good dog.

Einstein has a penchant for going through the trash. He is a lifelong, unreformed stealer of snacks. He will bark at anything up to and including the sound of himself farting. In the first week after we adopted him, he ate half our bed and part of our couch. And then pooped directly into an air vent.

But.


He will also lie still for a solid 45 minutes while a sniffly, feverish toddler cuddles him for comfort.

He will catch toes in the face and untold quantities of snot in the fur without complaint.

He will ignore the chattering of delicious squirrels right outside the window, the meowing of the highly chaseable cat, and the freshly-filled bowl of kibble.

Because his boy needs him and that is all he needs to know. And that makes him a good dog, no matter how many times I have called him otherwise while sweeping stinky spilled trash up off the kitchen floor.

Einstein was a rescue and came from the kind of circumstances that normally raise red flags about potential aggression. The dog he was rescued with did not survive the ordeal. "It's surprising," his foster mom told me when I first met him, "that he stayed so sweet."

But I am not a bit surprised.

assorted sweetness

We've been hibernating lately. I think it's a natural state of things in January, when you weigh the potential fun of any major outing against the ordeal of toddler outerwear and the likelihood of low-temperature-induced grumpiness. Apart from the usual errand-and-preschool routine I think our only field trip over the past week or so was a quick visit to the Greenway, where after about half an hour the chilly wind drove us back to the car.

We also went to Grammie's house, where Remy got to play with a bunch of Dave's old toys. The kazoo and wind-up toys were big hits--no verdict on the yo-yos though, because Dave totally hogged them the entire time.

And the nice thing about living in the woods is that when you do get a warmer day, you really don't have to go that far to enjoy it. (You also don't have to put real pants on. My neighbors and I are on a leggings-friendly basis.)

Rain's falling on the tin roof--hibernation continues.

how to say a prayer

Yesterday I had the opportunity to photograph Charlotte 24-7, an urban prayer room that is open to the public--all of the public, regardless of religion or circumstance. It's an open warehouse space in NoDa that has been transformed into something singular and intoxicating.

Before we had Remy, I voluteered as a staffer here several evenings a week, keeping tables and stations tidy, introducing people to the space, and then stepping back to let them explore it however they saw fit. Some took quick darting looks around, stiff and uncomfortable, before realizing that it really was ok to just sit down with a book and relax. Others were more deliberate, reading Scripture, scrawling prayers and confessions onto slips of paper, adding them to the fluttering tapestry on the walls. And some just got right to it, kneeling, shouting, crying, leaving tears on the painted floor.

All of them, of course, were welcome. Are welcome.

The prayer room is a place for community, but not always the way you'd expect. Some of my favorite moments always happened when the church groups had left and the organized worship gatherings were over. It was then, in the nearly-deserted space, with sirens wailing and junkyard dogs barking in the falling dusk, that I learned how to say a prayer.

A prayer is not a formal recitation. A prayer is a homeless couple, digging into ragged pockets to hand crumpled bills to a young man who needed bus fare. He didn't say for what or to where. He just asked and they just gave.

A prayer is a young worship leader who sits late into the evening holding the hand of a prostitute, who said that no, she did not want to hear any testimony. So the worship leader just listened, without judgment or agenda.

A prayer is the ebullience of the over-caffeinated twenty-somethings who sat cross-legged on the worn furniture and not only spoke passionately about Getting Shit Done, but went out and did it. Are doing it.

A prayer is honesty and vulnerability and a quick step out of the Self, no matter how brief, laced tightly into the same lumpy package.

It's none of my business what anyone else believes. I don't have all the answers. I'm not even entirely sure I know the question.

But I know that no one walks out of here completely alone.

And I know how to say a prayer.

cabin fever

It's been freezing (by local standards) here lately. Mr. Stump is shivering his bark off.

(This doesn't look like the warmest spot to hang out, but try telling anything to a goose.)

So even though it's been perfectly sunny, 30-something degrees + wind means we've been stuck inside for most of the week.

Cabin-fever toddler entertainment usually follows a standard pattern:

You start with musical instruments/blocks/talking Cookie Monsters...

...shortly thereafter you sacrifice all of the (relatively) clean surfaces in the room and whip out the crayons and snacks, which hopefully will not get confused for each other, lest a Burnt Sienna diaper nearly send you rushing to the ER...

...and eventually everything just devolves into tickle fights/kiss attacks/horribly uncoordinated dance parties.

Which is all pretty great until everybody starts going a little crazy.

The high tomorrow is 62. We are not complaining.

winter wildlife

Winter is definitely the quietest season on the lake--the chilly weather keeps most of the weekenders away, fishermen trade in their jon boats for recliners and ESPN, and no one wants to cruise around in a pontoon with a cold beer when it's 40 degrees and windy. Still, there's plenty of life around the cabin.

This cute couple takes turns having a morning snooze on the same log every single day without fail. They're there every time I pour my first cup of coffee. I hope they get comfy enough to have their ducklings along our bank in the spring. Front-row seat to adorable swimming balls of fluff? Yes please. (Do ducks mate for that long? Actually, don't tell me. I'm just going to pretend they do.)

These little guys have shacked up along the waterline too, just a few yards from the ducks' hangout.

And this is not exactly a novel sight. In fact, if I forget to give the wooden walkway a good sweep when the weather first gets warm, barefoot visitors will get stabbed in the instep by nutshell leftovers. But a squirrel's gotta eat.

Other wild things around here wear warm hoodies instead of fur or feathers, but they're just as swift...

...though slightly easier to catch.