The only "Me"

I was particularly inspired by my friend (and published author) Jayne's blog entry entitled, “How Will They Remember You?” This is seriously a question I ask myself at least once a week lately. I get very worried that I haven't worked hard enough or accomplished enough in the time that I've been given.

I think Jayne makes a great point though. It's the little things we want to know about those that have gone before us. How did they celebrate birthdays? What was their favorite subject in school? Hobbies? My paternal grandmother died before I was born. There's nothing I wouldn't give to sit and read her journal. I'm told I'm so much like her – yet I really know nothing about her. I wish there had been some record of her life raising ten children on a farm. I've seen her beautiful quilt work, but I will never know what her handwriting looked like or what she thought about her world.

Leaving a legacy (even though it's not star studded or particularly glamorous) is slowly taking on new meaning for me. It's not so important that I've not accomplished BIG things, but that I write down the little things that make me tick, share the little joyful moments that keep me going.

There will never be another me on this earth. Ever. I'm not a superstar, or a hero, or a world class athlete - but I'm the only ME that will ever exist on this earth. That alone warrants a written record.

“You are so busy being YOU that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.” ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Crossroads

Something very strange happened last week. My husband was out-of-state on business, three of my children went out-of-town with grandparents, and one was with a friend at the beach. Where was I? Home. Alone. For. Three. Days. First time this has happened in 15 years.

I've been struggling a lot lately with my quickly changing role of “mother.” I've devoted the last 15 years to my children. I've worked from home doing photography and sewing custom boutique children's clothing. Now, my children, ages almost 8 – 18 are all in school all day. There are no diapers to change. I don't have to dress anyone, nurse anyone, brush anyone's teeth. They are very independent. I'm glad! But I'm lost....

I think it's time for me to try new things, to get out there in society. Honestly, the idea of sewing all day long alone in studio for another year just makes me cringe. I've been writing more, which I love, but it's still a very solitary activity. I still have to be a mother first and foremost. I still will pick my kids up from school and cook dinner, etc. But what I need now is a new opportunity, a new adventure. I suppose I can't just sit here and wait for an opportunity to knock on my door, but I haven’t looked for one in so long, I'm not sure where to start. This is where my frustration begins.

Where do I look? What do I do? Pre-motherhood I competed for seats in orchestras, I did public speaking contests and recited dramatic monologues just for the fun on it. But opportunities were EVERYWHWERE 15 years ago. Now, they are hiding and I'm not a talented “seeker.”

I like to be busy. I like to work. I can guarantee that whatever new endeavor I attempt, I will probably be the one trying too hard. I'm hard on myself, but I want stellar results, so I don't know any other way to be.

Last week, while I was alone, I shopped. I tended my potted plants and my garden. But mostly I did a lot of thinking. I'm nearly 40. My life is different and I want to find a way to embrace and enjoy it. I'm at a crossroads. It's an unnerving spot to sit, in my opinion. I need to find my opportunity – while still fulfilling all roles of wife and mother.

I'm ready. My heart is open.

It's Okay to Fall Apart

I somehow have the ability to pick myself up and carry on in the midst of adversity. It doesn't mean I don't fall apart, occasionally, I just don't do the falling publicly.

At 16 I was set on becoming a professional flutist. I was strongly considering leaving my current high school and attending the Governor's School for the Arts. I practiced hour upon hour. It was all I wanted to do. I always believed if I worked hard enough, I could do anything. Work. Work. Work.

I knew I had lots of trouble hearing people in quiet conversations. I could never hear my friends talk to me in class. I asked people to repeat themselves all the time. Upon a hearing evaluation, we learned that my hearing was very bad and it's was the specialists opinion that it would continue to worsen. A deaf flautist?? I was crushed. I remember climbing to the top of a large oak tree in our backyard and bawling. Somehow though, I still believed that if I worked hard and kept going, everything would be alright. Thankfully, I am 39 and I'm not deaf yet. I have severe hearing loss and depend on hearing aids, but I can hear!

Though I kept playing and practicing, and still do, I knew I could not risk a career in music when there was such a possibility of deafness. I went to college and majored in English, my second love. Throwing myself into literature helped me move past my disappointment and move on. I'm the only person in my family that has ever graduated from college.

