cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
As I sit here, sipping my morning coffee and gazing out the window at my two teenage sons, I can’t help but daydream about the days when they’ll be off to college and my husband and I will be empty nesters. I love my kids more than anything in this world. They’re the light of…
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There is a black-and-white photo that sits in my office. The photo is of a favorite four-year-old. In it, she is outside. Even in black and white, I know the sky in the photo is brilliant blue. She is looking straight into the camera lens. Her lovely little face fills the frame, blonde strands of…
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In honor of the tenth anniversary of Red Tent Living, we are featuring a monthly legacy post written by one of our regular contributors from the past decade. Robyn Whitaker began writing regularly for Red Tent Living in 2014, and this post originally appeared in September 2014. My husband walked along the rocky shore line with…
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I have always wanted to be a camper. (Not a literal camper, but one who camps!) Perhaps it was the imagination I had when friends talked about overnights with Girl Scouts that sounded so luxurious. I also loved Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and her life on the prairie seemed a lot like camping to me.…
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At seventy-one, I accept the reality that I am living the third third of my life. Sometimes the realization frightens me, but at other times, it brings me peace. There is nothing I can do about time marching on, so I may as well relax and enjoy. The realization that I am living the last…
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Am I where I’m supposed to be? Do I have the inner strength, gentleness, and wisdom to venture out once again into the unknown?
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My heart races as I descend the stones thrown recklessly at the edges of the earth. These coastal boulders are mighty as they break the waves, which threaten to wash away the trees and green shrubs, homes of bears and cougars. Whoever tossed them aside was very angry.
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I have a black-and-white photo of my grandmother from the 1940s that I treasure. She’s dressed in pants and a flannel, kneeling in the grasses of an Oklahoma prairie, focused on something ahead. Balanced on her shoulder is a rifle of some sort. Her hair is short and curled, messy from the breeze. And though…
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The sun dances across my lap. The old Honda’s engine revs and releases around the curves of Lake Crescent. Turquoise waters on my right shimmer clearly against the evergreens next to its shore. I count the logs cast aside into the lake’s bottomless waters. Just past the upcoming campground we will take a hard right…
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Legends are made this way. Legends are borne in the small, tiny stories, the kind that stick year after year—where there is always more to tell, but you cannot get there because this particular part is just too good.
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