of a tree, the sun shining, a breeze blowing, and I was talking to him. Saying goodbye, I think. Trying to make it final, so maybe I’d stop saying it over and over again like I had been. I told him I loved him and maybe that I’d miss him—I don’t remember—and all of a sudden I heard a voice in my head that sounded kind of like him, but forced. Just a bit wrong. In the moment I truly thought it was him saying goodbye. I don’t know about the voice, or what I saw next, but I looked up and he was standing in the sunlight, white shirt, his cowboy hat and boots. He smiled. And I smiled. And then he was gone. 

Well that was Oklahoma and Arkansas, but we went home after the funeral, and every night I would sit on the stone wall outside our house and watch the lights of the city begin to blink on while the sky changed from blood orange to a lilac mixed with smoke. I’d pray. Have make-believe conversations with my uncle.  And he’d sit there silently on the wall. 

All those years ago and no one ever knew. I guess I never communicated that. And no one ever asked what I was doing.

It’s years in the future, and I’m asking a friend their opinion on my taste in men. (One in particular, fictional, embarrassingly.) She said that I live life as a “good girl” and subconsciously I wanted someone dangerous as a way to explore my dark side. And I was struck by…just how wrong that was. (Now it’s not her job to psychoanalyze me, she’s my friend not a therapist, but still. I was very surprised.) I ended up watching ‘Delivery Man’ with Vince Vaughn a little bit later and it clicked. I was looking for and found something very specific in all of these people, and once I figured it out it made perfect sense. But apparently, I had failed to communicate what I wanted in a way anyone understood, ever. And I began to realize that people had different perceptions of me than what I thought I was putting into the world.

I can think of a million instances where I’ve been misinterpreted and misunderstood. People didn’t understand what I wanted or what I was trying to say. Why I cared about something or someone. That I was angry, or that I was in love. People don’t always understand. This is one of the first things children learn in life, and one of the first things we relearn as adults. Which brings me to writing.

Writing allows me to build my own world where I can say what I mean to say. I’ve struggled with the difference between Mabel and this space, versus the way that I am in real life. But the truth is that this is so much closer to who I want to be. And this is where I am able to say what I want to say. 

Right here, right now, you and I are sitting at the kitchen table. It’s dark, and smoke’s coming from the chimney and creatures that don’t exist come to visit me. Sometimes my cottage is more real, and there’s a garden in the back, and I think about tips I can give so we can both garden better. Sometimes I’m a ninety-year-old woman at the edge of the world, and you’re a battle-scarred mercenary, but you know my house, and I know your silhouette in the darkness. I don’t really know who you are, I can’t see you. But can you see us? 

This is how writing frees us, giving us the ability to say what we mean. And by the way, thank you for reading about my uncle and the stone wall. I’ve wanted to tell someone for a very long time. That’s all for now.

However you see me, Strangers,

–Mabel

Oh, P.S., I realized that my slogan is “a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen,” and I’ve really failed to give you all any recipes. If you were here, I’d make food, so I’ve got a soup recipe coming, and after that some springtime desserts. Much love.

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 9, My Death

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Hello Strangers,

For many years now, I have dreamed of my death.

Now, I know that sounds dark, but listen. My sister and I used to have a game we’d play. We’d talk about how we wanted our bodies to be processed when we die. She, I believe, wanted to be floated in a pool filled with Grape Fanta. I think I wanted to be coated in honey? I’m not entirely sure, but I do remember how I wanted to be buried; In a glass casket, inside a mausoleum with a skylight. I’m not sure death scared me at that point, but being buried terrified me. 

Anyhow, it was a hilarious little game we played to amuse ourselves. We laughed because everything we suggested was utterly preposterous. 

“Do you know what would happen if we submerged a body in Fanta?”

“How would we even get a whole swimming pool of Fanta?” 

“Can you imagine how expensive that would be?”

“Let’s do it.”

But somewhere along the line, I began thinking of my actual death. Would I like to die doing something noble? Is it really best to die in one’s sleep? What would be the most pleasant? 

I thought about dying as an old woman surrounded by people at a family picnic, but decided that those usually happen during the summer in the middle of the day and it would be too hot and uncomfortable. Not only that, but there are lots of children at those kinds of things, and I didn’t want to scare my tiny grandchildren and great nieces and nephews; that would just be mean. But still! I wanted to die outside. That much I was sure of. I wanted to die surrounded by people. That much I was sure of. I couldn’t die in the speckled light of the beautiful forest, because again, I could only imagine being alone there, and I didn’t want to be alone. And then who would find me? No, it simply wouldn’t do. 

