Cyle

Oh How I love thee… Let me count the ways, 8th Anniversary

“Oh how I love thee… Let me count the ways” – the title of a children’s book came to mind when thinking about my recent anniversary. One week and two days ago commemorates the day; July 17, 2004. Eight years ago.

We celebrated even though it had been a rough week, and I had been robbed of sleep due to a rare, pregnancy symptom. My Dr. was exploring the condition with blood work and the happy news is that I have the symptoms under control with meds and I am sleeping again, which is the very reason I’m just now writing this post!

We celebrated with dinner at J. Macs, followed by a kid-free night spent with some of our best friends over dinner and board games. The following morning we woke up early to go get my blood drawn – YAY (sarcasm noted)! As promised, my husband took me on a trip to Home Depot to buy supplies for one of my anniversary gifts: an eight foot farm table to hold our growing family and friends! I can’t wait to see the masterpiece he constructs.

Confession: We came home from our anniversary dinner at 8:15, picking up the kids from my sisters, who was in shock that we were home so early. Oh well, so is life at 22 weeks of pregnancy.

So, why do I love my husband, right now at this very moment?

He is thoughtful: He texts me daily saying “How are you?”, “Wow is your day going?”, and “How are you feeling?”

He strives to be the best dad: recently he has been devouring a book called “Wild Things: the art of nurturing boys”. He is constantly telling me what the book is teaching him and it makes my heart go wild with joy.

He is very willing to complete home repair jobs and will build me just about anything that I request.

He is gifted in so many ways and it is an adventure living life with him.

He patiently listens when I am struggling with an issue, pointing me to Jesus, and reminding me of truth.

To my best friend, the father of my children and my teammate, may there be eighty more years to this union! I love you!

P.S. I just have to post this picture where you look like Brad Pitt walking up out of the barn with the handsome boys… thanks to the amazing Sarah Deshaw for capturing this moment.

We’re THOSE Parents

by CyleAugusta Leave a Comment

Am I competitive in nature? I often ask myself that question, & always turn up some confusion. In the moment I can be competitive, but I can also be completely anti- competition and run in the opposite direction when I so much as smell it.

I never really thought I would be that parent – the one who would aggressively get their child to compete in everything and house a room full of trophies, namely because I wasn’t that kid – I didn’t really start developing specific skills until my 20’s and really early thirties, by then the emerging artist awards are all gone. Anyway, I’ve always known I was a bit of a late bloomer in the arts and music world: my abilities come directly from maturity & soul growth, which in my case comes with age.

As if it weren’t foreign enough to have a child in public school, since I didn’t attend public school, but rather was home schooled, these public school contests are completely foreign as well – Governors honors what? PTA what? There was a paper that came home mid September about contests for reflections about DIVERSITY. The categories were art, music and photography.

I briefly talked to my 6 yr old about it thinking he would draw a picture of the children of the world around the globe holding hands… you know, the cheesy Whitney Houston tune comes to mind. We had a five minute conversation about it and he went to play, about an hour later he came back to me saying “You want to hear my song about being friends?” I listened, and it was short but good. His dad overheard him and happened to be sitting at our home studio when he motioned for Kenimer to come over, turned the mic on, and tracked it. It was simple and raw, he even changed keys once-nonetheless the passion and feeling are there. It is precious. We turned it in and forgot about it.

Several months later we find out he won for his school, county and at the state level! In two weeks we will go to Atlanta for a ceremony at the High Museum of Art and will find out if he won 1st, 2nd or 3rd. I know your thinking there probably wasn’t much competition for his age – there was none at the school or county level but there were many applicants from Atlanta in the state level. His song was grouped with the others written and played in rotation at the Ritz last Friday as all the the art and photography was on display. I was a proud mom since most of the songs were written by highschoolers and the occasional middle schooler – and then my boy.

When I told him he had won, he said “Well that’s because I’m a songwriter!“, matter-of-factly. Hopefully he wont take as long to discover his skills. He seems quite confident in his songwriting abilities. His dad and I? We are proud.

We just might be THOSE parents. But I think in this case we’re OK with it.

The SECRET to learning a new skill….

by CyleAugusta 2 Comments

It’s funny that as I get older I seem to tackle things I always said I couldn’t do. The more I chip away at the “I’ve always wanted to do that list”, the more I learn that my inability is simply resistance to fulfill my desires. The resistance is experienced as fear: fear of the unknown – fear of failure.

