On passports and progress

There's a Drug Mart in my sleepy small town, a town that sits just beyond the suburbs of what most might call a city. Since we moved here a year and a half ago, I've driven by the place a thousand times, run past it maybe fifty.

Today I went in for the very first time, strode right past the signs about liquor sold at state minimums, about the new movie releases for $1.99.  The store was bigger than I imagined. Dirtier, too. Aisle after aisle of brand new products stacked on top of dingy old shelves. If the store had changed since the 80s, it was only because they'd swapped the cabbage patch kids out for the pillow pets.

When I was 10, maybe 11, I used to walk to a place just like this with my little brother. The Drug Mart was less than a mile from home, and I'd always buy him a candy bar or let him choose a toy from one of the machines. (I think a candy bar cost 33 cents, maybe 25 cents on special.) That same year, I used my paper route money to buy my little sister a knock-off cabbage kid for Christmas. I hid it from her as best I could, told her not to try to find it, but she was sneaky and smart and determined, and she found it. I was so mad I almost took it back. (But I've forgiven you now, Robin.)

Today I went to the Drug Mart, and a candy bar was 85 cents, but what did that matter because I didn't go there for candy. I only needed a passport picture so I could cross "renew passport" off my list. So I stepped back into the time capsule also known as the small town drug store, and I half smiled for the picture, just enough to hide my horse-ish gumline. And when I went to pay for the photo, they hand-wrote my name down in a spiral bound book on wide-ruled paper, and it took an eternity, like easily 45 seconds.

I used to think poorly of the places untouched by progress. I used to think the only thing that mattered was moving forward. I used to think anything outdated was ugly, anything unchanged was pathetic. But the more time I spend in this small and quiet rhythm of a sleepy town, the more I begin to wonder whether I've had it all wrong.

Progress has merit, certainly. But so does constancy, simplicity, contentment. And these qualities can't be collected like stamps in a passport. You don't capture them by sprinting round the world in hot pursuit. No, constancy, simplicity, contentment--they come and find you only after you've stopped chasing, when you sit down to rest. And isn't it progress, after all, when I stop planning life around the places I'll go, and start living completely in the places I am? 

I think it is.

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How many days 'till we go back?

Six months ago, when Caed found out Nana and Papa had booked a summer reunion at our favorite lodge, he said, "Oh man, it's like a dream come true! Better than Disneyland! Better than anything!" 

And with four months left to go, he began a countdown. Every morning on the way to school he'd ask, "How many days to the lodge?" And slowly my answer slid from 122 days to next week. On day T minus 30, he created a book about the lodge with pages listing the names of the cousins attending, a countdown for crossing out, and lyrics to a new song he and Dani would sing once we were on our way.

We sang it on Tuesday. He put me in charge of the echo. Here we go, rocking and rolling, to the lodge (to the lodge)...

 

As we drove away yesterday, I asked him if it was everything he'd hoped it would be.

"Yes," he smiled. "Do you think there's a lodge like that in heaven?"

"I do." I returned his grin in the rearview mirror. "Except without the mosquitoes." 

"Good." He settled back into his booster. "I was hoping that."

"Oh, and Mom? How many days 'till we go back there?"

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Only upon diving and after deep, deep breaths

There are days--most of them in March, when snow melts into ugly and we still wear coats and all the news is of rubble and rebels--that beauty waits like pirate treasure. And in these days, it is only upon diving and after deep, deep breaths, only upon digging and after scraping away the sand and grit, only upon pulling hard upon the lid, that I uncover anything that makes me clasp my hands together over my mouth and whisper "wow." Rare are these moments in March when my eyes close and flutter up thanks that He is capital G Good. Rare, but so very worth the hunt.

Diving in, with Ann and community, counting my domestic equivalent of golden Spanish doubloons from the bottom of the sea:

#121 Skype-built bridge to Istanbul, and

#122 Hearing her speak Turkish in her southern drawl.

#123 Green smoothies for St. Patrick's Day breakfast. (Proof that I make this list as I go--definitely wouldn't have made the list if looking back--see #142)

#124 Old video clips of kids cackling non-stop, then just one and three years old.

#125 Laughing at those babies cackling, laughing so hard we shake.

#126 The way Dani backs up her theories with "Right, Mama?"

#127 Green and gold glitter collecting on hardwood around the fridge. (I can't believe I'm grateful for glitter?)