And that’s when I thought of it. My perfect death…

Picture this:

I am an old woman, and it’s midmorning in June. I am out garage sailing with my daughter and nieces—or great nieces—one or the other. We’ve had a lovely, productive morning. We’ve bought lemonade and donuts from a child’s stand. My companions have each bargained for something they wanted; a sweater, a china set, a book, and we’ve come to a nice house with a large oak tree in the yard. I remark that it must be a hundred years old, and I’ve also been looking for a recliner. Lo and behold, this house has one for sale. As everyone peruses, I shuffle over to rock in the chair. Those sun speckles hit my face through the shade of the oak tree. A cool breeze passes over me. I die. 

I have effectively ruined the garage sale for everyone else. No one wants the haunted chair, (it’s not haunted, I’m in heaven, but I left that thought for them.) My family is forced to buy the chair, which they scowl at because they knew this was my design. An ambulance is called, there’s all this commotion…But not for me. I got to die surrounded by people I love, doing something I love, having one final bask in the sun. And you know what, it’s not even a bad memory in anyone’s mind. In the end, that death was a very beautiful thing. 

I died laughing. Think about that.

–Mabel

cottagecore

The Incomplete Guide to a Perfect Picnic

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Hello Strangers,

As mentioned in my last blog post, the first week of spring has come and gone. Across the country and various parts of the world, the earth is in a state of thaw. For many it will soon be blooming, and where I live, it already is. By mid-April or mid-May, it will be good enough weather for picnics. 

When I was a teenager, we moved to a place with large communal green spaces. My little sister and I would trek to the grocery store, buy heavily discounted pies and cakes, get our favorite bottle of soda (or chocolate milk depending on the day), maybe some chips, and we’d head over to the commons. These are cherished memories, and they also taught me a couple of things I’d like to do differently in the future. 

Photo by Mariam Antadze on Pexels.com

The Basket. 

In every period drama or indie film, picnics involve that classic wicker basket. I support this. With a basket, you’re able to carry cups, plates, and cutlery, as well as dishes that are harder to travel with like salads, sandwiches, fruit salads, or cakes. And of course, the picnic blanket! My sister and I used a backpack and because of the shape and the way it’s carried, things often fell over, bottles leaked, and it was heavy and hard to carry. You can find wicker baskets at thrift stores and garage sales but be wary of mold…They can be bought new at retailers like Walmart, Target, Hobby Lobby, and Michaels, or online stores. I’d recommend a fairly large basket. 

The Blanket.

The bigger the better. Discounted sheet sets can be good options, or any large blanket will do. Perhaps consider gathering some rocks to set at the edges so it doesn’t blow up in the air when the wind comes. 

Peppermint. 

While the first two seem fairly obvious, peppermint essential oil mixed with an odorless alcohol, water, or a carrier oil, can be sprayed around the edges of your blanket and on your ankles to repel spiders and most insects. It’s a natural alternative to harmful chemicals that works well. 

The Menu

This is probably the most fun aspect of picnics for me. I absolutely loved taking store bought food and stuffing my face with cake…But there is so much fun to be had with the food. Things that don’t need to be heated up and things that aren’t soggy or make a big mess are good options. These might include tea sandwiches, antipasto, salads, fruit salads, cakes that have berries and fresh fruits included that need less or no icing, cookies, trail mix, etc. The reason I say this is fun is because, sure, you can make delicious peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese sandwiches. But this is a great time to experiment with bread, cheese, pesto, vegetable combinations, seasonings and sauces. In art, a lot of instructors will tell students to draw what they see; not what they think they see. Sometimes we hear salad and think “dry lettuce”. That is not the only way to make a salad. Get Creative! Experiment! You’ll Have So Much Fun!

Containers

The other thing about picnics is, you might be a mother of three kids under age eight, or you might be a single teen going solo or with a small group of friends. Do whatever makes sense for you. I’d bring plates, mason jars I’d filled up at home with tea or lemonade, forks and knives, napkins, and Tupperware. For me, it’s best to keep things simple, and I want them to be pretty, too.

What Else to Bring?

For a quieter day, bring journals, pens, watercolors or other art supplies, magazines or a book. If you’re with friends or children, take games, frisbees, kites, and other activity-based supplies along. Also consider your first aid kit, Benadryl for allergy emergencies, clothes to warm up with, a sunhat, sunglasses, et cetera. 

. . .

Some of my favorite memories involve wandering off in the woods to take pictures, paint, or gather inspiration for my stories. Some of my favorite memories with my sister involve picnics. This year I hope to have more meals outdoors and more time to play. I hope this spring you’ll find moments that make you happy in the same way. 

With love,

–Mabel

Art & Writing

The Medium of Story…

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Hello Strangers, 

It is officially spring! Has been for a week. Flowers are blooming with the leaves on the trees, bugs are back, jumping and buzzing above the wildflowers and grasses, and the sun has gotten some of its color back. It’s looking to be a beautiful season. 