Fast forward a few years. I was married – 10 years, two children. My boys were ages 4 and 2. Though I knew there were problems in my marriage, I really felt like I had a good life. That this was the way it was supposed to be?? I made myself believe that my marriage was healthy. Then he left. He left me for another woman. Not only that but a whole huge slew of things were out on the table and I was clueless. Blindsided. How could someone I trusted SO TOTALLY do this to me? I felt like a complete idiot. I felt like a naive fool. I had nothing, not a cent to my name. My husband and everything I thought I had was gone.

I would be strong all day long. I didn't want my boys to see me upset. Bedtime would come and the boys would sleep and I would lose it. I cried it out, every night for a very long time. I even remember waking from a dead sleep and I would still be bawling.

It's funny how now I can look back and see how those moments made me stronger. I knew more, I understood more, and most importantly, I knew I could handle pain. I now had some armor in my arsenal.

My point is this. We all fall apart. We are human. However, it's how we handle heartache and hard times that makes us who we are. So go ahead, allow yourself time to grieve. Check into the hotel and cry on their fancy pillows. BUT – don't unpack. You don't live there. Your stay in the Heartbreak Hotel should not be a long one. Take some time to pick up the pieces and MOVE ON. Re-focus and re-invent yourself. I promise, on the other side there is a new, more wonderful you waiting in the wings ready to begin anew.

Dylan and Caleb (13 and 15 years)

I confess. I am not a homesteader.

You will see many photos on this site with my former blog title on them: “Our Homestead Haven.” Once upon a time I feel in love with the idea of homesteading. I love to garden, I love having fresh organic eggs from my chickens – that makes me a homesteader, right? Wrong! After reading blogs of real homesteaders, I realized I didn't fit in. This is actually a case where “everything in moderation” really works to my advantage. You see, though I love gardening, I also love being a few miles from a grocery store so I can buy a frozen pizza. Though I love having my own fresh eggs to go in cakes, I also love buying a cake already made so I don't have to bake it. And while sitting down together to dinner I cooked is wonderful, I also love eating out in a nice restaurant with my husband and wearing some nice heels and pretty jewelry. REAL homesteaders (or those whose blogs I have read), do without modern convenience a lot of the time. They milk goats every morning, clean and catch fish, bake everything from scratch, etc... I am not a homesteader. My hats off to them. I have the sincerest admiration and respect. But, alas, there is a little too much glamor in the girl to make the cut!
I Do still grow things - and photograph them. The natural world is a beautiful place - but so is my nice air-conditioned home.

An Heirloom to Treasure

A while back, my kids and I were digging around my mom and dad’s storage building. My kids LOVE to explore the building and find new treasures to claim and bring home. Grandma and Grandpa have no problems with this arrangement. I am usually the one who has to “deal” with their latest exciting acquisitions! However, on this warm fall day, it was little old me that spotted a treasure. I remember seeing this beautiful cabinet most of my life. Jars and other sundries were always neatly stored on it’s shelves. My mom wanted it in the house, but there simply wasn’t a place for it. I’m ashamed to admit that it wasn’t until recently that I knew it’s story. This shelf was built for my grandmother by my grandfather. She needed a sturdy shelf for all her home canned goods. I never met my grandmother, she died before I was born. My father was the youngest of 10 children, and his father (my grandfather) died when he was only two years old – he has no memory of his father. He does, however, have lots of memories of this cabinet. He told me of how he would sit and watch television as child and would be frightened by the sounds of the jar lids popping and sealing. He has also recalled to me many times watching his mother make fig preserves and store the jars in this cabinet. The cabinet was built from rough cut wood ,whatever was available, milled at a family mill that used to be right down the street from their home. Each piece was cut, by my grandfather, with a handsaw. None of the nails match, none of the boards are same size, but it’s SOLID and in my opinion, it’s absolutely perfect. We estimate it’s age at between 80-90 years old. I can picture the man who made this cabinet. I can picture the woman who stocked it with food for the family. I can picture a little boy sitting near it waiting for the sound of the “pops.” I can picture my family enjoying and appreciating it for years to come. Here’s to the next 90, and may my children love it as much as I do. So grateful to have this treasure in my home.