#128 Disaster avoidance. (A long story, involving our landlord's assistant suggesting power washing the basement--the one that had just flooded.)

#129 Bird on a wire.

#130 Little girl and her shamrock pinwheel in the wind.

#131 Caed's Irish jig, and

#132 Dani's princess-ballet-jig imitation.

#133 Snow melting on driveway.

#134 Outdoor run, chasing spring.

#135 Dani's "I can do dot-to-dot on your cheek, Mama."

#136 My new "neighbor",

#137 And being friends long before we met (because of posts like these).

#138 Internet's on-demand coloring pages.


#139 Fraud protection on a stolen card.

#140 A boy who loves, loves, loves sports.

#141 Phone call from Maine, the voice of my dearly missed friend.

#142 Husband home when stomach virus reared ugly against our little boy.

#143 That these are only a few days in Caed's otherwise healthy childhood.

#144 Purell.

#145 Will I get in trouble if I add washing machines to the list too often?

#146 Gatorade slushies (Dad's invention) staying down, finally.

#147 The Three Stooges as Unaccustomed Tailors (another of Dad's ideas), the first thing to make Caed smile in days.

#148 All six years of him tucked tight in my lap.

#149 Grace that covers my fruitless worry.

#150 His first real food, a meal of 2 toast nibbles and 18 goldfish, my own loaves and fishes miracle.

#151 My girly-girl who couldn't care less that we must stay home all day, as long as she gets to wear "a summery dress with no tights."

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At Ease, Soldier

It's okay to be quiet. It's okay to have nothing to say.

It's okay to be still, to freeze, to stop, to be.

It's okay to chase sunsets, and it's okay not to catch them. It's okay, even as evening grows dark, to rest, to stop, to be.

It's okay to leave the lights off, to lay pounding head on a pillow, to not get up when the phone rings or when the timer for the cookies goes off. (You might want to get someone to turn off the oven, though. Because it's probably not okay to burn down the house).

It's okay. It really is. The only real problem I see, with any of this, the only not okay thing is to keep going just for the sake of going. To keep talking just for the sake of being heard. To keep chasing just for the sake of not slowing. To keep busy just for the sake of feeling important.

Rest is a worthy purpose. And quiet is a worthy cause.

It's okay to just be.

In fact, it's more than okay.

::
(It's also okay to keep using old pictures from Maine because you miss the place like crazy and would give up your morning coffee for just a glimpse of that winter shore.)
::

Is it hard for you to give yourself permission to "just be?" How do you combat the temptation to be busy at the expense of being rested?

Sharing this post with Emily's Imperfect Prose.

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These are the ways back that I know

They say to write what you know. Well, this is what I know.

I know that when you're driving through a squall in the snowbelt and the sun comes out of its cloud cave in a miraculous break from hibernation, when the sky bleeds blue like October, it feels like you're sitting behind the wheel wearing a silk tulle veil, like you're driving down the aisle and not the freeway. You blink to catch your eyes in their tricks, but they are telling the truth about the sunlight and bright blue and the snow disguised as fabric.

I also know how tired she must have been to have fallen asleep in the cart, resting her pink-fleece-covered head on my arm as I hunched over the handle, picking over the fontina and brie, handicapped by her slumber but not the slightest ounce inconvenienced by the forced one-arm maneuvering. And then I knew, when I carried her out with one arm, pushing the cart with the other, that these might be lasts. Both for her to fall asleep in my arms and to carry her with just one arm. How heavy she'd grown as you hope any four year old will. But I didn't feel weighed down. Just the opposite.

I felt light, actually. And I saw it, too, the light, the kind that makes the bare branched trees squint, the kind that makes me believe on a 10-degree day that spring is not a pipe dream, that it is possible to survive a dark and tasteless winter, that the gray and heavy will not be my undoing.

There are ways to survive. There are little-known ways back to the warmth and the light. Through a sunny snow squall or a grocery store nap--these are some of the ways back that I know. And I'm sure there are many more.

But this is what I know.
(So I write about it. Just doing as I'm told.)

::

What are the ways back that you know? How do you survive dreary and gray and cold? (Besides moving to Florida. Because that's not one I'm in a position to try right now.)

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I Will Never Be Cured

The school nurse calls, and I come.

