News Trend Donica And Me|Actual

I honestly can't remember a single thing about what's going on in this photo of Donica (left) and me, but in terms of background, I can provide an ocean.

Once upon a time, I was six years old.

I know. We're deep diving into the past but stick with me and I'll eventually bring us back to the modern era.

It was a morning in the early summer between first and second grade. I heard a knock at the door (no one had doorbells in that place and time) and my mom called to me.

There at my front door stood Donica.

Of course I knew her name. She lived in my neighborhood, though a bit beyond my usually traveled circles. All during the past school year, we had waited at the bus stop together with the neighborhood kids and rode on the same bus to West Elementary. But she was assigned to the other first grade teacher, so even though her classroom was just one door down the hall from mine, we might as well have been on different planets.

In many ways, we were different species, Donica and me. I'd mostly ever played with boys - my brothers and their rough and tumble friends - or my special forest friend, Marilyn. But I knew from afar that Donica lived in a different world. She had sisters, and even more so, Older Sisters and I was in proper awe.

Nonetheless, there she stood at my front door, bold as brass and ready to play. And so play we did.

I can't begin to recount all of our crazy adventures over the years.

There were endless hours of swimming, including underwater handstands, diving for clay scratched from the lake bed, and one highly impactful lesson on why one might feel free to go Number One in the lake, but never, ever Number Two. Winters were a blur of sledding, skating across the frozen lake, and nearly frostbitten fingers. One fall, when the men of the neighborhood lit a smoldering fire in the stump of an old willow, we'd spend the afternoons feeding and fanning the coals back up into a proper flame.

We alternatively made fun of the neighborhood boys and played with them, riding bikes, squirting hoses, sledding until our toes froze. We mastered their games of nighttime spear fishing, make-up-your-own-words Scrabble, and catching frogs and crayfish. There were countless games of spoons, a dare that involved sending a comrade to a neighbor's house to ask for white raisins, and then the infamous evening in which I spouted orange pop out my nose.

Donica's house was a source of fascination for me. There were three bedrooms for the four girls, and to my utter amazement, they often switched around who stayed where. We played endless Barbies, watched Bonanza on her family's new-fangled color TV, and listened to her sister's Beatle albums. Freshly released Beatles albums. Quite the gourmet in the kitchen, Donica taught me the magic of tomato sandwiches, and even more exotic, radish sandwiches.

At some point, Donica?S parents split up and got divorced, just like mine. This was the first time I?D had friend go through what I?D been through, and while I didn?T wish upon her the shame and stigma that came upon so-called broken families back in that time, I was so relieved to know that someone else understood

But there was one surprise left to come.

The summer of '79.

It was a morning in the early summer between my junior and senior years of college. I heard the phone ring (no one had cell phones in that place and time) and my mom called to me.

There on the phone was Donica.

She'd come home for the summer, she said, and wondered what I was up to. And thus began what could be considered, I suppose, the last summer of my childhood. Donica was with me every step of the way as we pursued more adventures, crazier than ever before. Somehow we both made to September in one piece (and with no arrests!) and with a fresh new crop of memories, we parted ways.

Since then, life has taken us in different directions, Donica and me. I settled first in Chicago and then up here in the Pacific Northwest as she has ping-ponged back and forth between coasts, ending up back in our home state of Michigan. It's fair to say, I suppose, that our lives have gone in different directions.

Yesterday brought us right back together again.

After a good dig through her vintage photo archives, a third member of our Ore Lake friendship club texted the above photo to me and apparently to Donica too. I really have no clue what's going on in this photo, and I'm not even sure when it took place, though based on my haircut, Idanquot;d lay my bets on that summer of '79.

But what's most important about this photo is that in a flash, it brought back a childhood crammed full of hilarious memories of time spent with a true friend, a friendship that's held us together for over a half-century. And I don't think that anything will ever pull us apart.

P.S. The day we tried to make blue pancakes at my house but they actually turned out green.

P.P.S. Try saying "comb" but do NOT laugh.

P.P.P.S. When we both said, "Eat it, Ronald, eat it," to the weirdo kid on the bus and the creepy bus driver told us we had to write that out 100 times and give it to him the next day. And after you wrote that all out, you cut every one of the hundred sentences up into a separate strip of paper and delivered them all to the bus driver in a handful of confetti.

