Just Breathe.

I found myself sitting between the two grand wings of a rather majestic pipe organ.

It was just a few days ago, and I had returned to the Cathedral of Christ the King in Atlanta to do a little rehearsing. You see, one of my very best and oldest friends - one of my Chica Mias, as I like to call them, or my flying buttresses - is getting MARRIED on Saturday. Isn't it divine?

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! It is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

-Shakespeare's Sonnet 116

(Okay. Yes. I just wrote out Shakespeare. But the man has a point, no?)

Anyway, when we were about 10 years old, singing together in that very loft as part of the Cathedral Children's Choir, I made a promise to Jess that I would sing Schubert's Ave Maria at her wedding. And now the "nuptial hour draws on apace!"

Thus I found myself up there. Between rows of giant bronze-colored pipes that were humming and singing and echoing and bellowing. And breathing. It was like sitting right between the two massive lungs of a quite powerful and venerable god of music.

And I didn't even think it- but more felt it (as these things usually happen). Just the power of music; the rich sound, like audible molasses, that pours out of those pipes, that has the ability to lift you up and carry you away and mold your mind into reverence or reflection or celebration.

And as I took deep breaths to fill my own lungs-which rather pale in comparison- to send forth notes in a centuries-old arrangement, I thought about how, on Saturday, those notes will soar over the rows and rows of people (thank you, brilliant architects, for your truly magical gift at acoustics - Lord knows I couldn't do it without you). And some will think of Mary, and some will think of Schubert, and some will think of their own wedding, or the wedding of the one-that-got-away, or the wedding that is to be. And some might think of me. But most will think of Jess.

And isn't it remarkable that something as intangible as music can create such a strong sensation, and unspoken thoughts that link humanity? What beautiful revelations are waiting to be made just by sitting in a church and breathing?

Maybe it's true, what St. John the Divine in New York City says: "Loud Pipes Save Lives."

Coming Home.

I thought about writing a short, clever, witty, beautiful entry with which to ease my charming readers back into my internet psyche. I thought that would be a great idea. But I have too much to say. So... too bad.

For the past six months, I've been singing P Ditty/Dirty Money's "Coming Home." (usually splitting parts with the incomparable Shannon, my darling Lawrence roommate.) (For the record, I love Smokey Robinson's "Tears of the Clown." Sorry Ditty.)

Anyway, all of a sudden, I AM home. Or sort of.

They say that Home is where the Heart is. Those with itinerant hearts, therefore, have a scenic tour which they call Life.

But for now, this is home:

Here is the house I grew up in (and in which I am once again nesting. For those who are curious, no, I don't have a plan yet, and no, I have no idea how long I'm staying here. Much like my true love of getting lost on highways and byways, I have no problem skipping off the map of An Orderly Life from time to time. I have found that there are memorable adventures waiting in the caves and in the mountains and in the industrial towns that weren't in the pre-approved itinerary.)

So what does it mean to come Home, when Home, for the time being, is Atlanta, Georgia?

First and foremost: things change as they stay the same.

Mother, closet interior design fiend who fruitlessly denies her talent while creating cool, classy Southern-tinged decor on the budget of a small upstart community theatre, has attacked the Living Room. Around Christmastime (read: my last visit "home"), I came home to find a whitewashed and re-envisioned Den.

This time, she's re-created the front room, determined to move the family "hang out" from the south side of the house to the north side of the house, where we get more natural light. So she moved the television. (Genius tactic.) Here are some pics of the new room, not quite complete.

It is a room with character like my mother: brilliant, classy, subtle, bright spots here and there that sneak out when you least expect them. See the orange spine of a book on Tuscany, or the red jersey of my little brother's soccer days? Mountains of books (many of which are mine, deposited here last summer during my I-have-decided-to-take-up-simple-living-for-one-year-so-here's-all-my-stuff,-mom! phase, and over which we will bargain, bid, and arm wrestle when I decide to reclaim them for my own living space...but God only knows when that will be) blend seamlessly into the decorations. Books ARE decorations, for the room, for the mind, for the soul.

Coming Home, here, also means FAMILY TIME! (Dear Lucky Stars, thank you, verily, for making my family witty and classy and smart and clever and talky and funny and precious and dear. It makes them much easier to love.) The serendipity of living "in community" for a year, sharing a car, a bathroom, a budget, a life, forsaking all "free time", before moving home into that nebulous place of independence-under-my-father's roof is not lost on me. So I am well prepared for togetherness. On Sunday, July 3rd, we drove the hour out of the city to Rutledge, Ga (read: farm country), home of the annual SUNFLOWER FESTIVAL.

