At the Edge of It

Today as I write, my dear friend, Gina, lays on an operating table with her brain exposed. We are all praying that the surgeons find scar tissue and not a new tumor. As her family sits in a cold sterile waiting room, we are at home entertaining the neighbor boy and preparing to paint our bedroom. My life continues status quo and theirs comes to a halt.

And then there's my neighbor, Anna. She lost her sister in a ski accident in January. Anna and I have been friends for almost eight years. We met after the birth of our first sons. We announced our second pregnancies to each other on the same day. We live in identical homes, except flipped - her kitchen is on the right and mine is on the left. Our husbands each drive Honda Accords and work for HIV organizations. We both teach and are a consistent source of sanity during our long summer breaks. We make time for play dates and mommy dates. When Shooter, with Mark Wahlberg came out, we were first in line to see it. Anna and I live similar lives, except now her sister is gone and mine are not.

Anna's story is unique because there are thousands of people grieving the loss of her sister, Sarah Burke, the athlete and Olympic hopeful. But, I did not know Sarah - I know Anna. I grieve for Anna and her loss. A life that will no longer be lived with a sister in this world. The world grieves for Sarah, the skier; Anna grieves the loss of a beloved sister. Her pain is private. The knowledge of others grieving does not change her process. Grief is hers and hers alone.

Living at the center of grief is very different than sitting at the edge of it. The pain is there, but on the edge you can move closer to it or step away. Life can go on as normal, painting and play dates, without being overwhelmed and immersed in it. At the center, the grief is ever present. Gina's family cannot escape the pain and fear of her surgery. It surrounds them. I sit at the park, birds singing, a cool breeze diffusing the bright sunshine - I am aware of the ache in my heart but can be distracted by the carefree imaginative play of my children.

Grief. It seems that life should stop for all. And yet, it does not. I suppose this fact is a blessing, but today it doesn't feel like it - even out here at the edge of it.

Slippery Slope

First I was too emotionally spent
Then I was plain old tired
After that I decided that writing in my head was practically as good as putting pen to paper
Saturday I forgot about my writing challenge all together
Yesterday I  headed up to the mountains to relax and get away from my responsibilities
Finally I realized that I had gone five days without typing a single word
So, I am now officially back on the "writing" horse
Each day
For the next five days (at least)

Where is Perfect?

“We are not perfect. Perfection is not expected in the Divine plan. But we are expected to take our experiences and grow from them, to move beyond the shame of them to celebrate what they have taught us.” – Anonymous

Life is a confusing mystery. Some days we are comfortable living in the adventure of the mystery. And other days we sit in the mire of this reality. Some days we are filled with wonder and delight at all the possibilities that life holds. And other days we become paralyzed by imperfection. Our imperfect selves, imperfect relationships, imperfect lives… There is a part of us that longs for perfection. But, as we look around it is nowhere to be found.

Daughters lose mothers and fathers.

           What’s perfect about that?

Relationships are painful.

How did this happen?

Friends find out they have brain cancer.

           Why?

Sisters lose sisters.

           How will life go on?

Marriages fail.

           Was that the plan?

Dreams of youth are unfulfilled.

            When will mine come true?

And the crazy part is that it's usually the small stuff that more regularly sends us to this dark and painful place. The difficult conversation. The less than perfect evaluation. The nasty self- talk. The dirty dishes. The day filled with unmet expectations. The unkind word that came out without thinking.

                                                                                                                

Today, I sit in this space.

Fortunately, I have lived enough life to know that tomorrow may be different.

Stubborn

Sometimes I can be stubborn. It usually rears its head at odd times. When Mike wants to turn up the heat and don't want to, or when my boss tells me we might need to move rooms and I don't want to. I can feel it deep within me, this small little girl stomping her feet and screaming, "NO! I don't want to! You can't make me!!" That's how I feel tonight. I don't want to write and nobody's going to make me. I want to sit here and watch Dancing With The Stars, eat food I shouldn't eat and do nothing but judge them for wearing scantily clad clothes on a family show. "See, I was writing and I missed Melissa Gilbert!" I told you I did not want to write. I have nothing of any real value to say. I feel cranky and probably tired and I do not want to write. The great thing is, I'm an adult and I can choose not to write. So, I am making a very adult decision - I am NOT writing. The End.

