THE SANDBOX

God reveals things to me when I’m sleeping.
Perhaps it's the only time he feels that he can get my full attention.

During these what I call, “Sleep Sessions,” the messages are clear. When I awake there is a deep sense of awe that God’s desire to commune with us is so powerful that he speaks to us even when we are not consciously aware of the conversation—

It is 5:45 am on this Monday morning. My eyes are open but my mind is focused not on what I see but what I have just heard—words spoken as a whisper in that realm in-between:
Our job is to remain in the sandbox a little longer to teach each other how to play.

I imagine children in the park and then become one of them as I vividly feel the hurt and resulting anger of being offended by the others. I gather my toys and stomp away, making hateful remarks under my breath and even out loud in an effort to cover up the tears so that the others won’t see what I feel~isolation, betrayal, mistrust. In time I learn that sharing my heart, like bucket or shovel, is risky business and that it is better to avoid the sandbox altogether.

In recent days I watch and read how often we take offense...on the road, in our homes, over something said or misconstrued. In our grown up years we react and behave as if we never really learned how to get along at all. I am struck by how much easier it is, even in my own life, to create grievances instead of extending grace. It’s almost as if we are looking for an excuse to isolate ourselves, one from another.

It’s hard to coax a wounded heart from the protection of offense. Perhaps we are looking for error in another to offer as excuse for remaining distant and detached. It’s as if we are in a constant battle between taking our toys and running home and wanting desperately to belong.

By nature we need each other...to learn to trust, to share, and to say what we feel in a way that creates connection rather than conflict. When my husband and I are arguing and he senses I am shutting down and slipping away he declares, “Hear my heart!” In those three words he is asking me to listen more to what is meant than what is said.
It's not easy to keep my heart open. Today alone I counted six opportunities to take offense and disengage. And then I remembered that my job here on earth is to stay. Body and soul. Head and heart. Let all of me remain to teach myself and others how to play.

This Christmas, extending grace is the greatest gift of all.

REMEMBERING SEATTLE

By Janene Kraft

I'm remembering Seattle. It’s not unusual for my mind to make its way to the long days on Lake Washington’s crystal coast. In the beginning I lost my mind there. That first night desperately seeking sky and stars through clouds as thick as tears. Gradually, I lost my heart there. Like seedlings fighting their way toward light my spirit broke the surface and roots grew with surprising vigor.

Fleece was my number one enemy.
And North Face was most definitely not my friend—a bit of chill should never separate a woman from her fashion. Despite retaining my singular sense of style I was anonymous. Being anonymous isn’t so bad really. My ‘reputation’ disappeared like a shadow hungry for the sun. But I learned to relish being weighed and measured in the moment. Who I am. Now. I discovered that people know who you are, the essence of you, if you do.

The women in Seattle are fabulous. They are at once guarding their territory and longing for real connection. Like the bundles they wear to ward off the cold, there are layers to be shed. It took awhile to let me in. At first, discretion yielded to superficial companionship. But over time the ones with the breathtaking hearts came out to play. Loneliness and grey gave way to a disposition of light reflected in the faces of those who agreed, along with me, to trust.

There are some “don’ts” in Seattle—

Hosing off your deck in winter is ill-advised. Particularly barefoot. That surprising moment of clarity which comes from remembering where you are can be exhilarating even when face-planting on the walkway. Speaking in elevators is frowned upon. For heaven’s sake don’t use an umbrella when it’s raining. Don’t stare at the naked cyclists stripping off the mud from their ride through Bastyr. Never go too blonde. Pulling up ‘dead things’ in December leads to bare spots in the spring. And bulbs are not just something you hang on your Christmas tree. Never park uphill in a snowstorm. Oh, and never, ever wander into salmon spawning territory.

There is nothing like a Seattle neighborhood. Kirkland to Freemont, Capitol Hill to Madison Park each has its own vibe that immediately draws you in. Walk to your favorite “Cheers” and the cold gives way to intimate spaces electric with Husky madness and Microsoft gossip. There are the Saturday markets and meandering parks all with a relationship to water—on the water, view of the water, walking in water—you get the picture. But by far it is the architecture that defines the mood. Belltown hip, Capitol Hill austere, Freemont quirky, Montlake old world charm, Holmes Point contemporary, Madison Park chic—I wanted to live in every one and gave it my best try.

My list of “loves” in this City I adore makes one understand why it is the most-filmed place in the country, why writers go there seeking inspiration, why despite the rain families move there in droves—much to the contention of the long-timers and home-towners. I understand their frustration; you can always spot a newbee when she exclaims, “I’m going to Pikes this weekend!”--one must never desecrate the Market. Driving on the floating bridge is sacred. Not once did the Yukon travel over this concrete sanctuary without honoring a moment of silence to take in the majesty. On a clear day, Rainier would take my breath away. Once on the other side Gabriel and I would stroll through U Village and pay hommage to the flagship Anthro store. Montlake’s floating footbridges let me walk on water while skipping through the rain. I threw the wedding of a lifetime in Clise Mansion, rebuilt the 100-year-old White House and created my beloved Bella Luna. Gabe and I ran through the snow at midnight in Waverly Park. I kayaked off Vashon. On Saturdays I gathered flowers at Pike. The ferry boats awed me. And gliding in a float plane over the islands to Victoria was the most fun in a small space that I’ve ever had. Except for the Bella Luna pantry. Madison Park homes and cafes. Quiet coffee chats. Wine with heart friends looking out at the Space Needle. The one-and-only Molbaks. Weight training at the Y. Christmas Ships and cocoa. Martinis at Cactus. The view of the Aurora Bridge. Pacific Galleries and my store called, "Whim." Dinner at the Pink Door. Two-am wakeups to gaze at the stars.

My son went to the University of Washington and brought back a girl. Even before she moved to San Diego Erin knew how to peel off the layers. She’s girlie yet strong, nurturing and loving in a childlike way. Like me, Erin misses her Seattle. The chill of the place and the sincerity of the people. Make no mistake, the warmth doesn’t come easy. But as with a tiny ember, just the right amount of coaxing can create a radiant fire.

A CALIFORNIA CHRISTMAS

by Janene Kraft.

This year I’m having a bit of trouble ushering in the season. After all, my nearly six years in Seattle got me so used to pine trees, powder-white walkways, and those breath-taking boats aglow with thousands of twinkling lights parading across Lake Washington to kickoff the Holiday festivities.

It’s not that the glorious sunsets and the sweeping coastline aren’t remarkable here. They’re just not, well, very Christmas-y. Putting all in context, you can imagine my thrill upon looking out my window last evening to see at least a dozen brightly-lit boats cruising along the Laguna Beach shore. “Christmas Ships!” I delighted while believing that ‘my’ Christmas season had finally been officially ushered in. Hurrying to the refrigerator I popped open a bottle of extra-dry and selected my most-beautiful flute to accompany the merriment.

Upon arriving home minutes later my husband, Ron (with eyesight clearly intact), hurried out upon the deck to see those glorious Christmas Ships that inspired me so. Not wanting to spoil the pageantry but always one to tell the truth, he could hardly contain his laughter when informing me that those luminescent lights were, in fact, Squid boats harvesting their catch.

“Alas, oh season that eludes me,” so crestfallen and morose was I. But then, a quick change of spirit so as not to spoil the fun, “A toast to calamari!” I exclaimed as I raised my glass to fisherman everywhere. “Merry Squidmas” and let the blessed season begin!