Apple Turnovers

Ever catch yourself saying, “If only.” I'm guilty. I have a terrible case of what I call “Wanderlust” right now. If only I could travel to Italy, or just a quick NY trip. I'm just dying to get out and see the world. Of course, travel is expensive, and with the major commitments I have on my time right now, travel is not really an option. Thankfully, we have a few small trips planned this summer to get me through! Maybe it's just a need for some “change” here and there that keeps me going...
SO, apple turnovers. I'm getting to that. One summer when I was in middle school, I remember having these same type feelings. Wondering what in the world was out there for me and what in the world I could do to find it. I've seemed to struggle with this for most of my life. Anyway, the phone rang. My uncle, a truck driver, had a semi full of apple turnovers to be delivered to McDonalds – he had broken down. Since the refrigeration in his truck had been inoperative for about 2 hours, McDonald's would no longer accept the turnovers. So, he called us. The turnovers were still frozen and perfectly fine, so my parents came back with them. About 500 of them. An entire stand alone freezer SLAP FULL of turnovers. Can you say HEAVEN? We didn't eat out much, even McDonalds. My mom cooked everyday – so “fast food” in the freezer was beyond cool. I had turnovers for breakfast, brunch, after lunch snack, before and after dinner snack, bedtime snack, just anytime snack – I ate a lot of turnovers. It didn't take long before the didn't seem so “heavenly” to me. I was sick of them. I'm 36 years old and I still don't think I've eaten a McDonalds apple turnover since then.
My point? Grass is always greener on the other side. I think it's normal to wish to do things, even buy things, to see things. However, at the end of the day you have to step back and see how awesome YOUR life really is. Apple turnovers were awesome for a while, but I missed my mom's grits and eggs for breakfast!
I'm sure I could find quite a few women who would love to be in my place – mom to some wonderful kiddos with a fantastic husband.... Now I just need to talk my fantastic husband into taking me to Italy...
My oldest boys are at Scout Camp this week. Here a few of my little ones enjoying summer...

"Arriving at destination, on right."

If you have a GPS in you car, you have probably heard this phrase. My GPS voice has a British accent which I simply adore. Something melodic and easy about that accent, simple yet eloquent. I have been beating myself up lately, wondering if I will ever feel that I have truly “arrived.” Have I met the destination I have been traveling towards, or have I just blazed by checkpoints and kept going. My list of checkpoints and destinations is fogging my brain. Here are a few:

1. I don't write enough. I have a blasted English degree and I don't write – not even this puny blog. WHY? FEAR. I'm a coward. I know I have very judgmental eyes that read my blog, and maybe I'm just afraid of failure, or being labeled, judged. But, alas, it is time to write. I've started a novel – because the story in bits and pieces has been in my head for over two years, and it's time to put it on paper. As for blogging, I had decided to write on my photo blog, but I prefer the Blogger set-up; it's just easier. So I'm back to blogging – I even have it on my calendar.

2. I want another degree. I'm seriously considering going back to college either for a masters, or start over and earning a photography degree. No, no dinky tech “joy of photography class.” I want the full blown, real deal. Maybe in a few years.....I'll never grow tired of photography.

3. All my children will be in school next year. WOW. I need to work on ME. I've already started this journey, but next year I'll have more time to refine things a bit. I've lost nearly 40 pounds, and I am thrilled, but there is still work to be done!

4. Sewing and music. They seem to get pushed to the end, but they need some revitalizing as well. I sewed my daughter 6 pairs of ruffle shorts for summer this week, and I practiced a dozen on so hymns on my flute. I'm petrified of losing or forgetting what I worked so long and hard to acquire...

So, have I arrived? Heck no. Not by a long shot. I could add 10 more things to this list and still not be finished. I am hard on myself though, and I have to wonder, will I be 80 years old and still feel like I have yet to arrive. I hope not. The mere thought gives my chills....

Me and my biggest fan - gosh I love this man! (Blogger is making the picture look BAD though - I will have to figure out why...

The Sewing Box

This little sewing box holds a special place in my heart. It's been put away, for safe keeping, but I decided to bring it out and once again and make it a part of my home. Perhaps I remembered it due to the time of year – the coming of Christmas. This box once belonged to my paternal grandmother. She passed away a few years before my birth so I never had the opportunity to meet her. I've been told we a lot alike – same height, same build, and both have a love of sewing. But alas, this post is not about sewing or my sweet grandmother, it's about saving.