And we broiled ourselves in the sun.

And we posed for pictures with gardens that grow in the full sun we'd love to have in our yard.

And we picked SUNFLOWERS!

$15/bucket!!

What a perfect welcome back to the land of sweet iced tea and peaches and accents thick like molasses and old timey manners and Southern Belle sass.

Coming Home means fresh fruit in my yogurt. I didn't take a picture, because my food photography isn't up to snuff, but believe me, raspberries and blueberries and strawberries in your vanilla yogurt = good morning.

Coming Home means "Yanni: Live at the Acropolis" or Fleetwood Mac or "Finding Neverland" playing ad infinitum. Loudly. Wonderfully.

Coming Home means mosquitoes. 'Skeeters. Flying Teeth. Beware the threat of dusk and get thee inside. It doesn't matter that the backyard looks like a fairy-tale garden (mom and dad have been hard at work here, too). If you value your blood and want it to stay put, flee to the safety of the screened-in porch. Sit here, and you can enjoy the sunflowers.

Coming Home means rejuvenate. Regroup. Relax (for just a little bit). Re-envision the future. Reboot the job search. Read some of those books lying about (my latest venture: Geraldine Brooks' "People of the Book.")

Coming Home means Re-Design my wild and precious life. After all, I only get one.

A Higher Power.

Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, click-clack...

It's the sound my heels make on the marble floors when I walk into the High Museum.

Don't be deceived- those click-clacks aren't dissipating into nothingness.

They're off on a treasure hunt, flying at the speed of sound through the new galleries and the old, hunting for something new to discover, and saying hello to old friends.

When you walk into a museum that has been Your Museum since before you could talk, things are different. Yes, the Met is magnificent- its lungs filled to bursting with beauties untold. Yes, the PMA, too, holds Ghosts and Opera Singers, is home to Madonnas and goddesses.

But for me, the High is like coming home.

At the High, I met a dignified Native American Indian Delegate. He told me about the pride of being a Warrior, and the pride of being a Diplomat. He wore his feathers in his hair, his bone jewelry, his weathered face; He wore fine clothes of a White-Man's cut. He taught me about Culture Shock, long before I left home.

At the High, I learned that Degas turned a brush around a horse's flank as magnificently as he did around a dancer's leg.

At the High, I met a Roman God, and learned all about the advantages of having wings on your feet and wings on your headdress. There are messages to be imparted to mortals, heroes to be warned, just in the nick of time; there are stories to be told.*

At the High, I contemplated Campbell's Soup Cans, on repeat. Tomato soup had a glamorous side. It wasn't just the comfort lunch of my youth. Tomato soup had an ego. Tomato soup was a star. Tomato soup had a message: commercialism reaches it's grasping fingers even into the warmest memories of your childhood.

At the High, I ran into an old acquaintance, David. I had met him in Florence, but he was visiting America. I introduced him to my family. With my mother, I examined the lines of a master, the subtleties of an artist's craft. With my father, I spoke of legends and histories. With my older brother, an engineer, I spoke of the alchemy of bronze, of casting and restoring. With my younger brother, I spoke of gore and battle and victory.

At the High, I met Whistler's Mother, years before I wrote a paper on the glorious nocturnes of her brilliant and expressive expat son.

At the High, I walked into a Passing Storm, to hear the distant rolling rumble, to feel the darkness and the electricity in the air slowly dissolve, to smell the moisture in the air, and bid farewell to the receding maelstrom.*

At the High, I smiled at Alexander Calder, 20 years before I ever looked up in the PMA gallery and met his Ghost.

At the High, I had a conversation with Howard Finster about God. Finster was a little kooky. Finster was a lot expressive. Finster was Southern. Finster loved God, and I loved Finster. I loved him so much, I introduced him to my Modern Art History professor in college, who had never met him before, never having been exposed to the glories of Southern Eccentricity.

At the High, I was introduced to a Lady in Black Velvet: Mrs. Eulabee Dix Becker; as a girl, I wondered what it was like to wear such rich clothes, to be so stately and elegant. As a young woman, I wondered what she was thinking, and if she was happy, and if her heart was whole or broken.

At the High, I learned that a woman's writing desk in the 19th century was like a rocketship that could take you to distant places, to travel the globe in a friendly salutation, or even skip through time, like Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters, disappearing into flights of fancy. A writing desk was where a woman was allowed to think, and it was a sacred place.