News Trend Finishing Strong: My Princess Book|Actual

It was on a Friday night maybe ten years ago that I found myself lying flat on my back on the carpeted floor of a suburban hotel ball room, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles and feeling my entire perspective on life suddenly snap into place.

The room around me was crowded with people - the vast majority were teenagers - also lying on their backs, also staring up into the same acoustical tiles, and while, if they were listening at all, I have no doubt that their lives might also have been changing. I do remember quite a few stifled guffaws and giggles, so I'm not sure how much was seeping into their ears. But these are the ways of teenagers and God does indeed work in mysterious ways.

I was at a Lutheran youth gathering. Our speaker was a thirty-something slightly chubby youth pastor from Minnesota, the Lutheran homeland. In plain, direct language and engaging good humor, he talked to us about relationships and sex and self-worth.

That sounds so hokey and boring and even cringe-worthy when I say it like that.

But thankfully, he didn't say it like that.

He first spoke to the young women in the crown, and said something like this:

I understand what it is that you want, ladies. You want to be loved. You want to be cherished and cared for and loved in such a way that you know you come first to your beloved, you will always come first. You ache to be loved for exactly who you are, you want to be respected and protected. You wish to be adored. And you deserve that. All of that.

Someday, you may meet a man who can love you in these ways. But the boys your age are not ready yet, so be careful not to give your heart or your body away to them until they prove themselves worthy.

 But there is someone who already loves you perfectly, just as you want to be loved.

God. Your heavenly father, your king.

And you are his treasured daughter, his princess. You are a princess of God.

* * * * *

Now, to be honest, the Minnesota youth pastor said this way better than I just did. He spoke with snap and sizzle; his words electrified the crowd. About halfway through this part of his talk, which lasted an easy quarter hour, the sniggers and whispers abruptly died away and the room fell dead drop silent.

I saw several girls wiping away tears. I felt a lump in my own throat.

We knew, every girl, every woman in that room, we knew exactly what he was talking about.

And we felt the power of that perfect love come over us, and a sense of comfort ease into our souls.

* * * * *

The boys and men in the room were aware that something was happening, but bless them, they couldn't fully grasp it. But then it was time for our speaker to turn his attention to them.

Young men, these young women around you are the princesses of God, but you are not the princes. A prince simply sits back in the authority of his blood line and awaits his turn to rule, but that is not your destiny.

You are God's knights. Your duty is to protect God's kingdom and defend his gaji. You will go wherever he sends you and act on his behalf to bring his light and mercy to the world. You will do these things not on your own authority, but only in accordance with God's authority and you must live up to his standards at all times.

Between missions, you must return to God's feet, kneel before him, and learn from him. Only by applying God's wisdom to your own life will your reputation grow.

Now I've seen you looking at the princesses of the kingdom. I know you'd like to win the heart of one for yourself, and in time, as your training advances, that will come. But now, while you are earning the privilege of a princess's love, your knightly duty is to protect the gaji of all princesses, to defend them against all harm and wrongdoing, to ensure they are all treated as God's precious daughters should be.

Because you are his treasured son, a true knight of God.

Now we were all spellbound. From the males in the room I sensed a healthy surge of adrenaline and testosterone; an unspoken pride in this charge. I felt each young man square his shoulders and stand a little taller (except we were still lying down, so I guess they actually laid a little taller) in this new sense of purpose.

From the young women, I felt a further awakening, a new awareness of who these boys were and what made them tick. No wonder these girls couldn't get their peers to behave as proper boyfriends; they needed to slay some dragons first.

* * * * *

This was a night that changed my perceptions

around youth ministry,

around teenagers,

around what it means to be created by God.

From this day forward, I told and re-told this story - in my own fumbling way - to the kids I met with at youth groups. I passed out stickers of princesses and little toy knights - like army men only wearing suits of armor and carrying swords. As I said goodnight to them, I looked at them hard and said, "You are a princess of God. You are God's knight."

I let these images and comparisons soak deep into my soul, so that I didn't have to remember them consciously when I spent time with the kids. I did everything in my power to treat them like princesses and knights. I felt in tangible ways my ideas about who we are, we children of God of all ages, undergo some pretty radical transformation.

And I knew deep in my heart that it was true. I am a princess of God.

* * * * *

Around that same time, I was noodling through the craft store one day and found a tiny pink sparkly notepad in the bargain bin. Without hesitation, I reached in and drew it out. "This will be my book about fairies," I announced to myself.

