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[aimeestokes]

The time has come, I suppose, to announce that I have decided to return to Kennesaw State and complete my English degree. It has been my little secret these past several weeks as I've been getting everything squared away with the school. When I left the university in 2007 to move into full time ministry, I had completed about 75% of the necessary courses for my degree. So with only ten required classes remaining (most of which are electives), it shouldn't be too long before I'm a college graduate. My senior year begins Monday and at this point I'm signed up for Beginning Hebrew, Language and Linguistics, and Professional Editing. I'll see if I can't pick up another class or two during Drop/Add. Either way, after a three-year sabbatical, I'm really looking forward to being in the academic environment once more. And after enduring months of ambiguity regarding my next step, it's so indescribably wonderful to have a sense of direction again.

[aimeestokes]

Live version of "Return," a song I began writing in the final weeks of 2008. This recording was taken in April 2009.

[aimeestokes]

A true photograph need not be explained, nor can it be contained in words. A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed. — Ansel Adams

[aimeestokes]

In quietness and confidence is your strength. Today I realized that I am not strong. Not in the way the world would define it. Nor do I have to be — and that seems strange to say. Because for as long as I can remember, I've felt compelled to be my own strong tower, my own rock, even though I've known that there is One much higher than I. But today it dawned on me that it's not my responsibility to fight or defend — only to rest, and lean, and trust. I can remain tender, and gentle, and simply cry through the pain until I'm healed, knowing that those who mourn are blessed, for they shall be comforted. I can maintain the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, knowing that I dwell within the courts of the Great Defender. I will lie down and sleep in peace, for He alone makes me to dwell in safety.

[aimeestokes]

Opus 23 | Dustin O'Halloran

[aimeestokes]

Notebook

I showed him my notebook The underside of my soul Released in scribbles on pages He smiled and held my hand

I knew that he would see For he dreams of touching beauty, too There has to be more than the work day

He's painting houses He's painting houses for a while I'm home to his canvas Coming to life

I write in my notebook With feeling that takes me by surprise And thoughts that I don't know I have

They're hidden by useless facts That I've compiled at the office where I work Where there is no time for feeling anything

You see, I just work there To finance my real life That begins with scribbles on pages And thoughts of how and when

Museums on Sundays Whenever we can, we both go And stay there for hours Feeding our spirits

And beauty is still free And beauty is not exclusive And beauty is ours to touch and to know

Karen Peris © 1989

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[aimeestokes]

Last Wednesday, I returned home after spending a few days visiting my friend Wendi on the South Carolina farm that she helps work. After taking hundreds and hundreds of photos, I'm now engaged in the tedious and time-consuming editing process. In the mean time, here are a few images that have become favorites. Seeing that this farm has been in the McBride family since the late eighteenth century, I thought it appropriate to chronicle my visit entirely in sepia, so as to evoke the antiquity of the homestead. Once the final portfolio emerges, a more complete account of my agrarian adventures won't be too far behind. But for now, I'll leave you with a simple vignette of rural life by one of my favorite poets, one that often came to mind while I played on the farm.

After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all that struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

Robert Frost © 1914

[aimeestokes]

To live will be an awfully big adventure. In the morning, I'll be heading for South Carolina to visit my friend Wendi and spend a few days with her on the farmstead where she lives. I can't wait to see my old friend again and I'm so excited about trying my hand at rural life. There's sure to be quiet mornings with coffee and open bibles, and long talks over tea before bed, with lots of new friends and experiences in between. I'll be on my way back to Georgia by Friday, but before heading home, I'll be stopping in Lawrenceville for several days. It's been such a long time since my last visit, so I'm looking forward to spending time in the Prayer Room and playing some sets, as well as seeing so many beloved faces again. I'm also looking forward to getting out there on the open road. It's about time I took off on a little adventure of my own.

[aimeestokes]

The Innocence Mission, composed of Karen and Don Peris along with bassist Mike Bitts, performing Song for Tom.

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Lake Muse | Karen Marie Garrett

[aimeestokes]

These are a few of my favorite things. Last weekend, I packed everything and moved from my mom's house to my dad's, where I'll be spending the next few months. All week, I've been occupied with unpacking and settling into my new room, which is nearly twice the size of the tiny room that was nestled in the dormer window of mom's old house. During my time there I unpacked very little, since there wasn't much space to fill. But here at my dad's house, I've had to empty a few more boxes in order to keep the room from feeling barren. Still, most of my belongings will have to remain boxed up until I find myself in a more permanent place.

While I miss curling up in my old writing corner, on my bed beside the wall of windows, I'm beginning to love my new room here. I'm able to use my full-size bed once again, which has been wonderful, especially because my dad and his wife surprised me with the beautiful quilt that I've had on my wishlist for over a year. My green chair is set up by the window, so I still have a place to watch the rain while I read, or have a cup of tea while I write. However long my time here is meant to last, I'm happy to have my favorite things out and about, so it feels a little more like home.