Distracted Growth

I’ve noticed, that since starting the writing challenge, I am quite distracted by all the writing I am doing in my head. The other night I was leaving my writing group and almost took a wrong turn and ended up in Loveland instead of Arvada because I was busy thinking about how I might end my latest post. As I swerved across traffic to right my wrong, I wondered if I was too mentally impaired  to drive. Today, as I was coming home from the grocery store, I became lost in processing how I might craft this percolating topic into a blog post. I’m not really sure how long I sat in my car before remembering that my chicken might be thawing in the back end.

This weekend I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, the subtitle is Some Instructions on Writing and Life. My intention in visiting this wonderful oasis was just to have some one-on-one time with a friend. I had no intention of buying anything. I was in denial. I left with $45.00 worth of books and somehow my friend escaped with spending barely $5.00. It was her idea in the first place. Just not right! But, I couldn’t not buy this book. I have heard so many great things about this writer, and I read just enough that putting it back on the shelf was out of the question. So - now I can fill my head with more ideas about writing. Good thing spring break is coming; I may be in a walking writer’s coma by then. I’ll need the vacation to either lose myself in writing, or recover and find balance again. My problem is usually starting the process, the blank page scares me. Either way, I am noticing that my ability to sit down and get to writing is improving. Yay me!

Now, I’m off to write another letter of recommendation. Not my favorite writing, but writing none-the-less.

Alone

It’s been an unusually busy week. I’ve seen friends almost every night this week. Oh so fun! But, I can only take that pace for so long, and then I need to be home. Tonight, I was given the gift of an evening, alone, in my house. God bless my mate! He took the kids and headed off to spend the night with a group of our friends. When I told him I would love to stay home, he said, “Go for it!” It took me a few minutes to decide that being home, alone, would be good for my soul. It’s amazing all that one can accomplish and enjoy without children clamoring for attention!

Natalie’s Night - Alone

1)      Took a nap

2)      Straightened the entry way

3)      Made dinner – for oneJ

4)      Watched “Worst Cooks in America” and ate dinner

5)      Cleaned my kitchen

6)      Threw in a load of laundry

7)      Went for a walk

8)      Put clothes in dryer

9)      Vacuumed

10)  Folded boys’ laundry

11)  Put laundry away

12)  Wrote a blog

God bless my husband!! I hope his evening was as enjoyable as mineJ

The Life of A Hallway

I am conflicted. As I walk up the short flight of steps to our small condo, nestled between two other little abodes, I am conflicted. I long for more space, for a yard to call our own, for a bathroom that does not double as a bike rack, for children’s bedrooms that aren’t constantly explode with toys when the door is opened.

And yet, it is our home.

It’s the place where my mate and I painted, hung light fixtures and purchased items to make it our own. The place where we started and completed our family.  The place that has been accumulated memories for many years. Eventually, when we pack our belongings and move to a new house, it will be bitter sweet.

One of the spaces that I will miss is our hallway. It’s a short hallway that connects our living room to our bedrooms. On one wall there is an 8x10 photo of my baby and toddler, their cute little toes peeking out at me. As the children have grown we’ve added a simple wood-framed bulletin board that overflows with art work and special papers from school. At Christmas we take down all the clutter and transform the board into a construction paper nativity scene. Each day we add a laminated figure to the setting, impatiently counting down the days until December 25^th. When I remember, there is a little treat, in the present box hanging next to Bethlehem. More often than not the boys have to remind me to add the surprise, thus losing the mystery of how these gifts arrive each morning.

At the end of the hall is a mirror, a kind and loving mirror. When we moved it from our last home, something happened, and now it has a slight bow that causes the image (me) to look thinner than reality. It’s a beautiful gift to my ego. Everyone should have such a mirror. Now-a-days the bottom half is forever covered in small handprints, as it is a common place of entertainment.

Most nights, as I travel to bed, I stop to pick up random toys that never quite made it anywhere. Masks that have been discarded for a better costume, Nerf darts that were used for the impromptu attack, teeny-tiny Legos that hide in the corners of the carpet, and socks that lost their way on the trip to the hamper.




 

 When Greyden was a baby the hallway was a bedroom. Each night we would wheel his little bassinet from our room to the hall. His baby noises kept me from sleep, and I just couldn’t bring myself to put my fragile infant in the ginormous crib in his bedroom. Last summer it became a climbing wall, as Zak learned he could shimmy himself to the ceiling and back. Over the weekend (instead of playing in the warm sunshine) we threw an orange and black foam football up and down the hallway. Our time together was marked by shouts of congratulation for the perfect spiral or effortless catch. Daddy “horse” has galloped many miles, down this hall, with young cowboys on his back.