Years flew by and I found my creative energy for a fairy book to be entirely stifled. The whole concept made no sense to me. I've never been particularly drawn to fairies but I'd told myself that's what this book was meant to be about, so I felt rather stuck.

I consoled myself by swapping out the cheap lined pages for an assortment of hand torn art papers and replaced the wire spiral with a ribbon.

The new and improved book sat empty for years.

And then, last month, when I picked it up again and dared myself to finish it, I wrote out the first sentence.

"This is my little book about fairies. It's been waiting a long, long time to be born. And finally that day has come."

As soon as I wrote those words, a new thought burst into my mind.

It's not a book about fairies. It's about princesses.

This is a book about my life as a princess of God.

And now, at long last, my book is complete.

* * * * *

Want to see the other journals I've finished? Check them out here:

The Presidents' Pocket Biographies

My Princess Book

My Stash

Chicago

News Trend Before And After|Actual

"The moment between before and after is called Truth." -Dainin Katagiri

When I'm working on projects at home, I love to take some Before shots to capture the way things looked when I started to work.

The problem is, I usually forget.

I guess I'm so excited to get to work, so fueled by adrenaline and enthusiasm, that my brain skips over "hey, let's take a few photos" and zooms right into DIY mode.

This happened once again this weekend.

I was a full 24 hours into repainting the woodwork in my front hall before it dawned on me to capture my starting point.

Patient pup.

So if you'd like to know where I actually began, please imagine this white trim - ceiling moldings, doorways, and wainscoting - in a light beige semi-gloss sporting a ten-year-old supply of scuffs and dings.

If I squinted my eyes, it looked mostly fine but it was time.

What you actually see in this photo is the entry stripped bare, a gala festoon of Frog Tape, and the first coat of Bleached Linen. That's my go-to white for ceilings and painted trim all around the house. To my eyes, it reads plenty pure and bright with just a touch of warmth that feels cozy, crisp, and clean to me.

Like every other painting project I've ever done in my life, when I laid down my paintbrush for the day, I immediately took up a cleaning rag. I don't mind the hard work of painting but lordy be, I despise the mess. So all the accessories get put away for the night, and the floor gets a good washing to be sure all the fresh paint freckles are scrubbed away.

Gracie, bless her, is waiting patiently for her walk. Eventually, we made it.

Now would you like to see an oh-so-satisfying After shot with the room restored to glory and everything back in place?

The yellow upper walls are staying the same. And they are not as shockingly bright in person as they appear in this photo.

Well, me too. But I haven't taken a proper After yet. Because I'm not quite done.

This is technically an in-progress shot: two coats of paint on all the trim but only one on the doors. Ugh. There are five -count 'em, five - doors in this room. I've got somewhere around another five hours of work before I can fully re-inhabit the room.

Still, at this point, I decided it was fair game to rip down all the violently ugly tape and rehang the art. Later that same evening, I washed the outlet plate, and arranged for my husband and fourth-born to lug the dresser back into place.

This little table was only here to hold my candle during my work hours. I've been painting for the last four out of five weekends, and I'm a bit sick of it. The flickering light and soothing scent of a quality candle provided a bit of the motivation I needed to slug through another day as a slave to the paintbrush.

Also, Harry Potter audio books are my secret weapon against painting drudgery. Jim Dale sure knows how to make the hours fly by.

* * * * *

So as much as I enjoy the striking contrast of Before and After photos that capture a home transformation, I'm notoriously bad at taking them.

Mine are more like Kinda Before and Getting Close to After.

Which I realize is really not satisfying at all, and I apologize for letting you down.

To make amends. Let me offer this shot of my red tulips as they break out into riotous bloom.

Though they are also somewhere between Before and After, they speak - as Dainin Katagirias points out - an achingly beautiful truth.

News Trend Accidental Beauty|Actual

"I like the accidental nature of being in the real world." -Beeban Kidron

Some years ago - maybe ten or twelve - I went to Washington's famed Skagit Valley tulip fields to take pictures of the annual spring miracle.

Field upon field upon field - as far as the eye can see - are filled with row upon row upon row of tulips,

gloriously colored,

geometrically perfect,

swaying ever so slightly on their stiff green stems in the gentle breeze.

