cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
There was a season of life when my faith was as fragile as a newly unfurled leaf, when all I could do was wait, observe, and cautiously hope that I would experience the faith I once had. I felt far removed from that passionate and zealous girl who once lived overseas and realized a dream…
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There’s an ache to my lower back as I stoop and stretch for the next dead branch with my hedge trimmers. Waste bins and brown recyclable bags checker yards up and down the street. Interspersed between each bin, neighbors gather dead things, heaving last year’s baggage away so summer can begin again. Together our bodies…
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When I was a little girl I’d spend hours upon hours playing and imagining in my Grandma’s garden.
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It’s been 2 weeks since we moved the first rock, and it’s still an unfinished project.
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As I was preparing to write for this month, I left the window open on my computer with the May writing themes the only words on the page.
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Her hands, tan from the sun, were wrinkled and rough, nails cut short and not a hint of polish.
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I’m sitting here over my morning tea watching transition across my yard.
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When we drove up the driveway to our new home in 1998 the grass was above our knees when we walked across it to meet our new neighbors.
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It’s really early in the morning. Most of the world around me is deep in sleep.
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When I left home 10 days ago, our yard still looked brown and rather sad after the long winter, except for the few splashes of color the early spring daffodils were bringing.
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