I pick my baby up from school, administer tylenol, tuck him in for a nap. He doesn't have a fever, but complains that his "brain hurts" and that his shoulders and legs "feel too tired to do anything." Normally, I'd be reticent to take him home from school in the absence of visible, credible symptoms.

But as it turns out, I feel the same way. My brain hurts. My arms and legs are too tired to do anything. Achy. Sleepy. In need of a quiet and still afternoon.

I tease Caed that he must have given his germs to Mommy, and I pretend to give them back. I say "Here! Here! Get these germs off of me!" He doesn't even crack a smile, just lays his head down on his pillow, motions for a hug.

"My poor baby," I say, squeezing his neck. I remember my Mom saying this to me, all those times I was sick enough to stay home from school, those mornings I'd spend watching game shows and looking forward to the sweet-tart flavored meds.

"Tonight we'll have breakfast dinner, and we can cuddle and watch a movie. How's that sound?" I ask.

He lets go of me and nods his head. "Good," he whispers.

"Good." I echo.

I kiss his warm forehead. He smiles and scrunches further into the sheets. "Good," I say again. "Good."

In these moments, at least one diagnosis is clear. Of this condition called Motherhood, of this symptom--heart walking forever outside my body--of all of this, I will never be cured.

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I Can't Complain

It's Saturday morning, and our alarm goes off at 4:20 a.m., just like it's been doing every day this week. First, we hear a song we love, but are likely to hate after two more weeks of this schedule (Nickel Creek - Hanging By A Thread). Then seven minutes later, the wristwatch nearly falls off the dresser beeping like a bomb countdown.

At 4:30 a.m., when I find myself somehow in the kitchen, when I awake to the third alarm of the coffee grinder, I furrow my brow and press my teeth together as if biting back lucidity. My mind is too jumbled to think up proper curse words, so I just pout and think in blurry phrases of resentment.

By 5:00 a.m., when the kids are still upstairs snoring in their sleeping bags, cocooned in the only space on the floor not covered in train tracks and doll houses turned train stations, I brush off my grudge against 4:00 a.m. like toast crumbs from a counter. I peek in at the remnants of Friday night's sleepover, warm mug in hand, and I smile, shoulders scrunching almost to my ears to warm me, or maybe to add corners to my smile. These quiet moments are entirely mine.

(Well, at least until the dog comes clicking up the stairs to see what I'm up to, threatening to wake the kids with her jingling collar unless I feed her. Fine. I'll feed you, but you should know that MOST dogs don't get their breakfast until at least 7:00 a.m.).

It's 6:30 now, and Larry has been at work an hour already, and we hope to see him before bedtime. When the kids wake up, they will tell me they remember Daddy coming into their room in the middle of the night to give them goodbye kisses, but only because they know that's what he does, and not because they really remember.

I know that I could get away with complaining about this schedule, and about how much we miss Larry when he is gone for 100% of our waking hours and some of the sleeping ones too. But on most days, at least once I make it past 5 a.m., the complaints disappear like dew when the sun comes up strong in the heat of summer.

I don't take any of this for granted, not anymore.

I could complain about his schedule or be grateful he has a job.
I could complain about rising so early, feeling so tired, or be grateful for these peaceful hours.
I could complain about the uprooting, the downsizing, the stress of this move, or be grateful that day by day, we are making our way home.

Even now, as I begin a list of what I could complain about, I realize how trivial these things are when stacked up against the beauty of the life I've been given. To complain would be as ridiculous as sitting underneath a sky splattered thick with stars, a paisley black and white threaded by thousands of faraway suns, and to gripe about the moon not being very bright.

When I feel the grumbling welling up inside, I like to imagine turning the issue over like like an old coin, to see whether there is a shinier side, to find the places that sparkle when the tarnish is removed. And when I do this, when I hunt for gratitude, the treasure I find amazes me.

When I see it this way, I can't complain.

::

What could you complain about? If you flipped that complaint over, could you find something underneath, something shiny or just full of potential, something to be grateful for?

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This Moment

I thought I'd join SouleMama in her Friday ritual of {this moment}: A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.



For a post with words today, visit my friend Kelly's place, where I'm honored to be guest posting about faith and fear when the ride is anything but smooth.

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The Rest of Labor Day

It was a long weekend. And I don't mean the kind that drags on forever, the kind where you aren't sure if you can take the whining for one more minute. I mean the kind of weekend where there is rest and togetherness and hard work and more rest. A weekend of old fashioned fun and meals you didn't have to cook, of staying up too late and getting up too early.