There are so many stories in nature. One area of the forest holds standing water, mosquitoes, and the moss which will continue to live despite  the summer heat, another has a babbling brook and Black Eyed Susans that the deer come to drink at, still another holds a meadow, which somehow always manages to catch the sunlight, gold in the middle, and green at the edges from the filter of the leaves. 

That’s an apt metaphor for story as well. I read somewhere that a lot of people today have stories inside them, but assume they have to turn them into novels. That simply isn’t true, there are a thousand ways to tell a story. They don’t even have to be written. 

My favorite living artist is named Robin Sealark. She has an excellent YouTube channel under that name, and she was the person who taught me to experiment with everything in my art. To sketch, paint, and tell story with abandon. Art-a-thons and studies, realistic and stylized…She explained that in the first year of an art degree, students work in the studio for hours a day, months on end, trying everything. Acrylic, oil, gouache, watercolor, graphite, charcoal, chalk, crayons, sculpting, digital mediums…And then after they’ve tried everything, they specialize.  

So, in a generation that has access to everything, do we limit ourselves? 

I’ve started a journal, and everytime I have a story idea, I write it down. I think about it, and then I also add what medium I think it’s best suited to. Some of my stories are very visual, so I pick comics, graphic novels, or animations, (animations are obviously out of reach for a lot of creators, but I still like to list it as an option!) and some stories enter my mind and I imagine telling them around a campfire or as a bedtime story. These might be better suited to podcasts, songs, or a simply written script I can memorize and tell as a bedtime story, or at a campfire. Not everything has to belong to everyone. 

You can write novels, short stories, poems, tv scripts, you can make mixed media stories like comics and graphic novels, you can make sculptures and paintings that encompass a story, dance, song, podcast, blog, youtube channel. You can cook stories! You can weave a story! Literally. 

What I’m asking is that you don’t limit yourself before you’ve tried everything. Even the people who write medical textbooks and grants are telling stories. Marketing is storytelling. Landscape paintings are stories. Embrace all of the mediums. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to create. 

Happy Spring! 

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 8

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Hello Strangers. 

I usually try to publish my Small Dream posts earlier in the day, but on this occasion, I’m happy I didn’t. These posts are always meant to be a happy little distraction, or something I’ve been rolling around in my mind that I don’t want to lose, but I don’t always feel them very deeply in the moment. That’s not the case tonight.

This evening I watched a happy little video about an old dog who was doing his after-bath zoomies. His back was stiff and his jumps were short, but there was so much joy in his little face. I couldn’t help but cry. I was immediately struck with grief, knowing that this beautiful animal didn’t have much longer to live, and I thought of my first good boy. Lewis was a wheaten-terrier mix with golden hair and coppery colored ears. He had the wisest brown eyes. He was my faithful friend for fifteen years.

(Not Lewis, but a painting inspired by what I was feeling tonight.)

My dream this week is like a wish. I hope that in heaven, all of the pets are there. In fact, I really hope that every animal, insect, and spider is there. I believe that in the end, the Lord will restore all things tainted or destroyed by evil. And I hope that that means every special animal, with their smiles, barks, jumps, flapping wings, and scurrying feet will be there. Any that were abused, alongside those treated well. Those beloved elephants, horses, and even alligators will be there. (I wanted to paint an alligator this evening. They’re terrifying, but so cute.) I don’t know if they will be. But they might be. They really, really might be. And that excites me. For now, let’s use the time we’ve been given to treat every living thing with love and dignity. Go snuggle with your pets, I am.

Thanks for stopping by,

–Mabel

Art & Writing · Writing

What I Thought Writing a Book Would be Like

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Hello Strangers,

Welcome! How have you been? Personally, I’m glad to be back here; this blog feels like the inside of the cottage I have in my head. This post will discuss some of the preconceived notions I had about writing a novel, and what ended up being true instead. (There’s a note about my future plans for the ‘Art and Writing’ section of my blog at the end.)

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

Writing would be a linear process.

I thought that if I had 30,000 words written, that would mean I’d be about a third of the way through my narrative. In other words, writing a book would be like reading a book and all the pieces would fall neatly into place.

What actually happened:

With 30,000 words written, I have a rough beginning, middle, and end. As I continue, I’m building in more character development and foreshadowing, and after I work through those, I plan to add more depth to the plot and detail to the world building. After I finished that first draft, I wrote quite a few things out of order as I realized I needed them.

I’d only have one outline.

I assumed that I’d use one outline that detailed the entire story, and maybe I’d add to that if I needed to.

What actually happened:

I have a main outline which enabled me to write my first draft. However, when I read through the story I realized that it needed a lot of new scenes to build up my character interactions. These were hard to write though, so now when I come to particularly difficult scenes, I outline them and it helps me avoid getting writer’s block. 

I’d only need two or three drafts.

