Word came via the post today that I was not selected for the position I interviewed for in Michigan. I am at peace about it. I feel like God will lead me where and when He wants me and until then I’m right where I should be.

Thank you all for your good wishes and prayers.

I realize there’s some big blogging conference (BlogHer) going on somewhere right about now but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I attended my tenth high school reunion. I don’t care to do it again.

To that end, I applaud those who blog simply to blog. Those who write because it makes a difference in themselves, not because they think 40 readers will find it funny or because they hope to quit their day job to blog professionally. I read some of the “big time” blogs, but the minute they ask me to fill out a survey for their advertisers I realize their heart isn’t in the same place that mine is. I write simply to write. I don’t care if I have 2 readers or 22. I don’t always comment on what I read and I don’t expect everyone to comment on what they read here. It just is. And that is just perfect for me.

And that is why, every day, my favorite blog is Oliver. Void of pretention or intention it simply is joy.

A week before my 35th birthday, I walked into the wine and spirits shop last night for an indulgent bottle of wine (the highlight of my weekend, I expect). In one short sentence, the clerk raised my spirits and provided me with the highlight of not only my Thursday, but perhaps my whole week when he said, “Can I see your I.D.?”

According to George:

The sign at the pool meant to indicate “No Running” was confidently translated by George to mean: “No Picking Your Butt at the Pool”.

Lying in the hammock together under the shade of an oak tree in the backyard, with a fresh cut lawn under our feet and a cold drink in our hands, I whispered to George, “Isn’t this heaven?” George shook his head no, “This isn’t heaven” he said. I said, “But it’s like heaven cause I feel so happy being right here together with you.” George reiterated, “This is NOT heaven.” I said, “What do you think Heaven is like?” He said, “It’s not a happy place.” I said, “No?!” He added, “it’s underground.” Realizing he was perhaps confusing Heaven with another eternal destination I suggested, “Do you think you’re thinking of the other place? The place where the Devil lives? What’s that place called?” George proudly proclaimed, “China!”

Bear was explaining to George that he had to attend a funeral on Monday so he wouldn’t be home right after work, he’d be home after George was asleep. George asked how come he had to go to a funeral. Bear explained that someone had died. George wanted to know who died. Bear said it was someone he knew when he was growing up. George wanted to know if he was older than Bear. Bear said no, he was younger. George wanted to know if he was bigger than Bear. Bear said, no, he was probably a little shorter. George wanted know how much shorter he was than Bear; “Did he come up to HERE on you?” Bear said no, but he probably came up to HERE on him. George asked why he died. Bear said, “cancer.” George exclaimed, “Everyone dies from cancer!” and then quickly qualified with, “well, not everyone. Not Army people. They die because they get shot, not because they have cancer.”

I commented to George that he must have decided to change his name again because his shirt said “Tommy” on the pocket. He said, “No!! My name is George!” I said, but it even says “Tommy” on the tag, so it must be your name if it says it in two places! George didn’t believe me that his tag said “Tommy” so we turned his shirt around so he could see the tag and see that it did, in fact, say “Tommy” (Hilfigger). And that’s how George got his Mafia name: Tommy Backwards.

Okay, okay, okay!!!! So, about that whole ‘I hate the library’ thing….

The “unknown” book that I picked up, I can’t put it down. I’m about ¾ of the way through and I know I’ll finish before the day is done (I can’t help it!!)

By the way, it’s called “Wrapped in Rain” by Charles Martin.

Disclaimer: I have had many a friend recommend a book that I hated. To this day if I tell my sis about a great movie, she knows never to rent it as she probably won’t like it. To say I’m in love with a book in no way indicates that it would be widely embraced by normal book-loving people.

Awhile ago, I posted on my desire to relocate. Mum’s been the word ever since as I have put my resume out there and tried to ready myself for all a move back to the Midwest would mean. I’m still not at a talking point as of yet. You can refer to this post if you need to. But I feel as if I’m sitting on the balancing point right now. It’s either going to work, or it isn’t. And if it isn’t, while that isn’t a life sentence, I think it would indicate a postponement of some duration. I feel very strongly that God has led me towards this end. If this door should close I would have to give pause to the message. I should know more in a week’s time. In the meantime, have an incredible weekend! Get out of doors for some portion of it (even if it’s hot, even if it’s rainy). Hug the people that you love. And if you’re the praying sort, perhaps mention my name once or twice.

Last night I did something I haven’t done in nearly 15 years. I went to the library. Sorry, I should have made sure you were sitting down before I shared that shocking news, I know. I have read all the books I have, I have sold all the books I have and I’m in withdrawal so you could say my hand was forced. (When I told my sister I went to the library, I am certain I heard her gasp.)

I rarely set foot in a bookstore knowing what book I wish to purchase. I’m a browser. I like to look at the books; I like to read a sentence or two. I like to read recommendations by the bookstore staff. I wasn’t sure I would have a similar experience at the library so I visited Amazon.com and looked at their most recent recommendations for me (and fought my inner demons to not put each and every one into my cart and ship them overnight to my door. Sigh. ) I headed off to the library with a list of about five books, not knowing what I might find.

Upon entry, I headed straight to the check-out desk to obtain my library card. A painless process, it turns out, I had a card in hand within five minutes and was set free into the vast array of books. I quickly found the fiction section and prepared myself for the rush of adrenaline that comes when my eyes feast upon shelves and shelves of new, pristine books.

