speaking in sunsets

Jared was in the kitchen, drilling holes into the cabinets. Four scrub-downs with everything from Magic Erasers to bleach-based cleaners, & those stupid cabinets were still sticky - No, greasy to the touch. It grossed me out. I had picked out handles that I'd seen on some Ikea hack blog post, but Jared, the CFO in this marriage, guided me over to the knobs. A wall of nickel-plated aluminum. We had agreed that the pack-of-two-for-$.99-knobs were beautiful, in their own way. & then we put 16 in our cart.

I wandered out to the balcony to finish packing up my painting supplies. After two days of first & second coats on new shelves, I had somehow managed not to get paint anywhere on cement floor of the balcony. A miracle, really. Not that it mattered, since previous residents had made their permanent mark in several places. Apartment No. 18's Walk of Fame. Maybe I should spill a drop. No, no. If I'm going to leave my mark, then it should probably be glitter, not white primer.

The hum of the air conditioning unit of the grocery store behind our building was noisy, as it always was -- something I had attributed to my sound sleeping habits these days. White noise is a mysterious thing. But over the hum, I could still hear the regular street musician crooning her Maroon 5 cover on the sidewalk, & a guy begging his dog to sit. There was a butt in the window across from our little outdoor oasis. Several butts, actually. A pod of Lululemon yoga pants, doing precisely what they were made to do, on the second floor of the brick-walled yoga studio. I watched for a second, wondering how freaked out they would be if I joined in from my perch across the way. Or would they make me an honorary member? Wishful thinking from the girl who bought the $.99 knobs.

A shift in the clouds brought my eyes up, & I finally noticed the sky. THE SKY. Pink & gold streaks, shooting out from the building across the street. My mouth fell open to a long "Wooooow..." & I immediately pulled my phone out. I can't resist a good sunset. I maneuvered around the balcony as best I could, twisting my body around the brick corner, trying to crop out the fire escape to my right, the next door neighbor's poor, dead plants to my left. I silently dubbed this position The Sunset Catcher, hoping that none of the yogis could see me. 

The rooftop. Jared had discovered that we had rooftop access one night on a trip to the dumpster with broken down cardboard boxes. "It looks a little bit like the morning after a frat party up there," he said, frankly, "But it's a rooftop, & we have access to it." In our making-a-house-a-home flurry over the past three weeks, I had forgotten about his discovery until that moment. I flung the door open. "We have to go to the roof!"

Jared doesn't blink when I say things like this. We have always prioritized sunsets in our relationship. During a brief split while we were dating, we had agreed to wait to talk to each other until we were sitting down, face to face, after we'd had time to think. Somehow, in our craziness, we began sending wordless picture text messages of the sunset each night to each other. When you're able to speak to each other in sunsets, you should know that you're made for each other. We figured that out eventually. In a second, his shoes were on, & he was leading the way to the stairwell.

He was right -- It was like the morning after a frat party. There was a table on its side, & a couple of miniature grills that looked like they had seen more cigarette butts than food in their lifetime, but somehow, it seemed abandoned. Smoking no longer allowed? Who knows. There was a wall around the top of the roof, & we both moved to the table, tipping it right side up, standing on its four very shaky legs made shakier under our weight.

& we stood. We watched the busy street & sidewalks, with busy people heading in every direction. The taxis honking. The intersection lights switching from red to green to yellow & back again. The buildings tinted orange in the disappearing sunlight. "I like this place." Jared murmured. I smiled, a sign of my agreement. We may have been on nearly week three of cleaning & moving things around in hopes that maybe this time, the closet door will close. We may have put several things back by the time we reached the checkout at Ikea, namely some pillow case covers that I had clutched until the very end, in an effort to pinch extra pennies. I may have already had pangs of missing loved ones, & the comfort of streets we knew so well. Those overwhelming moments were being consumed on that rooftop by a calm. A peace. "It feels like home." I finally replied. 