This antique box was a part of my bedroom growing up. It was always there, on my shelf, dresser, chest-of-drawers. I moved it around but it was always there. As a child of about 10 or 11 I really loved it. Not because is was antique or a keepsake, but because it had a “secret compartment.” Having two younger brothers, “secrets” were invaluable. The little tomato pin cushion could be lifted to reveal this compartment that I swore nobody knew was there except for me.
One day in the summer I embarked upon a self-imposed challenge. I decided that I wanted to buy everyone a Christmas gift with my own money. No help from the adults. I would start in the summer so I would have enough saved by December. The “secret compartment” would hold the loot and I wouldn't tell a soul what I was planning to do. So, for months and months I squirreled away my nickels and dimes in the sewing box. I would volunteer to help with the laundry in order to collect the change my dad left in his pant pockets. I would clean the kitchen and get a quarter – BIG money for our family at the time. I would regularly move the couch cushions to find more change. I honestly remember walking through parking lots looking at my feet just in case someone had dropped a penny or two! My endeavors were fruitful. My heart, full of pride, announced that I would be buying everyone a gift with my own money. I don't recall what I purchased for everyone. I do remember buying my grandma, my mother's mom, and pair of knee highs because I noticed hers had holes, and a tin of hard candy – her favorite. What has stuck with me is the feeling - the feeling of working hard, accomplishing a goal and getting to show love for my family in a way I had never done before. I have never forgotten what the accomplishment felt like. This lesson has carried over into my adult life. I want something, I work, I save, and it makes me appreciate to have what I've worked so hard for. I think if I could simply go out and buy everything I wanted, the appreciation would be greatly diminished., and the “newness” would wear off way too quickly.
So, I look at this sewing box – complete with the same little calico fabric scraps I placed in them as a child, and it makes me happy. It represents lessons I want to teach my children, and lessons I need to continue to implement in my adulthood. It represents how sometimes having less makes you love more, work harder, and in the end, find that you were never lacking to begin with.

Metamorphosis

This time of year brings back many memories. Fall changes everything in the air; smells, textures, colors, it's all in the process of metamorphosis. This time of year, in 2004, I was in the middle of a divorce. I had made the decision to move out of my house (his house), and move into MY house. Seeing as I had a 4 year old, a 2 year old, and no job, this was going to be difficult to say the least. But I had decided to make it happen. So, I prayed, and then I prayed some more, and more. You get the idea. Finally one day I had some news that my aunt and uncle's rental mobile home was vacant and the rent was only $200 a month. It was a quick walk right through the woods to my parents home, and I knew my boys would love that! Excitedly, my dad and I went to check it out. It was hard to swallow. Holes in the wall (I could see the OUTSIDE from the inside), rats nests in the oven – it was falling apart. My dad looked at me, I looked at him. He said something like, “we can make it work.” I believed him – I always believe my daddy. So, the work began. I watched my dad constantly turn trash to treasure, he made something out of nothing over and over again. He used scraps and leftovers from other projects. We painted, hammered, patched and prayed. My mom cleaned and cleaned until the whole place reeked of the wonderfully sanitized smell of Clorox. The day came and 5 elders from the church in 3 pick-ups moved everything I owned all in one trip, and then unloaded it in my new home. It was home. The metamorphosis had begun. From wife to single mom, homeowner to renter, together to alone. What should have been a sad day, and I did shed a few tears, ended up being remarkable. I KNEW I could make it, I was independent, my boys were happy and I would be okay. To this day my boys still comment about how much they loved our little “trailer in the woods,” It was the happiest stop on earth. They often recount their wonderful memories of that home. I felt like it was a spot blessed from above. I discovered through this process that I thrive on independence. Being forced to make all the decisions all the time brought me “back to life,” and it was a good life. A family member told me, “It's so nice to have Christy back.” Perhaps we all need a "metamorphosis" in our lives, perhaps we all need something to bring us "back to life.”
Photos taken in October 2004 on the property where I was renting:

Vacation 2009 - The "Wild"