As anyone who has ever seen them - and most Seattleites have made the trip - will tell you, this is quite a sight.

I'd been to the fields before this particular trip, so I knew just how to catch a great shot. Pay a few dollars to park your car not at one of the garden centers but along one of the fields where visitors are welcome, and traipse back along muddy lanes through the acreage to get a proper vista of the wide-open fields.

I was with several of my then-teenage daughters and a friend or two, and that's exactly what we did.

The girls wandered off by themselves, as girls that age will do, and I was left to roam on my own. After filling my camera roll with countless shots of the brilliant fields, I navigated my own way around giant puddles and deep trenches of mud, and in the bend of the narrow track, I came across an ancient red, rusty tractor parked off to the side.

Hitched to the back of the tractor was an even older wagon. It looked to be a custom job, improvised from rugged and well-worn wood. The sides stood maybe two feet above the open bed of the wagon, but from my perspective, I couldn't see inside.

So I walked around to the back of the wagon, and this is what I saw.

Armloads of discarded tulips lay heaped in the wagon,

colors gently muted,

petals slightly worn,

stems softly curving and ever so slightly wilted.

And while these were apparently considered substandard in some way to the regimented soldiers still standing at attention in the fields, I thought that the faded blooms lying in the back of the wagon were the most beautiful tulips I'd ever seen.

I admire their accidental beauty, even to this day.

* * * * *

Before the tulips, daffodils bloom. Read about that visit here.

A Field Of Daffodils

News Trend Blossoms Of Spring|Actual

Earth Day is a time to celebrate our planet, and remind ourselves of our duty to protect and cherish her health and dignity.

In some ways, the ornamental flowers I grow in my garden are an affront to Mother Nature's goodness. Developed by humans to maximize beauty rather than contribute to the ecosystem, garden flowers go against the grain of Planet Earth and her special day.

But when I watch my gardens burst forth every mid-April with form, color, and beauty, I know that these spring-blooming flowers fill me with gratitude for our planet and marvel at the miracles she brings forth.

Which is a perfectly lovely way to celebrate Earth Day.

By this time of year, the crocuses and daffodils have already come and gone; my earliest-to-bloom rhododendron is fading fast. But here, on Earth Day 2020, are the show-stopping blossoms in my Pacific Northwest garden.

^ When I was a little girl, my grandmother had a massive magnolia tree in her front yard and every spring it exploded in resplendent pink blossoms that eventually carpeted the grass underneath with a shower of pastel petals. What makes me laugh now is that I didn't really grasp the idea that this was a spring phenomenon, that these flowers came just once a year, and that this showstopping beauty signaled the beginning of a new season of flowers.

Only as an adult growing my own gardens did I really lock in on the concept of spring flowers and the special joy they bring.

^ Red tulips invoke spring for me like nothing else. My grandmother always grew them, and my mom too. But these particular gems have been growing in my own garden since the first year I moved in. I planted the bulbs in the fall of 1986, and every single spring since then, they have been brilliant harbingers of the new season. Right now they're blooming in several different spots in my gardens, and in the backyard, amidst a splash of these hardy red fellows, I noticed one yellow tulip, the last representative of his color tribe to survive all these years.

The reds however are still going strong.

^ Bleeding hearts are new to me. They're an old-fashioned favorite, to be sure, but not a plant I'd ever seen before planting them my own gardens many years ago. What I learned is that not only are they a delicate, sweethearted flower that chimes in perfectly with other, more robust spring bloomers, they are a little girl's dream. Perfect pink hearts that open to reveal what looks like a drop of liquid gold, many a time did I find my little daughters and their friends standing in front of a stem full of blooms, carefully and tenderly taking each one into their fingers, holding it in amazement, and then letting go to explore the next.

About a decade ago, my original bleeding hearts died after a particularly tough winter and I've since replaced them. I'll never go without these beauties in my garden ever again.

* * * * *

I support Earth Day's more political and practical movements. By all means, let's lobby for environmental protection, attend rallies and marches, reinvest ourselves in effective recycline, and participate in clean-up projects.

But all of our actions to protect Planet Earth are most effective when they are grounded in our deep love for Mother Earth. And sometimes, that love is best nurtured by enjoying the blossoms of spring.

News Trend I Am An Irish Setter|Actual

"A setter silently searches for game by scent; hunting is done systematically and methodically. When prey is encountered the dog freezes rather than chasing after the game. Setters get their name for their distinctive stance, a sort of crouch or "set" upon finding their quarry."