Home. Home was holding Jared's hand, with a pink breeze touching our cheeks.
But this was certainly turning out to be a nice place to do just that.

the tire swing

My older sister stomped off in the opposite direction of the tire swing. I huffed & pushed my feet off the ground to get the swing moving again. The big branch that held it swayed a little less than it had when we both sat on it 2 minutes before our silly little argument. What was that argument about... How high the swing could go? Spinning vs. swinging? I really don't remember. The babysitter stood somewhere between the stomping feet & the swaying branch, looking back & forth between us before she moved closer to the swing.

"It's silly to fight with each other like that." She pushed the tire swing to give me the momentum that my 8-year-old legs were struggling to produce on their own.
"We always fight." I stated, matter-of-factly.
"Do you fight with your friends like that?"
"No. But they're my friends, not my sister. She isn't my friend." The sun was getting lower & lower, so I knew my outside playtime was coming to an end. I did not want to waste it discussing my older sister.
"I used to think that about my big sister. But now she's my best friend. You're going to grow up, & she's going to be one of the only friends that you keep forever."
"No, I don't think so. We don't really like the same stuff." I smiled because I knew better. I had at least six friends that I was going to keep forever. And two American Girl dolls, but that was besides the point.
"I think you'll be surprised. Just wait & see."

Later that night, I brushed my teeth & stood on my tiptoes. Standing on my tiptoes helped me imagine what grown-up Kelsey would look like. Obviously, I couldn't be shorter than everyone else forever, & the bathroom sink would be eventually be at my waist rather than my chest. What would my face look like? Would my hair be brown like my mom's by then? My sister & I had already forgotten about our earlier argument. It was time for us to help put our younger sister to bed & get ready for bed ourselves. I tried to imagine us both as grown ups. At one point, we had designed next door houses that were joined by a water slide...

We ended up with a new baby sister a few months later, & that made four. Four different girls, four strong personalities, four unique styles. There were many more arguments. Bigger arguments, more opinions, longer grudges. We are all so different & our opinions still differ SO greatly... & there's always a chance that someone is stomping off in the other direction. But they have lasted much longer than those six friends in 4th grade (& I can't even imagine what state the American Girl dolls are in) or even the tire swing. This conversation from nearly 17 years ago has stood out in my memory, though - It's a memory that has very vividly stayed with me & over the years, I've kept coming back to the babysitter's prediction, waiting for it to happen. & slowly, as we've all grown up, & the bathroom sink now sits at our waists, it has.

We're still growing up, but the babysitter was right. I have three of the wackiest friends that kind of look like me & that I would never pick out of a crowd. & they're here forever.

... So, that waterslide is definitely still an option.

on eating like an adult

One of the things that can get Jared laughing the hardest is Baby Kelsey Storytime. These are the tales of Kelsey Bethune (formerly Kelsey Essmann) between the ages of 3-8, when I was a spazzy tomboy who had my parents wondering what-da-world-had-they-created as I rehearsed my spot-on impression of Lina Lamont, orchestrated bedtime pranks & decided that doing flips off our backyard swingset was something I could turn into a profession.

This very same (awesome) child was a picky little child. Don't judge too hard - I was a healthy eater, but just particular about what "healthy" items it was that I was eating. Everything from peanut butter to chicken noodle soup to pasta with tomato sauce was traumatic for me. Many an evening were spent sitting at the kitchen table long after the rest of the family had cleared out, staring at carrots, or meatloaf, or some other torturous food. My parents were somehow just & patient about it, all at the same time. My dad would tell me that eventually I'd grow up & like these foods - Squash, salmon, water chesnuts. With an exhaustive eye roll, I'd go back to the stare down I was having with my chicken pot pie, because Dad be cray, obvi.

