{photo by Jade}
Sometimes I sit here with nothing to say.
I think about posting a few random photos and just simply saying "hi" to you all. Which would probably be fine with friends and family who stop in looking more for kid photos than scoby smuggling and rambling random bits (goodness there's a lot of those, huh?)
I try to think of something fun to share. Something amazing. Witty. Creative. But sometimes all that's here is just life. The stuff we all do daily. I know some folks are bordering on poetry when they write about doing laundry or mending clothing. But to put it bluntly, I ain't that kind of girl. I don't often find inner peace while scrubbing toilets and folding a gazillion loads of laundry. I don't hate it either, it just sort of is.
There really isn't anything crazy magical going on here. It's more or less the same sort of thing any family raising up kids is doing. Especially if you're the simple living type and spend a lofty chunk of your day making things that the rest of the world buys in a store. Like bread, granola, laundry soap and beer. Does anyone else find the irony in what we do being coined as the simple life?
I've been looking in a lot.... getting to know the monkeys in my head. Making time to write on a regular basis. Recording stories.... musings... You know, typical journal-y stuff. I'm sort of hanging out in this quiet spot and soaking up a lot of stuff.
Which reminds me of a story.
Last month while the kids were attending their homeschool reading & writing group I confided in a writer friend that I felt stuck. "I feel that writing is something I need to do.... but I can't seem to get the right thing out."
She smiled and said, "you're tired of being nice."
She offered up some other advice too. Make writing a daily practice and write down stuff that you don't want anyone else to read, open your heart up. Make yourself vulnerable. She said I should read Anne Lamott.
I chewed on this for the last few weeks. Especially the nice part. I think know she hit the nail on the head with that one. I realized I don't want to be nice.... I want to be real. I want my voice to shine through on these pages, at least most of the time. I think people blog for different reasons. Some folks want to share all the pretty fluff in life. Some use it as an online journal for their inner most thoughts. Some use it to complain about their in laws. I think all of this is fine & good. Accept maybe that last one.... boy could that start a fire.
Real for me is compassionate, kind, honest, raw. I don't want this space here to look perfect. Perhaps a little better than me standing in the hallway screeching at my kids to pick up the legos that are strewn from their bedroom to the living room...
I want you guys to know that after six years of not having one, we just bought a tv. I let my kids eat sugar. I say bad words. Especially that *f* word under my breath when something goes really wrong. {can I blame that one on being married to a sailor for 14 years?} All of my kids have uttered the word s**t before the age of four and it is most definitely my fault. My dad gets the credit for "damn it". I'm terrible at grammar, especially on the placement of commas. I'm hot headed by nature. I've read oodles of self help buddhist books to help me calm my temper and not shriek like a mad woman when things go awry. Yes, they've helped. I'm 5'1" and think I'm as big as a bear. My teenage son calls it Napoleon Complex. This makes me laugh. Sometimes I stand at the meat counter in the grocery store and stare at it, wishing I knew nothing of factory farms and could just buy the damn hamburger and make meatloaf for dinner. But I don't. There are plastic toys in my house and I just pinned a tutorial on how to make a Chewbacca stuffed doll. I'm easily distracted. An introvert. A military wife. A terrible dancer and a good singer. I don't think the simple life is simple. But I know it's worth it. I love my kids so much it makes my heart ache. Like the way your cheeks feel when you smile & laugh for a whole evening with your best of friends. When that first little babe was placed in my single mama nearly 17 year old arms, I was hooked. In love. It's taken me three days to be brave enough to hit the publish button for this (long winded) post. I'm completely & totally imperfect. Real.
I guess I just thought you should know.