 It’s amazing how memories can settle into the most mundane spaces, like a hallway. Even with these precious memories, I still dream of more space. I wonder what memories our new hallway will hold. Will my boys plunk themselves down on the floor as they nervously call and ask a sweetheart for a date? How often will our teenagers sneak out after curfew, paying close attention to the squeak on the third floorboard?  Will they stop to adjust their tie in the mirror before venturing off to their first prom? How many tears will I cry as I watch them pack for college and take their final box to the car?

And so, I am conflicted. I dream of more space, but wonder if I’m truly ready to say good-bye.

Choice: Free Money or Blog?

Tonight, I chose to write a grant instead of write on my blog. I'm excited because it is a grant to purchase non-fiction mentor text and professional writing books that support non-fiction instruction. It felt very rewarding to press submit. I will know by May 15th if they accepted my proposal.

So sad about not being able to blog. As I walked the rows of testers, I came up with a great topic. I even started formulating the words in my head.

Now it's a choice between sleep and blogging. I choose sleep.

Hopefully the inspired post will still be lingering in my head tomorrow.

Need to Breathe

Last night I went outside
my normal Monday routine
I traveled to Cherry Creek
for dinner at the Kona Grill
shared some Red Velvet Cake
almost more delicious than sex

Piled into a Mercedes
with six of my friends
giggled and chatted
our way to the Ogden

Stood for three hours
lost all personal space
swivelled my hips
shook my bootie
to the beat of the drum

So tired I'm delusional
but the memories
make it worth the trip
out of my normal routine

Dirty Little Secret

…It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.

-Katherine Mansfield

Last night we traveled to Castle Rock to attend a fortieth birthday party. It was a special party. Our friend wasn’t expected to live to forty, or thirty, or even twenty. It was a special party. We went to see his pregnant wife. His pregnant wife who never thought her dream would become a reality. It was a special party.

As we stood in their kitchen, we reminisced about our first meeting. It was a meeting that sealed our friendship in laughter.

It was several years ago that we met on a cold winter evening. We had decided to meet at church and then go for a pleasant dinner at the Chart House, but Zak’s smashed finger changed the direction of our evening. We needed to take Zak home but we didn’t want to miss a chance to be together, so we invited them instead to our home for take-out pizza.

There was one big problem with our great new plan, our house was a disaster! It’s ok if long-time friends see our day-to-day living, but new friends should see the best side of us (at least once). I guess there was one other slight problem, when we decided to alter our plan – we weren’t actually home to fix the chaos.

After a private “what are we going to do” conversation, Mike and I sprang into action. It was decided that he would leave ahead of us, in hopes of having a few minutes to return our home to some semblance of order. It was a risky move, but the only viable option. I tried my best to stall, before piling us into cars and making our way to our soon-to-be clean home.

As I opened the door, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and marveled at all he had accomplished in such a short period of time. The toys were neatly stacked in their basket, the assorted piles of junk that had been living on our counter had disappeared, and the most masterful piece of all was the kitchen. The stack of dishes that had taken up residence in the sink was gone. I was in awe of my mate’s magical powers. Truly impressive. The thought that ran through my head was, “Who knew he was so gifted at the art of clean-up. If he’s such a magician, why doesn’t he do this more often?”

Mike went to settle Zak in for the night, and our guests and I delved into getting to know each other better. As we chatted, I entered our little kitchen. They leaned against our tall counter as our effortless conversation continued. I began pulling glasses from the cupboard and filling drink orders. It didn’t take long to forget the stresses of the evening and settle into a natural rhythm of discussion. Before the pizza arrived, I realized that we had nothing to serve for dessert. A good hostess always serves dessert. I mentally ran through the items in our pantry and refrigerator. Since serving graham crackers and peanut butter to our new guests was out, I decided on the pie I had been keeping in our freezer.

I turned on the oven and continued preparing for our meal. It was when my new friend pointed out that smoke was seeping out of our oven that I remembered Mike’s little secret.

“Don’t turn on the oven! I crammed all of the dirty dishes in there.” Mike had whispered to me before leaving the room.

Horrified, I had to open the oven – thus revealing our dirty little secret to our fresh new friends. I tried to discreetly peak into my appliance, but it was official, my dishes were on fire. We were busted. There is no faking perfection with flames bursting from your dinnerware.