This past week, I was making a really simple dinner before Jared went to class - Garden salad & TJ's goat cheese ravioli. Basic tasks: boil water, don't cut yourself while chopping veggies. (I've been put on a very short list of allowed kitchen tasks after the immersion blender episode.) As I CAREFULLY sliced my green pepper & tomatoes, I reflected on the wonder it was that I, Kelsey, was making a salad. On purpose. By choice. To EAT. I almost called my mother so she could rejoice that her work here is done.

To be clear, this isn't the first time I've made myself a salad for a meal. But it's been a process. As a child, lettuce was EW, GROSS. Salad was honestly a bad word to me. My senior year of high school, the cafeteria food went way downhill, & my lunch every day was a lettuce-less salad, comprised of ranch dressing, croutons, onions, tomato, sunflower seeds & cheddar cheese. Then I worked at Panera for four years, & after the paninis started to get old, I started eating the salads. The high calorie, loaded with cheese & dressing salads. Over the more recent years, my relationship with salad has been mostly  reduced to caesar salad, heavy on the caesar, with lettuce acting as an excuse to eat parmesan & croutons. Not really the veggie-filled, well-rounded bowl of nutrition that a salad is supposed to be - The fact that (within the last year) a garden salad with a vinegar/oil dressing has become my preference is huge.

In a lot of ways, Dad was cray. I still don't like pot pie *GASP* & I remain thoroughly convinced that carrots are developed by orcs in the fires of Mordor. I've recently tried salmon that Jared made for dinner & I'm just not a fan. (Although, am a huge fan of the chef...)

But he was mostly right, that father of mine. & with every year that passes, my children have a higher chance of receiving a well-balanced diet. Food is something that I'm only just beginning to love, & I think a lot of the reasoning for that is years spent as a dancer & soccer player, in which food was treated as a necessary evil that gives you just enough energy to get through rehearsal/practice. OR WORSE - you just didn't eat till after practice at 11:30 p.m., & then it was Taco Bell crunchwraps for daaaaays. It's like good food & I have known each other for years & are just now starting to realize that we may potentially like each other.

Jared loves food. Jared loves good food, & he knows more about healthy & good eating than anyone else I know. He's teaching me to drink beet-based juices, how to make kale chips, what foods to buy organic 100% of the time, how good fermenting can be, the powers kombucha & which fruits & veggies to eat when I feel a cold coming on. & in return, he gets ridiculous stories about Baby Kelsey for days upon days. I'm not kidding, people... Match. Made. In. Heaven.

My parents had their work cut out for them with my... sensitive palate? as a kid. But they have handed off the torch to a good, informed, hot teacher, who is successfully showing me how to eat like an adult. & there's lots of good news: I no longer consider Twizzlers to be an adequate meal. Our children have a 200% chance of inheriting their father's appreciation for every vegetable on earth. We both agree that water chesnuts have no place on our dinner table, & that the occasional crunchwrap is just fine.

So vegetables! Hurray! No vegetarian/vegan inclinations over here, though... Mostly because I love cheese to the point of having some feta buried with me. Glad that's in writing now. My work here is done.

reality in a cup

For the greater part of 2012, I was on what I'm calling a "blog sabbatical." Turns out, reading about the sparkly, blue skies version of some other person's life was making me feel insecure about the life I had happening in front of me. You know, the one that actually matters & has a pulse & stuff. Even more worrisome, it was really starting to affect how I wrote, & what parts of our life I was willing to share with the tiny piece of the world that has encountered this corner of the web. But slowly, (very slowly), I am falling back in love with the blogging world and the lovely people that it contains. It probably has a lot to do with feeling like I've gained some perspective over the last year, & definitely has a lot to do with having a better sense of direction for the coming year. I've been filled with a sense of purpose, & it's pretty sparkly, actually.

So, with all the niceties being said, I'm sharing a post with you that I wrote & never published the week of my 24th birthday. (That's in October, for those of you who are keeping track.) It's a little dark, I guess, but it's only right to share the dark & twisty. There's even some blue sky at the end. Consider yourself warned.

