i am my mother's daughter

I've probably said this before, but it's highly funny to me that I enjoy browsing antique/thrift stores nowadays. My Mom used to drag me, my brother, and my Dad to antique store after antique store which I then likened to stabbing my eyes with a fork. I'm not sure when my opinion of thrifting changed, but it was probably when I lived in a studio apartment right around the corner from Empire Cafe and countless thrift stores and antique shops. It's one of the best corners in all of Houston.

So now, several years later, my vision for our home is a mixture of modern, vintage, handmade, and multicultural items. We love our West Elm and IKEA furniture, but we also love antiques courtesy of my Mom. She found the above pulpit in our entryway, a chair in the living room, a prayer bench in our bedroom, and a Rothko print in the library/TV room. She also scored a Moroccan wire tea light lantern - I selected it from amongst several fun things in "New Kitty Ann Land" which also serves as a guest bedroom. See, my Mom has always wanted her name to be Kitty Ann as opposed to Julie. "Old Kitty Ann Land" was in my parents' garage in Round Rock, TX, and it was fabulous - ask any of my friends who visited. Anyway, my zany Madre has rubbed off on me. I found the above hymnal rack in Gruene and as we purchased it I told Johnny, "I am so my Mother's daughter."

Props to Johnny for hanging the hymnal rack after patiently bearing with me. I had a hard time deciding where the heck it should go in the living room - long story. For some reason, I was drawn to an unconventional spot above the sofa; it works for me and complements the pulpit. As with any thrifted object, I love to imagine the story behind it. Which Church did this rack come from? Who placed hymnals in it each Sunday? Was the Church torn down? Was the congregation in Texas? Georgia? Methodist? Baptist? Etc.

One thing the rack holds is the latest Image journal which I've barely cracked into, but I did read a beautiful poem on page 100:

The Burned Butterfly
by Anya Silver

Thus this restless little butterfly of the memory
has its wings burned now and cannot fly.
-Teresa of Avila

Char my wings. Lord, singe
these cells of forewing, hindwing.
Blacken memory's sky blue
shimmer, its thousands of cells-
each startling pigment, each
dorsal and ventral venation-
the coppered glint of flight,
oh Lord. If prayer is forgetting,
let the colored dust of decades
rise in air, let me put away
all fluttered moments trapped
within my hair. These bodies
of memory - crippled, drab-
across the thirsty earth do blow.
I bring you, Lord, the rest
of it: my driving mind,
my flightless soul.


....I pinned the two postcards from Yard Dog to the inspiration wire. I like the reminder that "All Things Are Possible" here:



And Johnny Cash folk art here:



Lastly, I recommend Pandora's Andrew Bird radio if you're in need of good tunes.

P.S. ~ My Mom offered to cross-stitch this sampler for us, and teach me how! She tells me she did a lot of cross-stitching when I was in her belly. I'm excited to learn.