Our reminiscing has caused me to I reflect on who I have become since the day of flames. At the time I was a perfectionist, now I’m a recovering perfectionist. Fortunately, for everyone around me, I am recovering cause being around a true blue Mary Poppins (fairly perfect in every way) can be a real downer. Who wants to be with someone who tries so hard to do everything perfectly, who often times thinks their way is the perfect way. Being a perfectionist is exhausting. It’s much more fulfilling to make mistakes, to take risks, to be honest and tell the world (or at least my faithful followers) your house is a mess, or set your dishes aflame – and laugh. So, thank you to all my imperfect friends who are brave and authentic with me. It calls me out, keeps me out of hiding, and reminds me each day to be me, imperfectly human – me.

Author’s Note: My goal today was to bust out a story and post it. I'm insecure about being a storyteller. I have another story I started over a week ago, but I’m struggling with wanting the “perfect” piece of writing. Ironic isn’t it? So, here’s my attempt at slice of life storytelling.

Poetic Glow

I love my job! I love working alongside teachers. I love collaborating. I love teaching. I love problem-solving. I love learning together. However, there are certain times that I am homesick for the classroom. For the past two days I have set up residence in a fifth grade writing class. Each day I have entered class giddy at the prospect of seeing young ten year olds develop into enthusiastic poets. I think the teacher was skeptical. I knew otherwise. And just as predicted, their excitement for this genre bubbled up and out of them like an overflowing root beer float. They were inspired and desperate to share their creations with anyone who might listen to them; a silent writing environment was out of the question. As I looked around the room, there was a poetic glow shining from students’ faces. I miss that. However, as I chatted with the teacher about the lesson, it was her poetic glow, her willingness to take some risks, her excitement at the prospect of this genre that was just as rewarding as a classroom full of children. I love my job!

Addendum to March 8th post: My work pile has been filed, boys' laundry is in their drawers (minus socks - I hate socks), kitchen is clean (thank God for my mate), mail is sorted (thank God for a sister I can chat with while completing such a mundane task), pile of laundry is smaller - but still waiting:)

Unraveling....

My eyes pop open at 5:26 this morning and the first thought in my head was, "How am I going to clean up that gigantic pile on my desk today?" Last night I stayed late to try and make sense of the mess, but ended up only shuffling the papers around my desk. I left with idea that although my desk was a mess, I would go home and return my kitchen to a state of order.

I ponder my work piles as I stumble into our master bathroom, stepping over (and a little on) a mound of dirty laundry. We've strategically placed it there to motivate us to keep at it. Before hopping into the shower I head to the living room to check the weather on my phone. I push aside the overflowing stack of mail before locating it. The folded laundry is still laying in and around the clothes basket, it hasn't quite found its way into the boys' drawers. And a half loaded dishwasher waiting for the breakfast and dinner dishes from the past two days. (My master “leave work to do more work” plan was unsuccessful.)

Since starting my writing challenge, my routine has been knocked on its side. Typically, after putting the kids to bed my day is done. I have just enough energy left to get in my comfies and call it quits. On a good day I push myself to straighten the living room before falling onto the couch for some mindless entertainment. But now, I drag myself over to my computer to create 'brilliant' works of art. It's not helping that each day I walk aimlessly up and down rows of students proctoring 'the test.' This new routine is causing my mental state to unravel a bit. Hours of reflecting and planning, without any time (or energy) to actually accomplish all that I have reflected and planned on – is wearing me down.

So today, instead of getting ready for work I stand in my bathroom writing on my phone. I have no great remedy for my crazy new routine, other than to embrace the sacrifice and enjoy my passion. The piles and stacks will soon be forgotten. The hours of writing and reading will be a part of me forever.

Delightful Detour

Tonight was not a typical slice of life writing for me. Greyden announced at dinner that he wanted to create a book, a chapter book, with pictures and words. While I stapled computer paper together, he began pulling out coloring supplies from our marker drawer. After a few minutes of drawing, Zakariah joined in by adding colorful sketches of red and blue birds. Once Grey was satisfied with his pictures he hopped up on my lap and began to narrate tales of horrible Harry, ladies and birds. That’s the beauty of four, the ideas flow naturally, no care for word choice or repetitive sentence starters – imagination is the only requirement for a successful story. I transitioned from the story of poor Harry to transcribing a detailed description of Zak’s newly coveted game, “Angry Birds”. Cutting and pasting ideas to create one cohesive paragraph explaining the object of this exciting new game. Not the writing night I had envisioned, soooo much better than anything I had planned for myself. It’s nights like this that cause me to inhale long deep breaths of contentment. So divine!

