cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Who am I, and which part of me is real? It happens in the flick of a switch. The war within me between the “best version” and the “far-from-the-mark” mother. It doesn’t take much for this duality to be activated as pieces of my own story are stirred up. Both have a significant impact on…
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We sit quietly in the near-dark room. Wood spindles hug hips and back, bare feet touch soft fawn-colored carpet, worn wooden armrests cradle elbows and arms filled with the weight and warmth of her. Feet push gently against the soft carpet, silence broken by the creaking voice of the old rocking chair. Voice speaking from…
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I see you hovering at the base of the big slide, ready to catch your little daredevil as he proudly descends the last of the challenges this big kid playground has presented. And I am aware of your young mama heart, a little sad that he’s already conquering these obstacles.
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I remember the first time I held my granddaughter in my arms. She was minutes old. As I looked at her, she looked at me. She looked into my eyes, and I into hers. Her eyes were deep and rich, almond shaped brown with deep blue halos that only newborns seem to have. They were…
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Dear girls: I find myself sitting on the tarmac right now. My neck feels tight and I try to find relief by twisting and stretching from side to side. I am cornered into a window seat with little room to spare. There is an invisible privacy fence positioned between me and the adjacent stranger. She smiles…
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