Like sand and snow

February makes me all mushy and sentimental. I apologize in advance about that. It's not just Valentine's Day but also our anniversary this month so I have ample occasions for my sentimentality. It's kind of a chicken-egg situation: am I mushy because this is our marriage month? Or did we choose February because of its romantic pull? (Actually, it's a funny story why we chose February, one I'll have to tell sometime when I'm not in parentheses.)

In light of above mentioned mushiness, I'm not just limiting my sentimental posts to one or two days this month. Oh, no. You will not escape that easily. Because, in the name of love, all you need is love, love lifts us up where we belong. Right? 

One of the things I especially appreciate about my relationship with G is our differences. I know it's no huge revelation that--thunder clap--men and women are different. You've got your Mars/Venus comparisons, your unique love languages, your husbands-as-pets philosophies. 

But, by far, my favorite analogy about the transformative power of these differences is within this short film about snow and sand by Kirsten Lepore (recently found via Swiss Miss):

I love you, G. Thanks for sharing you and making me better.

(And sorry for the dead mice I sometimes give in return.)

This 1-minute clip about making the film is awesome, too.

Finding a different way

I loved this clip (found via The Art of Non-Conformity) of a middle school football team taking an unconventional approach to touchdown making.

Sometimes challenges have other solutions than the ones that are typical or expected. Sometimes I'm going to do the unexpected and break the mold a little. Sometimes I'm going to walk rather than run. Or just eat breakfast for dinner.

And that's okay.

You can, too.

. . .

I'm minutes away from welcoming my Thanksgiving out-of-towners here! I'm so looking forward to seeing my mom, dad, Chris, and Nancy. (And I'm feeling blue about missing you, Matt and Frank). Let the festivities begin.  I'm kicking it off with this awesome pumpkin-cranberry-chocolate bread.

moments.

Isn't this lovely?  

Moments from Everynone on Vimeo.

I think yes.

I'm back, I'm cranking up the computer. Prepare for the deluge of posts (once I get over the techo-reluctance I acquired on vacation, that is).

Being carded

Confession: I love Christmas cards. Love creating them (here's a parade of past years),  writing them, love finding them in mailbox, reading them and, yes, love mocking them at times when they get out of hand in the braggery or too-much-information department.

I loved this Apron Stage post yesterday about Christmas cards (and the comments)--so funny and true.

I love this article in Smithsonian magazine feature, exhibiting artists' Christmas cards over the years. Lots of great ideas and creativity there.:

The ideal holiday card for me: a little funny, a little original, something that captures the family's spirit and gives a little news.  Pictures, please, preferably of the whole family.  (Come to think of it, it's what I like in a blog as well.)

What are your holiday card guidelines/pet peeves/preferences?

p.s How do you display your holiday cards?

Here there be wild things

When I think of the movie Where The Wild Things Are, I will think of Sam wiping his eyes, flat palmed with both hands, as he cried at the end.

{please don't go...I'll eat you up, I love you so...}

I noticed it from the corner of my eye and tried to give him the courtesy of not noticing. But tears sprang to my eyes (these things being contagious) and I thought Well, of course. Sam is Max, pretty much. Or was. His imagination. His emotions. His wild and tender ways. His affinity for me and home (where someone loved him best of all...). His sometimes loneliness as his older sisters (although reluctantly) abandon him to play in the world of childhood & make believe alone.

Sam is well acquainted with the wild things and where they are. Spike Jonze has said that he intended to create a movie that captured the book's spirit and what it is like to be a nine-year-old boy. Sam got that. He's not nine anymore but he recognized the geography of that age and connected with it.

Not everyone in the theater did. There was a three-year-old behind us who, after the first monster scene, said I don't want to see this movie anymore (it really isn't for younger kids...Pixar it's not). A few people grumbled under their breaths as we shuffled out of the theater that it wasn't what they expected, wasn't a kids' movie, was quiet and strange*.

Well, yes. I can see that. But it made me want to ask, "have you really read the book?" and "do you really remember what it's like to be a child?" There are scary emotions and swift boats to tantrums. There are rumpuses (rumpi?) and imperfect families and journeys back to forgiveness. There's moodiness and confusion and questions and thin, thin boundaries between delight and disappointment. Everything looms large and monsterish...life so wholly determined by other people's agendas. That's The Point.

It's not like anything you've seen. It is weird. Please though, if you go, just get in the boat, let go, and let the wild rumpus start. It's a great (and trippy) ride.

*then again, there were adult WTWTA fans dressed in footie pajamas and zigzag crowns at the theater, too. They seemed happy with it.