A Taste of Days to Come

Early this morning, before the sun lifted its rays across the horizon, I caught my first real whiff of it. I’m sure you inhaled and understood too. Spring – it sent it’s fragrance through the air and lingered in my mind all day long. As I made my quick little trip to work, a red excavator effortlessly scooped fresh clean dirt from the side of the road. The bag of potting soil I spotted in a third grade classroom reminded me that soon there will be pots to fill with life and vibrancy. Sunshine kissed my cheeks as I navigated the neighborhood over the lunch hour. A woman, wearing pink gardening gloves, raked and trimmed her flowerbed to unveil the tiny yellow flowers peaking from the ground. Our park across the street from our home overflowed with activity; children climbing trees, mothers chatting as they walked the path, and young ones swinging and sliding with glee. Today renewed and invigorated my vision for the beauty of life; it caused my soul to stir with dreams of days to come.

Six Tired = One Exhausted Lady

Tired.

I stayed up too dang late

reading blogs

writing a blog

Tired.

Ate French dip

for dinner

Thanks to a friend

Tired.

Folded laundry

Left it spread across the floor

Maybe it will magically disappear

Tired.

Overly concerned

That yesterday

Was the best writing I have to offer

Tired.

Would rather

Be enjoying ice cream

Than writing for my blog

Tired.

Good night.

More Than China Patterns and Gravy Boats

My mate and I, we’ve been married for fifteen years. For some that seems like a blink of an eye, but for the ones living it – it’s long (can’t hardly remember life without him). During the early years of our marriage, many of my friends were getting married too. I attended lots of wedding and bridal showers in preparation for the big day. It was so exciting to see the gifts being uncovered from the silvery wrapping paper and oversized bows. Bridal showers were a time to celebrate and reminisce about my wedding event too. Each gift was a realization of the dream becoming a reality.

But as time went by we transitioned from bridal to baby. The dream shifted from marriage to family. And with it, the fine art of buying baby gifts – one ducky baggie holder, it is the perfect size for your diaper bag & you always have something to put those “diapers-on-the-go” in. Second, a plastic picture book – you can slide pictures in of important people in your precious one’s life. These can be found at Target near the teething toys. Then, depending on boy or girl you find the cutest outfit possible. If I’m being practical I purchase something in the 9 – 12 months, but if I see an “I’ll eat you up, you look so cute in this!” girl outfit, I get it in the birth to 3 month size. Then to top off the gift, I search for the perfect board book. It just wouldn’t be right for the teacher to give a gift that did not include a book.

Today I went to a bridal shower. It’s probably been about ten years since I’ve been to one. Prior to the party, I set out to find a gift. I went up and down the kitchen aisles, admiring platters, pitchers and interesting kitchen gadgets. Since it had been so long since I had done this, I decided that I would purchase things that I would really enjoy having in my own well-worn kitchen. Once I settled on a few brightly colored items, I headed to the wrapping and card section. I picked out a gift bag covered in brightly covered circles and a simple card of congratulations.

It wasn’t until after I was headed home that I remembered that there was a difference between a bridal and wedding shower. Was I going to a bridal or wedding one? Was my gift appropriate? Would I be the oddball who gave cutting knives instead of frilly underwear? Should I go back? Oh, the stress of it all! After much deliberation, and counsel, I decided to go with my original purchase.

As I settled into the couch to watch the bride open gifts, I smiled as her eyes sparkled with glee as she unwrapped the china she and her young beau had selected for their soon-to-be home. The day was filled with delight at the prospect of starting a life together. However, instead of dreaming about my own young marriage, I reflected. Our marriage has taken us beyond the idealism of our youth, and into the wisdom of our years. Years filled with amazing moments of beauty and pain. Tears of joy and tears of angst. Years of learning each other, and loving each other – sometimes, in spite of what we learn. Times of being near and times of distance. Years of shaping and molding ourselves – individually and as a couple. Times of birth and times of grieving. I am so grateful that after fifteen years of marriage I have a mate who loves me, and whom I love.

I know that marriage is more than gravy boats and cutting boards, but sometimes those things are fun, so tonight we pulled out our “fancy” wine glasses and pretty plates in celebration of our not-so-young love.

The "Perfectly" Imperfect Routine

“Today, I will strive to go with the flow.

I will strive for harmony with my own needs and the needs of others.”