-----

It's one of those mornings. The type of morning that only a double shot cappuccino seems to pacify. The rainy, gray sky probably doesn't help my moody, dreary subconscious. But really? The sun would just bother me today. No, I'm feeling pensive & there's not place for sunshine in my state of brooding. Existentialism is in the air & I am inhaling.

I'm turning 24 this week. I only realized that I was turning TWENTY-FOUR about a month ago, & I've been trying to come to terms with it ever since. I know that it's at about this point that every soul over the age of 25 who reads this will begin to roll their eyes & maybe even stop reading. & that's fine because I've had my eye rolling moments with myself, too. 24 is just a number. 24 is not that old.

Unfortunately, it's easier to type that than it is to believe it. 24 sounds big, like the age that you DO THINGS. In the story of their lives, people with bios have a line like, "By 24, he had..." or "When she turned 24, she decided..." Or at least they do in my mind. Like it's this defining age that is filled with purpose & reinventing. Closing doors & opening windows... or just opening whatever you can squeeze yourself through, really. Writing a book, signing a deal, buying a home. Maybe having a baby & beginning that role in life.

Ugh. The guitarist in the cafe I'm sitting in just began to play "Yesterday." This is irony on four different levels.

I am desperately seeking what 24 will mean for me. For us. (& just to clear the air - Babies, while eagerly anticipated, are not on the agenda.) Can I just have a giant checklist show up at my door on Thursday morning? What do I need to pursuit to move forward? Where do we need to go to fulfill that need for new adventures? What opportunities are worth exploring & which ones are worth ignoring? I have these dreams. BIG FAT DREAMS that feel like they're a life-aftering decision away. But what's maybe worse is the thought that maybe I'm just not motivated enough to reach them - The dreams AND the life-altering decisions. I've placed myself in a tiny box, with no windows, taupe walls & probably some ugly, multicolored carpet.

God & I are regularly chit-chatting about my trust issues. Me, trusting wholly & completely. & I try. & I fail. & I pout & eventually reach the conclusion that God is obviously using my continuous state of unrest for something bigger. Something... next. Then I get scared that I'm just justifying my selfish discontent while also giving myself an excuse to be lazy. That I'm actually just living a bitter existence, waiting for a Someday that will never come, because Someday was actually today, & I missed it because I was still dreaming about tomorrow.

So. In an effort to look on the upside before I start designing the flag for this State of Brooding - Here is the reality about today. Reality is that I woke up this morning next to a man who loves me so hard & so well that it actually makes me cry when I try to fathom it. Reality is that I go in to work tomorrow & catch up with one of my best friends, because she is also my boss. Reality is that our ridiculous apartment may have creaky floors & the creepiest laundry basement ever, but it sure does have a great view of the sunset. Reality is rain & a double shot cappuccino on a day when it is good to be 23.

Obviously, I'm far from reaching any conclusions. In the mean time, I'll be reaching for truths. Constant truths to draw close to my soul & find rest in. Like love & the Word & this steamy mug of frothy goodness sitting in front of me.

Today, it is my reality in a cup.

on morning light

I'm not a morning person. there are three sisters, two parents, 4 college roommates, & a husband that will back me up on it. don't talk to me until my contacts are on my eyeballs & my teeth have been brushed, & please keep your comments short & pertinent until I've eaten something.

but man! do our new streams of morning light make it hard to be grumpy! every room has some corner being flooded with white morning rays of sun that feel like they should be accompanied by squirrels waving & birds winking at me from the window. & if there were squirrels & birds, I'd probably wave back without thinking twice. because there's just something a little spectacular about 6:45 a.m., if you can get past the nagging sensation that being in bed > being awake.

my childhood best friend's mom used to wake us up every sleepover morning (in which we'd been asleep for maybe three hours) with, "Good morning, glory, what's your story?" sometimes I still hear that in my head when I'm stumbling around the kitchen looking for a spoon. there usually is a story, whether it's about last night's event at work or yet another crazy dream. (I have lots.) I've pocketed that saying for when I'm waking my kids up. I just think it will be sweet to let them share their sleepy adventures before the adventure disappears from memory forever.