Some highlights:

1) A double date with sister and brother-in-law, a celebration of my birthday and of becoming neighbors. And flowers, from my sister's backyard. The too-good-to-be-true-and-yet-it-is variety.

2) A crisp fall day, a free Pumpkin Spice Latte, and a birthday afternoon completely off to do whatever I wanted. I did nothing but sit and sip and get absolutely nothing done. It was marvelous.

3) A long outdoor run, the first in months, on a newly discovered trail that winds for miles and miles. I returned home to find father and son working diligently in the yard, trimming trees and mowing weeds grass and dreaming up plans for fort building.

4) A visit to a new church, an entire family together, not me rustling up the kids on my own or explaining to strangers that yes, I am married, but no, my husband is on call again. And yes, he really does exist, I swear. In the service, the worship leader read works by Wendell Berry and my heart quickened with hope at how worship extends like water into cracked earth, filling the gaps and turning scorched soil soft again. I left softened, less parched.

5) A spontaneous trip to the farm, cultivated now by three generations of old friends. They didn't know we were coming, but it turned out not to matter. There were enough waffles for seconds, enough farm hats to pass around for the hayride, enough apples to share with the cows, enough branches to climb. But perhaps not enough time. (Caed wished repeatedly that we could live there.)

Sabbaths 2002, X

Wendell Berry

Teach me work that honors Thy work,
the true economies of goods and words,
to make my arts compatible
with the songs of the local birds.

Teach me patience beyond work
and, beyond patience, the blest
Sabbath of Thy unresting love
which lights all things and gives rest.

::

Celebrating this gift of rest, a weekend-long reprieve, with the Emily's Tuesdays Unwrapped.

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As Sure As The Sun Rises

I didn't take a picture. I should have. The minute I saw the sunrise (was it 5:57?), I knew it was a Tuesday gift in the making. I had been up since 4:30 a.m., a sick child to blame. But after he fell back to sleep, I stayed up, a Mama desperate for a quiet morning hour before the dawn of a long day.

And oh snap, here comes a poem. Because Lord knows we don't have enough poems about sunrises.

::

This morning it was sudden. Like the sky said,
"Let me just slip on a new shirt real quick."
And then tossed his black tee over the edge of the earth.
And stretched a tie-dyed top,
Pastel blue and chalky pink,
Over mid rift clouds,
Barely to horizon's belt.

And I heard the sun complain about the sky,
How he leaves his dark nights all over the earth,
As if it was somehow her job to pick up after him.

What an odd couple they make,
Those two,
How they bicker their way into beauty.

But as sure as the sun rises,
They are meant to be together.

::

So this was the gift--a simple, ordinary, quiet sunrise. All to myself. Let us never underestimate the power of quiet.

I'm sharing this one with the Tuesdays Unwrapped community gathering today at Chatting at the Sky.

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Winter Waves

I ran by these clouds, these winter waves this morning. And I couldn't help but stop, push the music to pause and listen only to the rhythm of high tide.

And I couldn't help but click a time or two with my camera phone.

And I couldn't help but smile. Especially when I realized the irony of taking a break from running to catch my breath, only to have my breath taken away.

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Peace & Joy

I remember Dani screaming and Caed whimpering. I remember asking what in the world was wrong. And I remember Caed's answer. "Dani's crying cuz her sandals fell off. And I'm crying cuz I just want PEACE!"

You and me both, Bud.
Fast forward six months. And I just want PEACE. More. Than. Ever.

The Christmas season is quite literally branded as Peace (on earth! Goodwill to men!). And as Joy (to the world! The Lord is come!).

But where is the peace as we jockey for a place to park at a mobbed shopping mall?
And where is the joy as we squeeze into line at the post office, scramble to get the exterior lights up, scribble addresses onto the holiday cards?

Yes, excuse me, I'm looking for Peace and Joy. Do you have them in stock? What about special order? Surely you at least have some samples...perhaps in the back?

I’ve seen their shadows. I’ve watched them flicker across my path like characters in a silent film. And all I want for Christmas is to catch them--to grab them by both shoulders and sit them down on the couch.

Come. Stay a while. Let’s linger together while the snow falls and the cookies bake. And if at all possible, can you figure out a way to quiet the children? They just might ruin you with all that racket.