At the High, Sol LeWitt taught me about the color palette. Long before I ever knew what conceptual painting was, I learned red, blue, orange.*

A museum isn't just a repository for artwork. It's a building full of connections waiting, striving, yearning to be made. It's a storehouse of realizations and epiphanies, of humanity and deity, of presence and meaning.

At the High, I learned not just to look, but to see.

* Mercury statue, Inness painting, and LeWitt lithograph are not replicas of the actual pieces in the High Collection, or seen as visiting exhibits at the High. Lacking the actual artwork, I used something similar to the pieces referenced.

Images: High Museum of Art, Atlanta, No-Tin by Henry Inman, Race Horses in a Field by Edgar Degas, Mercurio by Giambologna, Campbell's Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, David by Verrochio, Whistler's Mother or Portrait of the Artist's Mother by James McNeill Whistler, Gathering Storm by George Inness, Three Up, Three Down, by Alexander Calder, Angel by Howard Finster, Lady in Black Velvet (Mrs. Eulabee Dix Becker by Robert Henri, Untitled Lithograph by Sol DeWitt.

Proves Me Right.

Do you believe in Serendipity?

Because I do.

But then, you would know that, wouldn't you.

Dearlings, I am not a "relationship" kind of girl. It's not that I don't want to be in one, I just figured that when the right boy came along, it would just happen. But I'm also a romantic, so in keeping myself open to the possibility of Magic, I have had some crazy encounters with the opposite sex.

There's the atheist I met at the rock gym. He asked me out and I thought, "why judge? I can be open-minded!" Fast-forward to the unforgettable line, "I'll buy dinner. You buy drinks. I'll have a Grey Goose Martini." (immediate succession of thoughts: ...um, is it archaic to think that YOU asked ME out, so YOU should be buying? I can't believe you just ordered a $12 martini. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST ORDERED A $12 MARTINI IN A DIVE BAR AND THEN SENT IT BACK BECAUSE IT WASN'T MADE RIGHT. Oh dear heavens....)

This was the night that not one, but two separate barkeeps, at two separate establishments, both gave vocal reinforcement. Barkeep 1: "Is this a blind date? Because that guy is horrible. Someone owes you, bigtime, for going out with him."

Barkeep 2: "You want me to make you a coke that looks like a whiskey and coke so that he doesn't know you're trying to sober up? Sure thing, sweetie. I can call you a cab and cover for you while you make a break for it. No? Well, good luck."

On the up-side, I learned this night that my long legs and winning looks was what made me dateable for this boy... because he doesn't usually like dating Catholics. (...ass.) Then (idiot that I am) I let him drive me home. I think he had too much to drink, because he was driving like a lunatic. And all my analytical mind could think was: "This is unbelievable. When I drive like a maniac, at least I believe in a Hereafter, a Heavenly Reward, if something horrible happens and I kill myself. This boy is putting my life at risk believing that earthly tenure is all we've got. WHAT AN ASS!"

I think this is going to be a long post. Because I just got started.

There was Sweetest Guy Ever, who had physical stats to beat the band- 6'4", 195, and shoulders and arms that must have been on loan from Adonis. And he was unbelievably nice. So nice. So nice that he drove 2 hours with flowers for me from his home-town florist in his back seat...

...even though he was horribly allergic and arrived at my doorstep with tears streaming down his face. Darling boy. That was when I discovered that, Adonis-be-damned, I needed wit in a man. And a lot of it.

Coffeeshop Canadian was a trip-

I agreed to go out to dinner with a boy I met in a coffeeshop here in Boulder. I realized only too late that this is not the town to find sweet gentlemen. He liked my face, and he even liked my mind, but we were on the market for completely different things. Enough said.

Then there's Hanes His Way, another boy I spotted in a coffee shop.

He left before I could scrounge up the courage to say hi, so I asked his friend what his name was. In a matter of hours, we where having witty banter over text messaging, and then facebook. I was over-the-moon! Cute boy, copy-writer for a living, grew up back east, was active and fun... And then, no joke, he sent me a picture of himself in his underwear. (My mother's gonna die when she finds out I posted this for all the world to see...). No. Honestly. A text-message image arrived of this boy in his boxer-briefs. POSING. You know that sound the needle makes on the LP when it scrapes off to the side? Yes. That is what happened in my head. "Wow. I'm really glad your self-esteem is so...substantial. Let's be friends?"