I have high hopes for becoming a morning person someday. whenever someone mentions their morning quiet time with scripture, tea & the sunrise, I get misty-eyed because that sounds oh-so-pleasant & I WANT THAT!!! then I wonder for a brief second if that person is a robot or maybe they're just lying... then I go back to believing them & dreaming of early Somedays spent alone with just me (& maybe a baby) & the quiet morning. 

for now, I'll just take the morning light.

once upon a myspace

 so. last week, I rediscovered my myspace.

I think I rediscover it approximately once a year,

& truly, never have any clue how I end up on there.

(there is a funny counter that I had going of how many days jared & I had been dating...

today is  Day 2,090 in case you were wondering.)

but this time, I ended up reading through old uhhh... notes? entries?
I don't even know what myspace called them, but I wrote them.

when no one else wrote them or read them... I was writing.

online journaling has been an addiction for me since 2003. there, I said it.

at some point, I decided to share some of my writing from junior year with myspace.

you know... junior year of high school...

when I was reading sarah dessen fiction & emulating jewel's "a night without armor."

very dramatic days, these were.

anyways, some of it waaaasssss... kinda good.

& I'd completely forgotten I'd written it,

but haven't even broached the idea of opening the notebook in which the original was penned.

so here. I'm baring my 16 year old soul.

be nice. we can totally make fun of it later.

-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -

Conversation of Souls

she closed her eyes for a minute.
she took a breath
that let him know she was near.
and she sat down next to him.
and as she sat, she said,

"happiness is overrated."

he looked back at her and smiled.
this wasn't unusual.
she had always been bad at silent wars.
he sat back in his chair.
and as he sat, he said,

"you're just saying that
because happiness has never felt so good."

"no, no.
that's not it at all."
she tried to convince someone.
him? maybe.
herself? yeah.

he stood up and stretched.
and as he stretched, he said,
"stop denying yourself
the chance to feel loved."

"stop telling me what to do."
she said, suddenly.
defensively.

"why can't you 
just let yourself have this one thing?"
he questioned.
"why can't you just let yourself
be happy with me?"

she stood up and instinctively grabbed his hand.
and as she felt her hand go numb,
she whispered,
"we both know i'm trying."

he grabbed her other hand.
they stood like that for a minute.
he pulled her closer.
she backed away.
he tried to kiss her.
she had more to say.

"i swear to god i want this
more than you do.
i swear this is all i want.
to be happy.
& for you to be happy too.
but what's there that hasn't always been?
and why can't i feel this the way that you can?
i swear to god i'm trying.
we both know i am."

with a stiff breath, she let him hold her.
and for a minute she felt his heart.
and she knew it was beating a little faster,
than hers.

"stop trying.
and start living."
he said.

she backed away
and she let his hands find her hips.
and for once, she let him hang on.

-september 16th, 2005

*blink*

SO DRAMATIC.

but still kinda fun to read. don't lie.

okay, that's all for tonight.

xo, kel *dun dun dunnnn* sey

something deep

the most beautiful prose in the whole wide world.

if you ask me.

-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living

I want to know what you ache for

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dreams

for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow

if you have been opened by life's betrayals

or have become shrivelled and closed

from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain

mine or your own

without moving to hide it

or fade it

or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy

mine or your own

if you can dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your

fingers and toes

without cautioning us to

be careful

be realistic

to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me

is true.

I want to know if you can

disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand on the edge of the lake

and shout to the silver of the full moon,

"Yes."

It doesn't interest me

to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up

after a night of grief and despair

weary and bruised to the bone

and do what needs to be done

to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know

or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

in the center of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom

you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments.

The Invitation

Oriah Mountain Dreamer