Girls of our house

So I live in this house. And its amazing ... the house that is. And if you have talked to me recently, you have probably heard me talk all about it, like its my baby. Like I own it.

No, I am just renting, and its not mine, I am renting it with 8 other girls, though only 6 of us live in it at a time.

I've been so caught up in everything house, that I have lacked to notice anything else. Since spring, I just dreamed and plotted towards the planting of my roots in this house. And it is a physical, material place and thing. And then we got it, but in my head, I got it. It was like I won some super loto jackpot. I did win, I won the opportunity to live somewhere, with some amazing women.

I, somehow in my ventures and descriptions and time consuming projects, honestly failed to share about the women I live with and how honored I am to call them house mates. I have been so pre-occupied with painting and decorating and cleaning mostly, that I let the relationships only one door away slip.

Life will go on if the kitchen is not wiped down. Holly reminded me tonight that I will be doing this, the house cleaning keeping thing, for the rest of my life. This is the time that I need to enjoy not being married, and that its ok to have a messy house sometimes. (Though I struggle to accept that is ok to have a whole messy house... I get the concept:) She is right. She told me that people would rather be with me than to have things put away.

I forget that. I want so terribly to make it nice, for it to be good. I want to be good. I want to be good enough, and maybe if I clean and keep house good enough, I will be good enough. But, I know that I am good enough already, hence the fact I have such amazing friends. And, this really isn't about me. This is about this house of Women, that that we get to share life together. It really is a privilege.

Summer Rain.

Oregon Summer rain is my most favorite smell in the world. Well, right next to pure almond extract. I just crawled into bed, and I heard the light plops, I rushed downstairs and onto the porch and breathed as deep as my lungs would allow, and then a little deeper.
Holly says its an oxy moron, to like Oregon summer rain, or to think its special or something. But whatever, it is what it is and I love it. Besides, its not the rain that I love (well, I do love it, but thats not what this post is about) Its about the fact that it is summer, and it is raining while its warm. And it just has this smell. Its thick, and heavy, and grass like, and wet. Wet, a terrible description I know, but it is. Its like when my nose breathes in, my nose hairs get wet in a thick damp way. Perhaps this is not of the most lovely of descriptions, but it just is. Its different than regular rain.
When I was really little, Daddy would wake me up sometimes on those summer rainy nights, so I could go outside and smell it. And I would run into the street and dance around in it. And smell. So I went outside, and I spread my arms wide, and breathed in that thick, cloudy, oregon, wet, rainy air.

Oh to Brunch

On Saturday mornings, at 11, we have brunch. Its potluck style, you bring food to share, the hope is that we all have enough to eat. I think one week I should make crepes. Everyone is invited to brunch, if you live in Portland, or want to come to Portland, you can come.

Today we had quiche, from the left overs of our week. We might make this a tradition ... just like brunch ... and Sunday morning bread. We also had roasted potatoes, fresh fruit, and pancakes. We sat on our front porch and laughed and talked about how wonderful this is.

How its like the old days when women would sit on their porch and spy on their neighbors ... not that WE spy on our neighbors. But, FYI - the people directly across from us are CREEPY! Seriously, they wake up just to rub their disel engines at 2 in the morning, and I swear the women stands in the curtains and just stares at us when we eat at our table. We talked about how we really want to be friends with the young couple next door, their daughter scarlet is so cute! The family to our right with the teenagers are super nice, they smile and say hi each time they get home, I think we should have dinner with them. And how we really want to reach out to the family across and to the left, they have five girls and a grumpy grandpa, and they need Jesus, at least for now we can offer them chalk to play with. And the house of all men that moved in the same day as us? Its not a house of men, its a young couple, the men just moved them in. Go figure. But, like I said, its not like we spy on our neighbors.

Anyways, brunch. Sarah C. and I were sitting on the porch, the side without all the flowers. We were talking about how cool it is that were doing what we said we were going to do. There is such satisfaction in follow through, especially for me. Early back in the spring I started pretending we had the house, and I pretend invited people over for Saturday morning brunches ... but the thing is that we actually do it! We are doing brunch. We are sitting on our porch. We are playing games and reading books instead of always watching tv seasons. We are buying fresh fruit, and eating little meat, and cooking healthy food, and surviving quite well without internet. We are hosting the way our mothers thought us and decorating the ways we want.

But for right now, I think Saturday morning brunches are one of my favorite things.

We went for a walk

We took a walk today, me, myself, and I. We walked past my dream house, and an orange house, and a house with a breakfast nook. While we walked spring was above my head, and beneath my feet. We discussed amongst ourselves the neighborhoods, and the diversity that lies from one street to the next. How there is a sense of security when strolling in an over grown ally behind large gabled houses, but a sense of defense when walking down a broad street, on the sidewalk in front of an "apartment" complex where the name is scratched out.

We talked about how there is a class distinction here in America, here in Portland, though we assume it to be a foreign thing from our historical missions teachings. We fought between ourselves of whether we felt we were in a certain class, of whether we considered ourselves to be "higher" than another. One of us said no, absolutly not, there is no distinction, not here, not in America. Another one of us said yes, I think there is ... there is a feeling of entitlement. Me ... Ya, I feel it. I find myself feeling like I am exempt, like I am entitled to more. But I am so far removed from the reality of truth.

I, myself and I, we are applying now for DHS help, so I can live and eat. This is the very program I am attending school to better understand and change so that people are not dependant upon it. Am I exempt or entitled? I think not. One of me says, yes I am ... but the other part of me catches this attitude and wants to rid the other half of it. I don't want to feel entitled, I am not better. The Lord, he does not see class. There is no difference in his mind between the dream house, or the orange house, or the named etched out apartment complex.

We returned from our walk, and we picked a little bit of spring from the park where the homeless sleep. Its the same spring that grows on my safe bubbled campus. We put it in a clean vase, me, myself and I. We put that little bit of spring in a vase.