I know I won’t find Peace and Joy at the mall or under the tree. I won’t find them at the bottom of a Napa-born bottle or at the top of a luxury hotel. I won't find them in the perfectly orchestrated Pageant, or in my desperately stroked attempt to stage a Normal Rockwell knock-off in my dining room.

Instead, I’ll find them in the sitting still, the reading of the Advent book, the holding of hands. I’ll find them in moments deliberately emptied, the white spaces on the calendar.

I’ll find Joy in the swishing of snow pants when the first of the snow-fort-worthy flakes fall.

I’ll find Peace while we listen to the unconventional rhythm of snapping flames and watch the smoke waft chimney ward.

I’ll find Joy as I consume less temporal and treasure more eternal.

I’ll find Peace as I cease striving for a picture perfect Christmas and simply blink into memory the unstaged moments before me, just the way we are.

So here’s to finding Peace amidst the bustle and demands of real life.
And here’s to finding Joy in the middle of our everyday mess.

We wish you the Peace that surpasses all understanding.
We wish you the great Joy that will be to all people.

And we wish you a merry, meaningful and memorable Christmas.


Linked up today with Just for the Joy of It hosted by Good, True & Beautiful.

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Family Time

Five heavy breathers.

One still asleep. (He is trained to sleep through anything except the slightest sound of danger or the pager. It's a survival skill.)

One tail-wagging awake and annoying the rest of us.

And the other three. My boy, my girl and me. All laboring winter through our noses. One cuddling, one kick-testing boundaries, one shushing.

The wind murmurs and lashes out. It feels personal. But with a rattle and a shudder, the window takes the blows intended for us, and we are spared.

I'm trapped. And I mean literally. Pillows and blankets from neighboring rooms construct the walls. Warm snotty-nosed bodies anchor me on either side. And I don't care as much about freedom (to sleep in, for once) as I used to. I'm okay with being boxed in and stepped on (ouch! that was my shin! please lay down!). I'm okay with being forced out of bed before my time. Because....

"I need tissue!"
"I'm ready for break'ast."
"I need ta go potty."

"Okay," I say. And the dog jumps for joy and shakes her booty all the way to the door.

"I feed her, p'ease?"

"Okay," I say. And the girl gets the kibble and grins through the pouring.

"Can I pour my own orange juice?"

"Okay," I say. And the boy gets the juice and grins through the pouring.

"What are we going to do today?" they ask, before coffee, before I have plan A or B or really, any coherent thought.

:::

It's 7 a.m. Breakfast is over. We have colored and cut and glued Mary & Joseph onto a blue paper frame.

"Hey, we don't cut the glue, Honey." I say.

"I not!" she denies.

"I'm done. Now what can I do?" he asks.

"You can wipe your nose." I cough and grab a tissue. Make that two tissues.

We are sick enough to hide out at home, but not sick enough to sleep.
We are well enough to build block towers, but not well enough to build a snow fort.

"Come on, Mom. You do the train tracks. I'll do the parking garage."
"Okay," I say.

I feel the minutes rolling one upon the other, like snowflakes to a snowman. We pile and gather and pack it all down.

And later I step back. And I smile at the lopsided hours we've fashioned into the shape of family.

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Seasonal Courage

I wish I was as brave as the last bit of color, wincing not at waves, flinching not at frost, equal parts courage and optimism.
In weeks, if not days, they will be laid bare in bitter cold. They'll steep in snow and sleet, through short dim lit days and long pitch black nights.

But the long-stretched months will snap short in hindsight, and the seaside shrubs will again bloom and flourish under the noon day sun.

Is it this knowledge--this knowing it is just for a season--that makes them so brave?

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Nature Rarer Uses Yellow

Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,--
Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words.

-Emily Dickinson

The photo above is untouched, taken several years ago with a cheap, ancient camera, en route to Vancouver. This photo used to stand watch whenever my computer slept. Sometimes when the M&A lawyers called, I'd click away from the piles of PDF due diligence long enough to steal a glance. It was my "serenity now" when I sat hours on end in an ergonomic roller chair.

These days, I find more and more of these moments in real life. I don't have to stare at a screen to see them. Like this morning, when I ran under a moon so bright it cast my bundled shadow onto the pavement. I ran past Halloween remnants of a sheeted ghost and picked up the pace when the peripheral glances at the fire hydrant flags made me wonder if it was actually the face of a skinny person poised to yell "boo!". Then the sun set off yellow flares on the horizon to announce its arrival, and the bare branches turned into the claws of a black cat against the brightening sky.