[aimeestokes]

A few evenings ago, my family and I visited the local playhouse to see my brother perform one of the leading roles in an adaptation of Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which is his fifth production thus far. He has quite a talent for theater acting and proved to be one of the very finest thespians of this ensemble. It never ceases to intrigue me, the way that our family is so replete with artistic gifting and creative energy. Father, mother, brother, and sisters three— every one of us is possessed with an incessant need to create in one way or another. None of us is limited to just one medium and we have many artistries in common, so we're often collaborating and learning from each other's creative experiences.

Writing, I believe, is the one craft that we share most in common, though we each apply it uniquely and with individual style. I find that I'm more drawn to compose verse and creative non-fiction (though I've experimented with many literary genres), while the younger of my two sisters will often devote endless hours to developing elaborate and fantastical narratives. The elder, currently preparing to study English at the university level as I too once did, is quite a prolific wordsmith in her own right. My mother has penned her share of poems and lyrics and children's stories, while my brother loves to invent plots and characters which he brings to life from behind his film camera. And you'll find that my father, as articulate an orator as he is an author, is always ready to relay some lively anecdote, like a true Irishman.

We also share a mutual penchant for musical expression. Some of my earliest memories are of my father leading family worship times on his guitar and of my mother singing, always singing. Having a keen ear for music and a knack for the piano, she would often help me pick out chords and melodies to songs I was trying to learn by ear or improvise. The elder of my sisters takes after our father (who is also a drummer) and has herself become a brilliant guitarist and percussionist, often hammering rhythms on the guitar itself or singing into it with her lovely little folk voice. She also plays a number of hand drums and exotic instruments like the Australian didgeridoo and African kalimba. While there have always been plenty of traditional instruments to be found in our house, we've also had a myriad of unconventional music makers pass through over the years, everything from bodhrans and panflutes to ocarinas and rain sticks, as well as any number of shakers and bells and whistles.

My own musical career began early but flourished late by common standards. I remember picking up Dad's guitar before I was as tall as the first fret. I would place it face-up on my lap and strum over the open strings again and again, listening closely to those fifth-tuned intervals, E A D G B E. Though I never developed much interest in learning the guitar, I acquired my first violin at the age of fourteen and twelve years later I'm still early on the never-ending journey to master that notoriously challenging instrument. However, when it came to singing, I always tended to be shy, so I found time to practice when no one was around. It wasn't until I was nearly twenty-three years old that I finally stepped behind the microphone and discovered that all my fears were unfounded—and that I could in fact sing. So I have ever since and found it to be one of my greatest loves. Nevertheless, it seems that I've been gravitating towards the piano ever since I could climb up on a bench. And although I was twenty-four before I began teaching myself basic theory and techniques, it wasn't long until I was writing my own little songs. Now, two years later, I'm looking forward to producing my first album sometime in the near future.

Recently, our family has also become a clan of photographers, my sisters and I taking after our father who apprenticed in the trade for several years. I have many fond memories of those days when, as a little girl of four or five, I would accompany Dad to the studio where he worked and trained in the home of his mentor, the master photographer Tim Kelly. Most days, when my dad took his morning break, we would wander down the road hand-in-hand, crossing some train tracks before we arrived at a small bakery that served the most exquisite cinnamon rolls. Back at the studio, I would find various ways to pass the hours while my father worked away behind the cameras, doing what he loved most. Now, many years later, we will often sit for hours discussing various aspects of the craft, though our conversations generally consist of me barraging him with a never-ending supply of questions. I love that we share such a similar passion for photography and I'm grateful to have him as my very own mentor.

Over the last several years, I've come to enjoy the more domestic arts as well. I'm perfectly content spending all afternoon in the kitchen trying out new recipes. There's something so calming about wearing that apron and working with my hands, whether I'm kneading bread dough or chopping up vegetables. I'm also just as likely to be found by the fire with a cup of tea, weaving skeins of lambswool into wearable pieces of art. Someday, when I have a house of my own, I'd like to take the creativity outdoors and cultivate flowers alongside an herb and vegetable garden, with berry patches and perhaps even an orchard. Of course, this would all ideally be planted on the south side of a small 1920's craftsman-style bungalow, like one of the hundreds that I've sketched in my floorplan notebook over the years. And what better sort of place to continue the creative journey, where I might search for my inner painter or try my hand at the potter's wheel, perhaps take up ballet or finally learn to play the cello. At least, that's how I dream of things being, in this little world ever filled with the beautiful felicity that belongs to those who create, those we call artists.

[aimeestokes]

Flower In The Crannied Wall

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson © 1869

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There is not in the world a kind of life more sweet and delightful than that of a continual conversation with God. — Brother Lawrence

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Open My Eyes | Sarah McMillan

[aimeestokes]

Every time that I look through a camera, I’m surprised. It’s like finding yourself in the middle of a story, like you just did. What kind of guy takes a job keeping a light house? — Sabrina Fairchild