I'm out in the fresh air, enjoying my afternoon walk.

I come upon a green open space.

It's familiar.

Suddenly, I stop.

My feet freeze in mid-step.

My brain tingles.

My heart beats with excitement and readiness..

BUM-bump.

BUM-bump.

BUM-bump.

I attune my ears to the slightest whisper.

I breathe in deep drafts of air, sifting through the variety of scents nearby.

I scan the grayscape of the meadow, searching for a particular shape and size.

Perhaps it is all these things taken together, or maybe it's the glint of sunlight reflected in the huge dark pupil, but all of a sudden, I know.

There's a rabbit out there.

But this is a sort of knowingness that feels different. Not like the other things I know, like where my treats are stored, or when it's time for a nap.

This is beyond knowing. My brain pulses with deep currents; my body is driven by ancient energies.

I do not think. I simply act.

I am frozen in place, my eyes locked on the sasaran, my muscles tensed and every so slightly quivering. My heartbeat slows to a barely perceptible hum.

Bummmmm.

Bummmmm.

Bummmmm.

There is nothing in the world but me and the rabbit.

I wait. Still. Silent. Satisfied in every cell of my body to simply stand in rapt attention and watch my quarry.

I have no desire to chase or catch the rabbit. I only desire to watch, to breathe in the bunny's essence, to vibrate with the sheer delight of seeing it.

Slowly, subtly, as my body instructs, I step forward, one paw at a time, towards the rabbit.

Only my paws move. Every other part of my body remains smooth, supple, fluid. I flow forward like a silent red river, inch by careful inch.

Sometimes the rabbit will notice me from a considerable distance. Other times, I creep quite close.

But sooner or later, the rabbit will sense danger. In a flash, it darts into the undergrowth, little white tail bobbing along as a last treat to my eyes.

The spell is broken. I come back to myself, no sense of time having passed, not even sure exactly what happened. I'm perfectly happy to bounce back into step and carry on with my walk.

Bumpety bump bump.

Bumpety bump bump.

Bumpety bump bump.

Until I come again to another open green space, and find another rabbit.

Or, as it happened today, I find two.

News Trend Rearranging The Furniture|Actual

I suppose it comes as no surprise that the Covid quarantine is affecting us differently.

I understand that many people - especially older people - have been shut up in their homes painfully and utterly alone for weeks on end.

I get the economic free fall some families face, and I know how scary that can be.

I appreciate that parents accustomed to raising their kids with a supportive team of teachers and day care providers are suddenly going it alone, and I can imagine that feels wildly overwhelming.

I also have compassion for extroverts who feel frantic to get out and do something - anything! - besides hang out at home for one more day.

But I am none of those people.

I count myself so lucky to be at home with two daughters and fully employed husband, with my two separately quarantined daughters doing quite well, and my faithful students diligently keeping up with their algebra while the world goes upside down. My friends are faithful texters and I feel as connected to them as ever.

And I'm incredibly blessed to be an introvert. Honestly, the truth is that I'm really loving all this forced time at home, and the beautiful extravagance of extra time to be thinking deep thoughts inside my head.

More than ever, I'm passionately concerned about the world around me. I care so much about mothers and want to celebrate the many ways women bring our best nurturing selves to not only raise our bio kids but to mother others. I advocate for those struggling with depression, anxiety, and addiction - so many people are suffering  trauma in their lives, and desperately need our support and understanding. I care about people whose lives are profoundly affected by Covid - the marginalized people are suffering the worst. And I'm trying to keep up with the way our world is changing as a result of the epidemic, and listening to the emerging voices of reason. Western state governors, I'm looking at you.

I want so much to think and write about all those fascinating things, to process more deeply, to hear ideas that are no doubt bouncing around in other people's brains, to compare notes, to move ahead together.

But do you know what I've been doing instead?

Rearranging the furniture.

I know. It's so weird and avoidant and unproductive. My furniture does not need rearranging. But somehow this is what I can do in this crazy upside down world of ours that is soothing to me.

Oh, and I've been obsessing over art work too.

Mhmm. I know. So important, right?

For the past week, this room has been constantly in my thoughts.