These are moments so majestic they need no editing, no adjustment. The master Artist has already seen to everything. So effortless, He could do it in His sleep, if indeed, He ever slept.

I'm not sure I can agree with Emily, at least on this one point. Nature doesn't seem to be hoarding yellow anymore. In fact, she's outright licentious with these golden splays. And I love her for it.

As for the other Emily, the host of Tuesdays Unwrapped at Chatting at the Sky, I couldn't agree more with her encouragement to find gifts in the messy, lovely and unexpected. This week, I'm celebrating nature's generosity with yellow and the gift of seeing it firsthand.

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We Live In a Beautiful World (yeah we do, yeah we do)

This place is tied with the beach as the lowest point in town.
This place is for the birds: the egrets and herons and an occasional bald eagle.
This place is where I run and think up original ideas and witty phrases and blog posts that I always forget by mile three.
This place is not lost on me.

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Peacing It Together

There is an unexpected quiet and a peace not fought for. And whenever it steps a silent foot forward, it startles me.

I did not see the moment coming. When two preschoolers would ponder, uncoaxed.

Or when waves would go from fizzling to flat, from crashing to cove, with a tilt of the moon.

Peace will not pose as an entitlement and refuses to be staged. It is almost always a surprise, a just-because gift. It is Wait! Don't look now, but I think that might be it. Hold still! I said not to look. Oh there, it's gone. But did you see it? Yes, that was most definitely peace.

And the best kind, the very best kind of peace, is the kind you discover (and usually by accident) alongside another.
Linked to I Should Be Folding Laundry's You Capture series, with a prompt this week of Peace.

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On S'mores and Summer Nights

The scents of bug spray and smoke are still keeping me company as I type, now two hours later. Even the bite of blueberry cobbler I just stole hasn't overpowered the bitter DEET taste on the tip of my tongue. And my hair. Lord have mercy, I smell like a chain smoker.

But these are the best kind of stinky smells.

Aunt Robin bought pink marshmallows and Uncle Stym built a cracklin' hot fire.

"Did you know the pink ones aren't really strawberry?" I heard Caed inform his cousin. "They are just white ones with food colorin' in it. My mom won't buy them cuz they taste the same as the white ones."

He added, "But I can't wait to try one of those pink ones YOUR mom bought!"
We worked hard at making this memory. We planned around the weather--multiple times. We went grocery shopping. We set up a tent, borrowed a fire pit. We salvaged wood and built a fire. We carried the chairs, rid the yard of dog doo, repelled the bugs, stoked the fire, roasted the marshmallows. All for the sake of s'mores and story time by the fire.

It was worth it.

But have you ever noticed how we describe the preparation and maintenance and clean up of the aftermath in terms of hours, while the eating of s'mores and exploring of rocky shores get assigned only moments?

It seems we have to work so hard for these sweet memorable moments. And in a flash they're over, and our hands are sticky, and we smell so bad that even the deer flies leave us alone.
But maybe that's part of what makes these moments so special. Because we work so hard for them. Because there are precious few of them. Because they run away so quickly, uncatchable, leaving us perpetually It, reminding us there are no tag backs.

Whatever the case, wouldn't you agree these sweet, fleeting moments we crown worthy of memory are so very worth the chase?

*************************
And of course this is linked to Emily's Tuesdays Unwrapped. Are you sensing a pattern? Yes, I pretty much do this EVERY week. But I can stop anytime I want, really, I can!

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Ta-Da!

Life is happening faster than I can blog about it. So what do I do? I go wordless and mess with my blog header. (A bit counterproductive, huh?) For more wordless Wednesday, click on back here.

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Stories in my Pocket: The Reasons Why Not

Is it Saturday already? How can this be! Between the long awaited arrival of the sunshine and old friends, I haven't written a single word for this week's Stories in my Pocket.

Would you like a few visual excuses?
I think we can agree in this case that slacking was the wise choice.

Now, this is the part of the show where I encourage you to link up your stories, in spite of my absence. Some of you have been faithfully entertaining me with your funny stories. Some of you have intrigued and inspired me as you unearth events of the far distant past. In both cases, I have appreciated your participation SO MUCH. So, why not keep going this week? I'd love to read your stories!



May your weekend be full of beauty, rest and wonder!

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