But these weren’t. They were used, dusty, dirty books. And there wasn’t really that many shelves of them. And they weren’t turned to face me so that a cover or title might catch my eye and beg me to read. And there weren’t any lists of suggestions, “If you love James Patterson, try…” I held my pessimism in check and with list in hand went searching for the titles I had written down. None of them were there. I found a shelf of “New Books!” and looked sideways at all the titles hoping something would jump out at me, but it didn’t. I was frustrated with the Damn Dewey Decimal system for covering up parts of the titles or authors of the books on the binding. I finally picked up a book by one of the authors on my list, although not the book I had hoped to start with. And in an effort to feel successful, I picked up another book, completely unknown to me, so that I might at least feel as if I had found CHOICES among the shelves.

I checked out.

I went home.

I felt defeated.

There is something to be said about marketing and product placement. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of a Barnes and Noble that draws me in far more than the death-like stillness at the Public Library. There is something, even, in the scent between the pages of a brand new book.

I’m reading the two books I picked up. I am. I am trying to overcome my need for “new” and to try to simply enjoy a good read no matter what the pages look like.

But it’s not easy. And I don’t like it.

I miss my books.

Critics be damned I went. I knew it was my kind of movie, I knew it would touch the parts of me that believe in love, the parts that were once described as “hopelessly romantic”, the very same parts I try to ignore. How could it not? Even the title was my sort of title, “Lake House” was my sort of place and the idea that love could transpire through letters, well, it’s my sort of love story. It’s not for everyone, I know this from the empty theater I watched it in, but I prefer it that way. It doesn’t have to ring true to everyone; it just rings true to me.

I remember a time when I wrote letters. I remember the promises within. I remember the words he wrote back, words on a page I can see so clearly even now. I waited. For the time to be right, for the pieces to be in place, for everything to come together, I waited. But he didn’t.

Tonight I miss those words on the page. I miss the absolute certainty with which I trusted those letters, those words, that love. It is not him perhaps, that I miss anymore, but the woman I was when I was with him. The woman of whom he spoke in those letters. The woman I could only dream of being. I was a woman in love. Once.

Tonight, I am diminished to a woman in tears. Over all the things that might have been. Over all the things I have closed myself off to. It would scare me now to read such words. I am a cynic to anyone that might try to urge my faith in such promises again. It is my own undoing. Perhaps once upon a time it was to allow my heart to heal. Now it is just a way to keep it from having to feel at all. I know, deep down, that I believe, still, even yet, but I also know the depths within that I would have to climb to unlock that door, the depths that someone would have to go to even find the key. It is, perhaps, asking too much. Love is difficult enough in the years together, it shouldn’t be nearly so hard to get to in the first place.

I shall go, it upsets the pup when I cry.

The similarities are not lost on me. A history of tragedy ill-defined for most. Mementos from the past safeguarded against viewing, emotions tucked away, left perhaps undealt with. Never truly attached, although his heart has belonged to many – he gives it away for a wink, hopeful and trusting and takes the pieces back in with a familiar routine, chastising himself for foolish infatuation yet always hopeful that one day will be the right day. Never ruling out the option of star-crossed lives, of destiny and true love he defines the optimistic romantic.

Smart, self-educated by a hands-on approach to life he reads, listens, talks, discusses, travels, dares and dreams. Although he’ll quickly beg off the word “fluent” he speaks a handful of languages better than most and can turn words into picturesque visions on the page.

His self-deprecating humor comes honestly enough. He’s aware of his talents and his shortcomings and accepts both with the same tip of the glass and moves on. He is always invited and rarely declines. His friends find him to be honest, funny and generous. He is a friend to many, allowing anyone and everyone to be their most human in his company, but he has allowed few in to the depths of his quixotic heart. His career and his social life are full of people, gatherings and parties and yet he has perhaps never felt more alone. Finding people to share a drink with is easy, finding someone to wake up with for the next 50 years has proved more of a challenge.

His eyes watch the horizon looking for a reason from any direction to move, for his life to finally be uprooted for all the right and provocative reasons. He is divided on whether to go it alone or stay the course. I have no right, of course, to offer up advice or direction, but to this man, to a body so full of talent, compassion and romance, I dare say that in the place where his heart leaps, where the setting is one of choice reached through determination and will, at the very spot where he might breathe the air of truth and freedom, he might just be found. And the elusive, mysterious love that has escaped him thus far, it might then be able to find him, too.

Forgive me, Ghoti, my perceptions.

Today is exactly the sort of day (and this week has been exactly the sort of week) where I would like to leave work and call my sister and say, “I’ll order pizza if you want to bring the kids over tonight”. And they would come over and the dog would get all wound up and the kids would run through the yard and come into the house with their dirty little summer feet and we would eat pizza in the kitchen, around the kitchen, with everyone talking at once. The kids would play until dark while my sister and I would sit on the deck and talk about nothing and yet everything. And later, in the glow of a Disney movie, the littles would fall asleep and I would say to Jules, “Just leave them here. I’ll bring them home tomorrow.” And she would give me a hug and drive home and I would carry the kids one by one, stepping over the dog, upstairs to snuggle up on the floor of LM’s room to sleep for the night. I would fall asleep in my own big bed with the exhaustion of a summer day well spent and the complete contentment of being surrounded by those that you love.