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I am sipping on a glass of wine.
And by sipping- I mean sipping.
I’m not hazily downing craft beer that I can’t afford while wearing pants that make me have to suck in every second and makeup that gives my cheeks a pulse of their own and aches to be removed.
I’m not keg standing after a charity event in a lime green tee shirt after seeing the horrors that can come from drunk driving and wiping my foamy mouth with my bracelet clad wrist.
I’m not taking shots in the hopes that I will have so much fun tonight that I won’t remember tomorrow-
because I want to remember tomorrow.
Because I can’t wait to remember tomorrow.
As a party girl who has become a party woman who is now becoming a grown woman who is now ready to become a mom-
for once, words escape me.
And that’s okay.
This is my last drink.
Because I want to make a child who is crazy town,
and slightly high maintenance
and who loves fossils and lizards.
And I want all of these doctors appointments and prayers and journal entries and criss cross applesauce moments to weave together the perfectly imperfect child that I can cradle and spoil and embarrass when I sing Buffy songs in the mall and wear vests from Woodstock into classy restaurants.
I want to explode with the gorgeousness that family can be- and burst with the beauty of motherhood.
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I started this blog as a self proclaimed “college hippie.”
Trying to define myself. Trying to find a place where I could “fit in,”… when, as any true hippie knows, you are intrinsically, beautifully, funkily programmed to stand out.
To make up words.
To occasionally smell bad.
To speak your mind before your mind knows what it’s saying.
To have emotions that smell like red wine and lavender candles and burlap and glitter and that old neon orange crop top that you forgot to wash.
And now I am sitting here.
At a dining room table.
Under a mason jar chandelier.
Next to dying peonies I refuse to give up on.
Looking at wedding photos taken by a woman who my mama believes is a magical sprite of the forest.
and no- I’m not talking about the carbonated goodness that I’m hoarding in the stainless steel fridge that shamelessly tattle tales on my night eating habits with the perfectly placed pearly grease stains from my pink fingertips.
I am talking about the whimsical woman who weaved her way through my wedding day and captured me as so much more than a college hippie-
that instead captured every piece of me.
The ugly crying, that isn’t so ugly when you are all dressed in white.
The awkwardly beautiful dancing to Jason Mraz and I Choose You.
The Monarchs that raised us being released and landing so softly, so beautifully, and lingering just long enough for us to honor our past while dancing into our future.
All of this and more she captured.
This Forest Fairy.
This inspiration who has frozen moments in time that future blonde haired free spirits named Sendona and Xander and Piton will be able to turn their curious, beautiful eyes upon and get a glimpse into who their parents were-
a glimpse into how love looks.
For that, I can never thank you enough❤
For those of you who are dying to know who this frolicking forest fairy, whimsical wedding capturing, consistently captivating goddess of the camera is-
Filed under: beauty, beliefs, living my life, love, strength, Uncategorized
Filed under: Uncategorized
I am sitting on my knees typing on a keyboard
Placed on a coffee table
Hand made by the most amazing Man
I’ve ever known.
I’m juggling emotions while I wonder if I smell as bad as last night and make sure that the paper dolls I created for the tater tots tomorrow are in tip top shape.
I’m swallowing my worries while I stare at a screen that used to be familiar until I abandoned it and chose other ways to express the incredibly Crazy incredibly Beautiful incredibly Normal insanity that is Me.
That is you.
That is us.
Last Saturday, I watched the most handsome blonde man I know sprint across a crowded park and try to fly a kite.
And he wasn’t ashamed.
He wasn’t embarrassed.
He was Joyful.
He was Ecstatic.
He was SEXY.
He ran. and he ran. and he ran.
He untangled those strings again.
And he looked around, smiling deliciously and said, “This is America!”
With the scabby knees of preteens racing, the dads cautiously pushing their daughters and sons on their first bike excursion, the couples with coolers and blankets talking about the future- maybe even the future that I am living in right now. Oh yes. This is America.
And the world.
And the dream. And touching the dream- giving LIFE to the dream- acknowledging that it’s real and it tastes like pink lemonade and you don’t even have to shave all of your legs to have this dream be a reality- THAT. IS. THE. BEAUTY.
Because the dream is what you make it,
and my dream still isn’t over.
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There are moments in life when time becomes terribly tangible. I say terribly, because instead of being able to savor it, juggle it, cradle it gently and gingerly between loving ringed fingers- it slides inexplicably and inevitably through the cracks. You can almost see it, thin and whispy and glittering with the past and present and future all at once. Memories and wine glasses and carved ducks that suddenly mean more than ever. What if’s and regrets and unopened e mails that leave you with a regret so strong and willful it lives in your gut- pulsing and squirming and making you unable to eat the delicious ham and cheese plate the beautiful neighbors brought over because suddenly all you can taste is words that never quite made it out into the world until it was too late.
