Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Day story


Outside my window, a hound dog asleep on the patio by the French doors. Geraniums in window boxes, bold and red. My dad's truck in the driveway, still.

Giving thanks for quiet days. Reprieve.

In the school room, a tabletop getting cleared. Library books stacked high, and I wonder why I can't just read what I own, that I add to it exponentially with borrowed books. Next to me, booklists and items checked off. Today, purchasing next year's curriculum. It feels good.

From the kitchen, a favorite kale salad. A book (not an affiliate link; from the library--which I then added to my online cart under the guise of "curriculum" for poetry tea parties. It counts!) of possibilities for crafting next week's special tea for Erin and a friend ... and their dolls. Thankful my kids are still kids.

I am creating a new rhythm. A summer song. It is gentle and slow. It is intentional.

I don't want to forget watching Babette's Feast with Erin and reading subtitles. The spurts of French, a welcome and familiar word. The messages, multifaceted. A beautiful story and a beautiful message of the power of community, the power of a table, the power of sacrifice.

Around the house, Satsuma in the air. Laundry washed and dried for my sister. A grocery list, incomplete. A steady week of rehearsals for a weekend's show. But in light of these months, there is no hustle in this. This is light. This is easy. Perspective. Self: remember this. Slow down and savor.

I am hearing my kids finishing lunch, and Erin's twitter laughter. She talks about her dolls and how each year they age like she does--but when they get to be 'adults' she will start them over, because she doesn't want them to grow up. I understand. 

A view of my favorite things

summer splash


Haley and Comet

First frog

this wonderland


Random finds around the house

celebrating my sister

the kind of dad he is
At the table, earlier today an impromptu coffee with a friend while our girls visited. Talks about curriculum. Walking new roads. I felt thankful for her, and thankful for the life the table invites. Oh, tables matter.

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