Call it a den, an office, or as we always have referred to it, a library. But since early March, this room has also been my husband's work-from-home place of residence. And besides squeezing his multi-screen desktop situation onto our relatively tiny work stations - I allow him to trespass onto my space, because, you know, I like his paychecks - the arrangement has worked perfectly.

Until I noticed the carefully stacked heaps of reports beginning to pile up along the floor like drifts of new-fallen snow blown across the wide open prairie, and decided that there had to be a better way.

Which, after hours of brainstorming and analysis, inspired me to drag this white piece of furniture in from the garage. Owned by my fourth-born but temporarily on hiatus, this desky tabley kind of thing is just perfect for my husband's overflow without causing any huge design catastrophe in the room.

Okay, so the table is working fine, but what is up with that janky art arrangment?

Well, once upon a time, there was a small cabinet on the right side of that wall, which filled in the corner and made sense of the two pieces on the right side of the arrangement, currently hidden by the plant.

The plant is a different story. Let's set that aside for now

Anyway, last year we had the floors done, so along with every other stick of furniture on the first floor, the small cupboard was removed. And when the floors were done and it was time to move everything back in, I decided I didn't want that piece in the corner any more. Apparently I suddenly became a fan of open corners.

Since that fateful decision, the art scenario has just struggled along.

But all these months, I have been playing with a plan to balance out the arrangement. And once that table-desk was put in place, I realized it was high time to finally rework the art.

So then this happened.

Besides moving that poor plant around yet again, I added two pieces to the arrangement.

The piece in the bottom right is an amazing DIY I found on Design Sponge many years ago. The link to the instructions has been sitting in my Pinterest account for what seems like eternity, but finally last weekend, I dug it out, dusted it off, and put it to good use.

As a fan of geometry and particularly rectangular solids, I found the process of making one out of balsa wood and tacky glue to be a fascinating challenge. And I adore the finished product. But I'm just gonna say, if you are not a fan of fiddly projects whose instructions are useful but only to a point, and eventually must rely on your own gut instinct for spatial accuracy and sticky engineering, cut yourself a wide berth around this one.

This project was definitely not as easy as I thought it would be.

But with the help of a few replacement pieces and a whole lot of washi tape to hold all the moving parts in place, I persevered, and love the finished effect.

Above my groovy 3-D cube is a painting I bought at a thrift store.

For months on end, I've been scrolling past photos of homes decorated with tons of adorable vintage art, and hundreds of times, I've thought Where in the heck do people find such cute cast-off paintings?

Covid note: Jimmy Fallon's work from home situation is a huge case in point. So much crazy cool art in his house.

So when I found myself in a thrift store back in January, and this oil painting fairly jumped off the rack at me, I thought Huh, so this is how it happens.

And even though the painting didn't entirely rock my world, I bought it. Because at thrift stores, that's what you do.

Several members of my family reacted to the painting by saying, "It's so Bob Ross." Now, I love Bob Ross as much as the next person, and I don't think any of us consider that comparison a slam, but it puts a finger on my unease.

After endless weeks of Should I or shouldn't I? I decided to go ahead and hang the thing. It fits perfectly into the corner of my arrangement, and when (not if but when) I decide I can't handle its Bob Rossiness any more, I'll paint my own piece to hang in the same frame.

So here is where my wall stands today.

Well, technically yesterday. And now the oil painting is hanging on an actual nail so I no longer need to stand out of frame and hold it in place for photo shoots.

Current conundrums:

The paper tiger. He used to be centered above the art when it was just the four black frames and the yellow painting, which are now on the left. So now he's off to the left of center. Is it too wonky to leave him hanging out where he is? I'm kinda liking his asymmetry and leaning toward a no.

The table/desk. Can I style it just a little while still reserving its right to be a landing pad for fifty pounds of paper? Leaning toward a hard yes on this one: as of tonight, I added a candle (currently burning) and a small plant.

The plant. Will he ever find a forever home? Maybe. But probably not.

In the meantime, as I search for answers to my burning decor questions, Gracie sleeps on. We both have found ways to cope with our currently unstable world, and I admire her spirit.

Currently I have no plans to move the couch.

* * * * *

It was just last weekend that I rearranged the bookshelves in this same room. Read about that here:

Rainy Saturday Sorting Out

And here's how I styled them before that. Ranger helped.

How To Style Bookshelves

Then there was the time I got a little crazy with book storage

Adding Fuel To The Fire