Several months ago I gave some presentations at MOPS about creative ideas for home, gifts, and kids. A mom approached me and said “You’ve inspired me and I went out and bought a sewing machine to learn to sew“. I was excited about her new endeavor yet I felt ashamed at the mention of sewing. I had inspired someone to start sewing yet I couldn’t even sew myself. You See: I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO SEW – I HAVE TRIED SEVERAL TIMES AND FAILED MISERABLY.

The basic operation of the machine seemed to get the best of me. Several times, I attempted sewing on my sisters machine and the bobbin would get stuck, or I’d break a needle, or push the peddle too fast, or lose control leaving my stitch looking like a chevron pattern party.

I look back and see one problem: I was attempting to sew alone. I never really sought the instruction I needed to successfully operate a sewing machine. I was mad that it didn’t come easily, and so I quit. In fact I attempted to sew on several occasions with the prediction that I would fail miserably. and. I. did. I had a sister that sewed wonderfully and a skilled seamstress for a mother in law, so pawning sewing projects off on them became the crutch to uphold my belief: I CANNOT SEW.

Fast forward to several years later and Brunswick gets a Joannes. The desire to sew resurfaced and a group of friends decided to start a sewing group called Gathered Together. The skill of the sewing in our group ranges from beginner to professional.

The group decided to meet once a week for several hours in the evening and sew a project together for support, help and fellowship. Each week someone posts a simple project so you can prepare by buying supplies and cutting the pattern. I was ecstatic and arrived completely prepared, ready to sew. Guess what? My second-hand sewing machine died a painful death. Several pro friends tried to revive her but there was no luck. Nonetheless, I still managed to finish my project for the first week – with eight sewing machines there was always one available.

I cannot tell you how encouraged and equipped I felt while sewing, I think it was simply the support of the women around me, all being at different levels and all helping one another. I could not get home fast enough to show my hubby what I made, entirely by myself! He was impressed and even asked “Are you sure you no one else sewed on this?” He remembers the chevron stitch, also know as crooked sewing.

Second week came and I was ready to tackle the next project. That week a girlfriend came and didn’t feel like sewing, so she let me use her machine and even ripped out a seam for me when I messed up. Once again I drove home so excited and giddy over my new skill.

Third week was rather stressful: stress on the homefront, stress in the money world, and stress in sinus land. I nearly let it get the best of me and in my moodiness almost decided not to go – besides this week’s project seemed hard and I was a bit worried I might fail.

The presence of the fear/resistance is what made me decide to go. I knew I needed it – the degree of resistance/fear I feel about doing something is usually proportionate to how badly I need to do the particular task, for the growth of my soul.

I went to sewing group and tackled my fear. One girl was out of town so she dropped her sewing machine off where the group was held that night so I could use it. How thoughtful is that?! I tell you this sewing group is therapeutic.

On the way home from the third sewing group it hit me: the reason I was able to sew reasonably well this time was simply the support I had around me – the girls who encouraged me – the learning that takes place as you are all sewing together. One person makes a mistake and shares it with the group, and naturally you learn from their mistakes – it’s a beautiful thing really.

Its not just sewing group where this beautiful artistic community takes place. I remember hearing my grandmother reminisce of knitting parties where socks were made during WW11. In fact, to this day she hosts a knitting group in her home every week, claiming “It keeps your mind sane.”

Quilting, knitting, pottery, bunco, bridge – whatever the craft or skilled game involved there are many people who benefit from sharpening their craft in groups. What do you want to do but are too scared to start? Run a race, start a business, join a art group – whatever it is, find some support – some community in your particular interests. It will strengthen you, boost confidence, and reduce the temptation to quit.

Its a beautiful thing, really.

Question and Exclamation: Life-Altering Typography

by CyleAugusta 2 Comments

I ask lots of questions. My parents, friends and college professors would all agree. I guess it’s the writer in me, always concocting a story. It comes as no surprise that I am particularly good with the assignment of interviewing someone for a story. I’ve found a little niche – one in which I am paid to ask questions, to get all the details in order to write a good story.

It’s been ages since I’ve written in this space. It’s exactly what I’ve been longing to do, and exactly what I’ve been resisting for several months.

I once resolved to be encouraging and life- giving in all that I say on the inter-web. Sometimes this decision is downright impossible. I can’t measure up to my own standards so I simply quit. It’s almost predictable – I stop writing and as sure as the sun shines I’m dealing with disappointment and discouragement.

Most recently it was the disappointment of a physical accident right in the middle of the holidays. A broken hand (well, officially “finger”, but my whole hand was in pain, & disabled) and my favorite activities all but entirely halted.