But the beautiful thing, the delicious thing, the magical wonderful strange and enchanted thing about these moments, is that somehow- it’s never too late. This is something people say. Something pretty. Something comforting. Something that the weary cling to because they so desperately need some verbal savior to ease the pain and restore a hint of what was lost. But it’s more than that.
At least, it is to me now.
I used to have a half faith. I used to have a fairy tale faith. A folly faith. A frightened faith. I believed inspite of the fact that I had never truly been challenged. Let me tell you- I have been challenged.
His face. His raspy breath. His beautiful white hair. His wedding ring, pressed gingerly over mine in those last hours of his life. And hers, over his. Those fingers- those soft, gentle, loving fingers of the man and woman who had introduced me to pistachios, and taught me how to sit up strait, and encouraged me to purse my dreams, and read amazing books, and find a love that was so much more than I believed this reality TV show world could offer. Those fingers in the dim light of their South Carolina study. The ones that have taught me what sort of love to refuse to give up on- 51 years and still I have watched them slow dance in the dark of their home to songs that take me back to a time I wish I knew. I have watched them bicker beautifully- because that’s the way REAL love works. I’ve watched them love not in SPITE of their flaws, but BECAUSE of them. With a respect so true and real I felt that I could reach out and touch it.
I watched her- beautiful, soft, makeupless and undeniably graceful even in the dusky midnight of a humid summer. Even in her grief, even in her loss, I saw her. The wife. The mother. The grandmother. And I admired her.
I have a full faith now. The half that was missing?
It’s been filled up.
It’s been filled by the gorgeous way the universe works even in times of terrible tragedy. The love that bubbles up and opens your eyes to questions that perhaps were too terrifying to ask before. I never knew how soft my grandmothers hands were. Never realized how swiftly, softly, sweetly my mothers words could help to heal a grieving heart. Or how sometimes- even if I shouldn’t- the sweet smelling cigarette smoke on my step dads shirt can calm my senses, just because I know he’s there.
I have a full faith because I sat beside the man who helped me become the woman who will walk down the aisle someday and commit her life to the man of her dreams, and I held his hand, and he held mine, and I promise him that he didn’t need to be afraid. That there was something waiting. That he created a life so beautiful, and a family so strong, that we will take care of each other because HE taught us how to.
And I believed it.
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What is this insatiable need.
This constant hunger.
I am a prostitute to paranoia.
A self proclaimed Browns fan.
A blonde haired blue eyed tornado who smells like tea tree oil at night and cares far too much what people think of her.
When the hell did that start?
When the hell will it end?
I am blessed beyond measure. A it’s not just the fact that I have a boyfriend who will surprise me with snowy trips to bed and breakfasts and laugh even when I’m not sure I’m being funny and let me be the lovely, unfinished wreck that I undeniably am.
Or that I live in a house where the walls are covered with sweet smelling memories. Where we can make Jamaican snowmen and Easter Island heads. Where a shaggy puppy named Sadie greets us everytime we come home, and a shaggier puppy mourns us every time we leave.
It’s not even that I have the world at my fingertips, even if, occassionally, those fingertips are so covered in glitter and chocolate they aren’t sure how to hold the world without making a beautiful, tasty mess of it.
No, I am blessed because under this roof, beside this boy, with the world in my hands, I KNOW my hands.
I know my flaws. My need for attention. My unsightly insecurity. My habit of hoarding. My pretty procrastination. My constant need to be loved because there are times when I cannot muster the strength to love myself for reasons that words may not do any justice.
Sometimes words. really. aren’t. enough.
But, usually, they are.
And that’s why I turn to words. I am verbally investigating this woman that is Me. I am picking her apart and testing hypothesis’ and creating theories about how I became so needing of love. So wanting of affirmation. So tragically prone to lust for the approval of others that I forget that even WITHOUT that approval-
I. AM. STILL. ME.
I still have this boy. I still have these pictures. I still have the world woven messily around my fingers.
I still have my voice. I still have those who DO adore me.
And they are worth far more than the disdain of a thousand people.
is my final conclusion.
The end of my experiment.
For now, anyways🙂
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: affirmation, beauty, belief, boyfriend, brain, childhood, exploration, girl, growth, hands, innocence, love, masterpiece, party, play, poem, poetry, self doubt, sonnets, touch
My brain is connected to my hands.
It says write this
So I do.
It said hold him
So I did.
It said make something beautiful.
-and I hesitated.
Because somewhere along the line
My hands forgot how to play.
How to reach out for the unnattainable
How to hold constellations in the small cracks between my fingers
I let my hands grow up
Painted those nails a fierce, hard red
Stopped believing that sonnets and songs and miracles could explode from my fingertips
But my brain,
My brain knows better than my silly hands.