 – Melody Beattie

Our little family has a Saturday morning routine. The boys get up early and play Legos in their room. Their battles and creations usually wake us up. We lay in bed. I begin creating a mental list for the day – I need to clean the house (top to bottom) while my perfectly content children play, grocery shop, take a shower, have lunch with a friend, go for a walk, shop for some new clothes, paint the bedroom, make a new plan for losing ten pounds in ten days, write, read, finish some unfinished schoolwork – and take a nap. All while feeling no motherly guilt for doing everything I want to do, and ignoring my sons’ needs. Fortunately for my mate, he typically works on this day.

By the time I actually get out of bed my internal organs are tight and my heart is tense. Now, I know that my expectations are completely unrealistic and unattainable. So, I begin the process of taking myself back off the ledge, hoping to do this without any family member losing a limb in the process. I take deep breathes and head to the kitchen. The children have made several demands of, “I’m hungry!” To which I reply, “How could you ask me a polite question?” I pour cereal (with and without milk), make toast, get drinks. I sit with them and make attempts to engage in their young conversation, trying my best to ignore the kitchen that looks like it’s been untouched for days. Once their needs are met I send them off to watch morning cartoons.

Now for me. I pull out the small frying pan. As the oil heats in the pan I open up the raisin English muffin and slide it into the toaster. The crack of the egg causes me to breathe just a bit slower. After adding a bit of salt and pepper to the pan, I turn to my beverage selection. Since I’m trying to be better about making healthy choices I grab my red mug and fill it with warm tea. However, I can feel the tension in my fingertips, so after a couple sips I decide it’s not quite enough. It doesn’t take me long to find my tall sturdy tumbler and fill it with cold bubbly diet coke. The mixture of fizzing soda and a sizzling egg cause a slight smile to cross my lips. I’ll try again tomorrow to make a healthy choice.

Today, I accidentally dropped my ear buds for my iPod into my tea, overcooked my egg, made another one, and dropped my iPod on the floor (twice). But, whatever – the routine must go on.

Once my breakfast dance is done, I settle myself at the end of our table. I’ve collected my stack of books and journals that I like to read during this time. Books that remind me of who I am and what I believe, journals that are filled with quotes and Saturday morning thoughts, and blank pages waiting for me to share my latest joys and sorrows. I pop in my headphones and begin listening to my choice Pandora radio station.

It is this routine that transitions me from a work week, past unrealistic expectations, to a weekend that is filled with (hopefully) realistic plans. Time to love on family, return the home to some semblance of normal, relax and care for self – and breathe. Long, deep, cleansing breathes.

Not a perfect routine, but a routine non-the-less.

Day Two - Not lookin so good

It’s day two of the write for the month of March challenge. It’s 9:50pm. I’m already in a panic about being able to dedicate time to writing each and every day for thirty more days.

Today I chose to have breakfast with a friend - instead of write.

I chose to take a much needed nap - instead of write.

I went for a brief walk - instead of write.

I ate pizza and played 80’s Taboo with friends - instead of write.

Now it’s 9:52pm and all I can think about is getting into my nice cozy bed – instead of write. This is not looking promising, if on my second day I’m already in a slump. You would think with writing being a passion and all, I’d be excited about my month. That was yesterday – today I’m tired and old. Too old to be sitting at my computer writing about my life at 9:55pm.

Yippee for me. I did it. I wrote on day two of my writing challenge. Not exactly what I had envisioned when I started on this writing adventure – yesterday. Here’s hoping that day three brings a renewed sense of excitement and vision for writing, and a bit more stamina.

10:00pm

Good night!

Simple Understanding

My blog is titled Beauty in the Ordinary because I love those sweet moments when I allow myself to slow down and catch a glimpse of something that might otherwise go unnoticed. And then there are days like today - a day spent living deep in my head, zipping from event to event, all the while working to fix the contents of my worries. It went something like this:

I pick up the conversation I started with myself

before falling asleep the night before

How could I fix this problem?

What could I do differently?

Greet my mate with a quick kiss

I pull him into my dialogue

the same one I dragged him into last night

What do you think?

Am I missing something?

Jump into the details of the day

Engage in conversation – only partially

my thoughts can’t quite part with my concerns

Is that true?

Who can I talk to?

Sometimes children have an uncanning way

of reminding you that life is filled with more than worry

“Dad, I know how to make a baby.

You marry somebody –

And then you pray.”

Now, that simple understanding of life truly is beauty in the ordinary.

His words did not magically fix my head or day; but, for a brief moment life paused and my soul (and car) were filled with laughter.