Typing was difficult, and my emotions wavered from Jekyll to Hyde. One day I was marveling at the things the Lord was showing me during this time, and the next day I was so angry that my husband didn’t do laundry the way I wanted him to. My days were filled with pain meds, painful therapy, and the presence of a metal rod in my hand, accompanying my roles as mommy, wife, and household manager. Somehow in the midst of all this I realized how much of life really is a question.

How many freak accidents can a mommy have in six months?

Will I ever play piano again?

Will the things I pray for daily ever happen?

Are the dreams in my heart from God?

Dear Jesus, Have you forgotten what you said? Where is God?

Does he hear me?
Is he really good?
Does he really love me?

And the more productive questions:
What do you want to teach me God?
What are you doing with me?
What are we working on now?

Sometimes the act of voicing the questions lessens the hold they can have over me. They aren’t as powerful and haunting. I simply say “Here is my question, God – I abandon it to you, I’m so tired of asking…”

Somewhere in one of these dark moments – with only my left hand to write – I sketched a question mark and an exclamation point and imagined my BIG HUGE questions and then my BIG HUGE answers coming one day with an exclamation.

I handed the sketch to my design partner (aka, husband) and he promptly produced the typography.

So here it is: my attempt to jump off the train of resistance and get back into writing. I don’t have a perfect ending with a nice spiritual lesson. And. it’s. OK.

Whatever coaxes us out of hiding, to write, record, and express, is a revolutionary act. It says that we believe our lives count. Our lives do count. – Sark

Thanksgiving with the Northerners…

by CyleAugusta Leave a Comment

We didn’t visit the Big House in Sautee Nachoochee for Thanksgiving like we usually do, partly due to my parents traveling overseas and my siblings spending the day with their in-laws.

The prospect of organizing the big feast was daunting – downright intimidating- especially the turkey business. When your feasting with the parents they always provide the meat and the adult children bring the side dishes, right?

I think I just grew up.

I grew into an adult who is capable of buying and preparing a turkey and a ham and organizing a Holiday meal. We shared the day with three families who were all in the same boat – spending Thanksgiving without family. I didn’t realize they were all northerners until my friend said -“Thanks for hosting us northerners”!

And there you have it, Thanksgiving with the Northerners. We feasted, we shared our thanks, we walked on driftwood beach after the feast, then returned to the house for coffee and desert.

The best part of the day: The girls gathering at the dining table, coffee and desert in hand while pouring over black Friday ads. We made our plans, giggled and talked about what treasures we were going to land. We divided into teams of two and planned to meet up later in the night. Team 1 was actually brave enough for Walmart while team 2 played it safe and stuck with Target.

The coffee was brewing at 9:45p.m. and my household was long succumbed to slumber.

I was giddy with excitement – I kept thinking “I am one of those people”: ~~The crazies~~. Then I pulled up at Target immediately gawking at all the people lined up. I saw people I knew, had reunions with old friends, finding my place in line conversation was electric, while stories of trampling, hyper-ventilating and other horrors at Walmart flickered through the line like lightning bugs. The wal- mart sales started earlier so many shoppers were easing into the line at Target while processing the saga of Wally World. Occasionally a horn would loudly blare while a manager recited the rules of safe shopping. It was like elementary:

No pushing, no shoving, no guns??? What? Oh, this is Target.

Then when our group of 30 was allotted into the store it was like walking into Heaven, ok, not really- but it was nuts how exciting that stroll into target was, like there was red carpet under me and a symphony playing around me?

I kept speaking truth to myself: this is target – I can come here ten times a day if I want.

I felt privledged to be among the first 150 people allowed in the store while the other latecomers had to suffer at the back of the line until their chosen 30 were allowed to enter. I ran from place to place with map in hand swiping all the amazing deals, I had carefully planned. My team mate and I worked together beautifully, one of us would man the buggy, while the other raced through the crowds of people to grab items on sale.

So, yes my kids got the $ 20.00 dollar razor scooters among other things that were significantly on sale. It was a lot of fun, standing in line, feeling deliriously tired, in fact I was so tired that I turned around rapidly and busted right in the middle of the target aisle- I fell face first, it was embarrassing and it hurt, but no worries, I got my deals and I have a chiropractic appointment this week.

Team 1

Team 2

Beyond all of this, I will never forget meeting team 1 at Fire house subs, the only restaurant open at 3:30 a.m. That frenzied shopping made us hungry! We shared stories of victories, deals conquered and the insanity we had seen. We laughed and laughed some more, really thats all you can do when your up at a restaurant eating after a shopping spree at 3:30 a.m.!!!!!! It made me feel like I was in high school all over again. Fun times!