There's TurkeyFest/Blind Date from Hell boy...

Another perfectly charming gentleman. Not my physical type, but quick to smile and very nice. He came from money and was in law school. He was also a pilot (which is, 3 times out of 4, a warning sign. Yes. I just made a blanket statement about pilots. I worked for an airline. I can do that.) TF/BDfH invited me to a Thanksgiving Feast at his friend's place. We had never met before, but were being set up by a darling dear friend, so I figured, "Hey, Carpe Turkey, shall we!" Oh. Good. Lord. This boy took being "amenable" to an outrageous extent. I'm not big on compliments. I'm big on banter. I want a little mental push-back, a little give-and-take, some minor disagreements that lead to intellectual conversation. I don't care if you agree with me. I want you to respect my mind, and demand the same from me. This boy, bless his heart, felt more like a lackey than a date. He loved that I was Catholic. He loved that I sang. He loved my Arts Major. He loved that I'd never done drugs. He loved that I have no tattoos (and made some sort of asinine comment about "girls who have tattoos are loose." Yes, I realize I made an asinine comment about pilots... but still...). He loved that I liked Heidegger and could do without Descartes. Etc., etc., etc. And he kept TELLING me so. I make mental check-lists about prospective romances, as well. But I don't provide a play-by-play, you're-my-ideal-date commentary! All that would have made for a bland date. But the kicker was when I ordered a Coke (I had to drive downtown, and I wasn't drinking with this boy). Because he ordered a Diet Coke. Okay, yes. I made a snap judgement. You invite me out. You take me to a bar after dinner. Where you order... a Diet Coke. With lemon. Alone, it would have been a benign move. But after hours of seeing no mental or physical signs of strength or acuity... I was done. Oh. That, and, he loved loved loved that I was a Catholic, because he was a Catholic, and he really wanted to date a girl who understood Catholicism... But he didn't know what Transubstantiation was... and that's kind of a biggie... and when I told him what it was... he had that completely-understandable look of doubt on his face. You're looking for a knowledgeable practicing Catholic... but you aren't a knowledgeable practicing Catholic? ruh-roah...

And now we come to my favorite. The Inspiration of The Barking Cat Theatre, one of Philadelphia's newest theatre companies. I have to preface by saying: I love this boy. I hold him in my heart, and he has become a darling, darling friend. But just to show you what I can get myself into:

Mutual theatre friendships led to some gee-this-guy-is-really-great moments. And then we had the Barking Cat night, in which darling darling friend drank a leeetle too much, so I drove him back to my place. On the way, we listened to The Last Five Years soundtrack (Sherie Rene Scott and Norbert Leo Butz, I heart you.) It was his car, his cd (he was a theatre guy... I loved that he had Broadway in his car). But then he shushed me when I started singing the Girl Parts, so that he could sing them. (Don't ever, ever shush a girl when she's singing in the car...). When we got home, I directed him to the couch. He was allergic to cats, so I scooped up my Sadie to lock her in my room for the night. "Can't I cuddle with the puppy," he said. Sigh. I told this boy goodnight, and headed to my room. About 5 minutes later, I had that Something's Wrong sensation, sat up, and looked out the window. And there is boy, opening his car door. Of course, I figure, "I'm going to have to run into the street and throw my pajama'd body across his windshield so he doesn't drive drunk." But then he shuts the door, and walks toward the houses. Not toward MY house, mind you, but up the sidewalk, and into my neighbor's yard. And not just any neighbor...but the one with a police record, a drinking problem, a German Shepherd, and probably a shotgun. I race down two flights of stairs and stop short at the door- Before barging into a stranger's house to retrieve a drunken boy, I dial said boy's phone number.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Where are you?"

"I'm asleep on your couch."

"No. I'm looking at my couch. And you're not on it. Where are you?"

"No, I'm asleep on your... your neighbor's couch..."

"Don't say anything else. Don't say a word. Just get up, and leave."

"How did I get in here?"

"Stop talking. Walk out the door."

"Oh! I hear the cat. The cat's barking at me."

"Out the DOOR, NOW."

I flipped on my front porch light so he could see where he was headed. He arrives on my doorstep. "The cat bit me."

No joke. I couldn't make that up.

"The cat bit me."

Considering it wasn't the nicest German Shepherd I'd ever met, he'd come off pretty lucky. No bleeding, thank God.

