Filed under: beauty, beliefs, realizing reality, self image, strength, Uncategorized
Tickle. Cough. Sweat. Repeat.
Chills. Cough. Sweat. Repeat.
Gasp. Cough. Cry.
attempt not to repeat.
This germ ridden loop-di-loop has been my life for the past 5 days. Some days, though, it feels like it has been my life for forever.
I let myself get “healthy.”
I fill myself with false health that I paint on for the pleasure of others and the fear of missing out and the end result?
I’m right back where I started. Often sicker than before- the Faux Healthy Hippie has hidden her illness and invited five more black licorice flavored forms of filth into this body that’s masquerading as a well preserved temple.
One with golden starred ceilings smiling from an indigo St Lucian sky and rainbow chandeliers. The kind where, if you catch your reflection at just the right moment, will reveal every color and shade of yourself that was once hidden beneath the murkiness of mortality.
One that forever smells like the seasons, and has hardwood floors you can slide on in your socks for miles- but never squeaks.
One with a soft blue front door that reflects the colors of your eyes, and makes you feel beautiful and thankful that your hand fits just right around the handle.
This is the temple my fixer upper body yearns to be renovated into. Strip the paint, wash the walls, breathe new life into something so precious that I somehow found a way to neglect. No one ever noticed until they opened the front door that what appeared to be livable, was in fact dilapidated.
Time and time again my shoulda-woulda-could be temple is pleading for help.
Notice me, something’s wrong.
No, that manicure didn’t fix it.
6 puffs of that inhaler? really?
So. Freaking. Tired.
And time and time again I’ve turned away, content to busy myself with the things that will distract me from the persistent mumbles and grumbles and bitchings from within.
But at the very end of the day- on this unexpected road to recovery that involves old country songs and mystical novels with the name of my future son, and ones I’ve seen Savannah Guthrie chat about early morning over New York coffee – after essential oils and porch swing prayers and spray on deodorant that doesn’t function as dry shampoo…
At the end of the day
All of these are the solid foundation that will lift my weary fixer upper to the heavens.
Filed under: living my life, love, marriage, realizing reality, Uncategorized
Cowboyboot clad, rain soaked, Wheezy-Walgreens-Wifey, you have done it again.
This frantic fall Friday begins and ends with a crash- a bunch of innocent “yee-haws” and “Hey Yall’s” nestled beautifully in between chaos. The ray of southern accented sunshine secretly whispering of a storm.
The morning brought the Heart Stopping Crunch of metal on metal.
Frantic fingers struggling to produce a pen. Rain stained notebook paper with personal information and a few “What The Hell’s” thrown in for good measure.
The evening brought the Heart Racing. The needles slithering into spray tanned skin. The gasps for breath and the endless shaking and horrible fear that you just might die with fake freckles painted on your cheeks and a stained cowboy hat propped on a pigtailed head.
Then came the calming hands of glitter loving goddesses. The cool rags on my neck. The fuzzy pink heart socks. The essential oils and solid, soulful rush of collaborative motherly love that kept me going until, shoeless (but not without my fuzzy socks), my two knights whisked me away to my weekend home.
Not the home with the robins egg porch swing I’m journaling on now. Softly swaddled in colorful pillows and patient October winds gently rocking my finally clean body. Warm tea cradled close to my gloriously tired, yet somehow serene heart.
No, this was another home. One I’d been lucky enough to never take up residence in. A home whose beeps and wheezes and meatloaf and sweat-soaked backless gowns are made bearable by the smiling faces of those soldiers in white and blue, who come armed with their face masks and plastic gloves. Prepared to battle another sleepless night so that you- their new roomie- can finally return to your porch swing, and confidently conquer your battles on your own .
The only way I could think to thank them was to try and make them smile, too.
I guess that’s my own personal form of medicine.
In the end, I am writing this with harvest orange nails. Still shaking. Still sick. Yet I already feel that somehow this illness has healed me.
It’s so easy to forget how loved you are.
So simple to brush away the beauty that is your health.
So devastatingly divine when, in the face of a spiritual and physical crisis, often the beauty IS in the breakdown. With each text, comment, email. With each unexpected long distance call. Each well-wish, my heart grew. It calmed. It ceased to stop and stopped to race. With the homemade chicken noodle soup that doesn’t hold a candle to a can. With the surprise visit of your scruffy reggae pup. With the hand wiping the damp, fresh cut bangs from your forehead. With the “F- Pneumonia” videos with the dancing, banjo-playing-skeleton. With the strong arms of my husband refusing to let me fall. With all of these small wonders, I felt love.
And I realized something.
When I got married, we promised “In sickness, and In health.” That vow never rings as true as when the man you adore is holding your hair at three AM and letting you leave the Lifetime Channel play until all of the original movies are over.
But why stop with husband and wife?
This weekend, the people in my universe loved me.
AND in health.
I think it’s a vow we should make to our world,
Because we have no idea the healing our love can do.
… or how much we all need to be healed.
Filed under: Uncategorized
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.
Filed under: Uncategorized
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.
Filed under: Uncategorized
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🙂