I read in a murder mystery recently about a minor character who’d been working on her novel for ten years. The main character thinks to herself that the manuscript is probably unreadable and should be scrapped as it can’t possibly be salvaged. For better or for worse, that stuck with me as I began my first novel. I’ve been scared of overcomplicating things and taking too long to write it, so I thought I’d give myself a limit of three drafts and two years to finish this story.

What actually happened:

My first draft included the skeleton of the plot, it has all of the characters and their relationships, as well as the setting. It’s the bare bones of everything. In my second draft, I’m focusing on the characters. In the third draft, I plan to add the findings from my research and strengthen the plot. Now I know that I’ll most likely need a fourth draft for restructuring and fixing continuity errors, and a fifth one for true editing and finishing touches. Those numbers are the minimum. This is my first big project and even if it fails, it will teach me so much about myself and my process, so I don’t need to limit myself with this. I need to breathe and figure out how I do things.

I thought that real writers always push past writer’s block.

…

What actually happened:

I’ve discovered that for me, it is beneficial when I get stuck to step back from my work. Sometimes I give myself a few minutes, a few hours, a few days to work on a problem. I might write a scene outline, I might talk through that scene with my sister. I might delete what I’ve written and start again. And sometimes, I truly disconnect and do laundry, cook, or handle business. In the end, I sit down and write the worst version. After it’s written, I feel better about it, and I can move on. That’s my editor’s problem in a few months. (I’m my editor.)

I expected people to care more…

Some writers find or build support systems, or writing groups, or other things of that nature. 

What actually happened:

I don’t know how to do that yet, I haven’t yet, and while my family and friends are very supportive and loving about my stories, most people don’t want to hear the broken-sentence-synopsis of a book that doesn’t exist yet. The author is the only person that has all the miniscule details in their mind, so asking others their opinion of them won’t usually help you. Even if you want to include others, they’ll likely be busy with their own lives and it’s easy to feel isolated. Spend time with those you love, do your work and practice your hobbies, but remember that it’s okay; you’re writing because you have a story to tell, or want to explore your personhood, or you just want to say you’re a writer. It’s alright that a good bit of it happens alone. Keep going.

Those are the notions that have been challenged so far, I hope they can be helpful to you in your writing! What I wanted to say about the future of this section is this: I love art, it was my favorite creative outlet before writing, and the two are probably equally important to me now. Within the next year, I plan to release far more posts about art (painting, drawing, sketching, the creative process, etc.) that I have been able to thus far. For now, there will be more posts about writing. I’m excited about what the future holds!

Until next time,

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 7

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Hello Strangers. 

This week’s dream is to be able to pay for dinner. 

There is something so human about cooking a meal. The feeling of the knife we use to chop vegetables, the searing meat, the way spices stain our hands and the aromas that bloom in the hot kitchen. An hour into the process, another person appears and sits at the kitchen counter. Maybe they help, maybe you talk. And then together, we sit, both tired, and we eat. To cook as an act of love, meditation, and habit, and then to eat with someone you love is an experience that enriches the inner lives of human beings. And I’ll write more about that, but this week’s dream is to be able to pay for dinner instead. 

Last week we were sitting in church and the pastor preached on 1st Peter 3:8. Now, there was a specific message in both that verse and in the pastor’s heart that day, but for some reason, as he spoke it made me ask myself the question, 

“What do I want to give?”

In my mind I saw someone crying, and another person putting their arm around them and leading them inside a shop. In case I haven’t mentioned it, I romanticize noodle shops like nothing else. So, on this dismal looking, imaginary day amidst rain and dark skies, there was a golden bright spot. As I watched the narrative continue, two bowls of soup were set in front of them, and the crying girl was still crying. Her body folded inward on itself, eyes wide and wet, her elbows pressed into her thighs under the table, her hair tangled by the rain. I realize now that she looked a lot like me. I was also the one who’d taken her to the shop, and from outside I could only see my back, but it was my trench coat. Both girls were me.

But I knew which one would pay for dinner.

Photo by Kris Mu00f8klebust on Pexels.com

I thought of what it’s like to be a child going out to lunch with their family. Growing up, my dad has always paid. There came a time when I realized that money was being spent and attempted to be conscientious of my part in that, but I never questioned who would pay. It was my dad. Because I knew who was taking responsibility for the bill, I could eat without worry, not having to think about how much it would cost me, if I could afford food for the whole group or just myself, or anything else. It was safe, I was safe, and I could relax. 

Every single person I have ever met has had a pain that they carried. Food is just one of the ways we ease that. Sometimes making the food is the order of the day, but sometimes it’s best to simply pay for dinner and let someone else feel safe. Lord willing, there will come a time when I get to do that, and the time will come that I’ll need someone to do that for me as well. After all, I was both of the girls in the shop. 

Here’s to the noodle shops,

–Mabel