In the morning, all was forgotten. At least by him. For me, it was a marvelous story. We bonded over that night, and became good friends. Not exactly a winning first-impression in pursuit of a romantical relationship, but pretty good fodder for a friendship.

If you're in Philly, and you're going to the Fringe Festival, look up the Barking Cat Theatre Company, and tell the actors that Chesley sent you.

So...that was fun.

See, it's not that I don't put myself out there. I'm romantic enough to believe that magic can happen anywhere, you just need to stay open to the possibilities. I'm sensible enough to know that it can't happen ALL the time. And I've proved myself right.

But I kept waiting for the exception to prove the rule. And that happened last Saturday.

"I will never meet a good man in a bar."

If you have ever said this, turn around three times, spit over your left shoulder, cross yourself, and say "Googly Googly Googly" three times fast. Because it happens.

Last Saturday, in Atlanta, I swept up my friend Tracy to head to Virginia Highlands as two girls on the town. To meet boys. To talk to boys. To have fun. To get someone to buy us drinks and then go home. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. And then some. And in the next post...I shall tell you that story.

photos: Believe by *UnaObsesion at deviantART, image by Eugenio Recuenco / Vogue Novias,Careful Not to Spill Your Martini While Changing Gears by Marcus Lam, A Wildflower Bouquet by Nancy L. Stockdale, Leaf Dance tapestry from art.com, One More Cup of Coffeefrom photo.net, Turkey image from Texas Parks and Wildlife, German Shepherd image from "We Love Our Puppy . Com", image from polyvore.com, To Be Continued text image from photobucket.com

Life.

Hello loves.

Greetings from the edge of the earth. I'm sure I fell off last week.

My long trip home held some surprises. Some were anticipated, and some were not. But my discoveries of the past week have put me back into that wonderful place of life. It's not that I've been depressed over the past few months, but after so much wondering and wandering, one runs the risk of becoming a little listless.

But no more. It's nice to be me again. (Isn't that a nice place to be?)

Here's what happened while I was in Atlanta.

1) I popped on the plane out of Boulder just a few hours after presenting a lecture on Marian Iconography, examined through multiple art historical, cultural, symbolic, and spiritual lenses.

It was so well-received, and I gave it twice more while in Atlanta. After meeting with a number of different people in liturgical ministry and adult enrichment roles, I've gotten lots of support for this endeavor.

Now I just need to put it into article form, see if I can get it published, and start on my next lecture....

2) I wrote my Bryce Dallas Howard article on the plane flying home, and then edited a slew of articles for the publication, New York Moves Magazine. I think the BDH article came off fairly well.

She was delightful to interview, and so enthused about so many different subjects, and she served me my concluding paragraph on a golden platter. I love that she was so interested in Grace as an empowering attribute. (We think alike...).

3) Discernment is not an easy process... particularly when you're multi-interested. I can see myself doing a lot of things. A lot of things. But I spent most of the week trying to figure out the best path for me, because applying to every corporate marketing position I can dig up hasn't been working. It's time for plan B.

So I've decided to try to cultivate a writing career, and drum up some new clients,

while simultaneously finding some sort of part- or full-time position with a not-for-profit, preferably nestling myself into the arts community. And I'm casting my net wide, for Fate to send me what she will. Because if I can find a lovely NFP spot, but it's not in my backyard...well...I've already learned that I'm good at picking up and moving, right?

With the art historical lectures, I've decided to try to head back to school in a year or two. I'm spreading knowledge to the masses with my little B.A. I imagine I could do some real damage with an M.A. or a Ph.D... And I always have my singing, too... I was promoted to Head Cantor while I was away. I'll be singing all summer!

4) has to do with my last post. This was the truly unexpected surprise. And though the ruminating on career options re-invigorated my mind, this surprise made me sit up and breath deep the joys of being.

You know those moments when life comes knocking, and you just open the door and let it in? That's what I did. It has to do with some great music, a great man, and a series of rather delightful moments. And I'll tell you all about it.

Tomorrow.

photos: imaginary friend by *mOthyyku at deviantART, Edge of the Earth, Edge of the Sky by Enrique Fernandez Ferra, image by Perhydrol from 500px, Joy Division, Bouguereau's Pieta, Henry Ossawa Tanner's The Annunciation, Bryce Dallas Howard, image from ffffound.com, Fork in the Road from melodyross.typepad.com, visual inspiration from vi.sualize.us, happen from imgfave.com/Melissa, Jump in the Sky by ~Loona5, Lovestory from 500px.com