By far, the most awe inspiring part of our mountain vacation was the natural beauty that surrounded us at every turn. We took many, short hikes, as far as Lacey could tolerate and spent lots of time in the COLD river water. It was very precarious as I balanced on slippery creek rocks, at times no longer being able to feel my toes, but I just had to document all the smiles and good times. The boys pitched small stones for the longest time, Lacey always wanted to head to the bank so that she could get yet another handful of blooms to watch float down the river. Almost every photo her little hands are filled with a bouquet of some sort. We even had the unique experience of seeing two bears, in the wild. Thankfully, we were in our car. The police were there asking everyone to get back in their vehicles. I took a photo as we drove by. You can see two black “blobs” (no time to focus on this shot).
I also took time to examine the light as it filtered through the forest canopy – just stunning.
I have at least 30 photos I love, but I'll share just a few.
This beautiful land that we live in is proof positive, evidence if you will, of our Heavenly Father. This was no “big bang” people, just no way. What a blessing to live in this beautiful world.



"Mommy, take a picture of my flower." She made sure, several times, that I was taking a picture of her flower, not her. "Not my face, mommy." I tried to follow her instructions!

More flowers...

The Blob Bears - LOL

How does your garden grow?

I was reminded today, the details I'll leave out, that life is a test, an opportunity to grow. I was reminded that we can't grow unless given the opportunities to do so. If we meander from day to day, year to year without opposition or challenge, can we ever really prove that we have the faith and “gumption” to rise above? Will we remove ourselves from situations that could prove harmful? Will we forgive someone who has harmed us? I think within us all there is a seed. A tiny manifestation of our creator. We can cultivate and tend this seed or we can ignore it while it slowly hardens and withers. I learned today that my seed could use some water and I'm thankful that I've been blessed with another day to grow stronger. I want to be counted among the mighty oaks, not the drought-stricken saplings. I also want my children to be strong, to be able to combat the temptations of every day life. In the world that we live in, temptation will be at every corner, at the touch of a button. I consider this post a journal entry of sorts. I will have to come back and read this often as a reminder of this day. I learned a lot today, and I am thankful, but I'm glad it's over.

Baby Girl – Little Girl

I know to many it is simply unfathomable to have a child still nursing at age 2. I didn't plan it that way. But from day one of Lacey's life, she has been my very attached little nursling. We have had a remarkable bond in so many ways. I thought it was because for so long, I had ached for a daughter. I'm not sure how or why, but we are uniquely bonded. Don't misunderstand me, I love and adore my sons. After all, they were first. They taught me what it was to be a mother, to be selfless. They taught me that I could love someone so deeply it hurt. They taught me what real fear was when they needed stitches or had a high fever. I would have done anything to take their place. My boys are my heartbeat and my breath.
Back to Lacey - we recently accomplished a huge feat, and marked a milestone in her life and mine. For weeks and weeks I had talked with Lacey off and on all day about how when she wakes at night, she doesn't need her “milky,” as she calls it, to go back to sleep. She hasn't nursed during the day for over a year, but sleep and nursing at night have been an issue. I told her she could close her eyes and hold me tight and she could go back to sleep without it. And yes, I'm playing musical beds from hers to mine, but it is working. So I would quiz her all day about what she would do when she woke up – no crying and no milky. Close your eyes, hold me tight.
I've tried this for weeks and it always ended in at least an hour of wailing and then me, exhausted, giving in. I'm not a “cry-it-out” parent, by the way. Doesn't fit into my philosophy in the least. But, to each his own.
Last night was different. Lacey was in her bed by 8. By midnight I heard her on the monitor call for me. Of course, she wanted her “milky.” I reminded her, as I have over and over, that she didn't need it. She looked hurt, her little bottom lip quivering. I looked at her and said, “I love you, I'm so proud of you. I know you can do it.” Then, like a veil had been lifted, she gave me a huge, ear to ear, dimplelicious smile. She closed her eyes. And when I thought she was back to sleep, I suddenly felt her tiny, warm hand slip into mine and she squeezed my hand tight. I don't know how she knew I needed her to hold my hand. Yes, I needed it. Here for the first time in almost 2.5 years, I thought she didn't need me. It was a bittersweet moment. My baby was now a little girl. When I felt her hand slip into mine, it was evidence of our bond. It was there, hopefully forever. I'll admit, I was the one doing all the bawling. I drifted to sleep with a tear soaked pillow. How I will miss our quiet, “milky” time together. But I am, so proud of her. She is a dream come true.
My children bring me such happiness. There are some days when I think if I hear, “Mama, can I” one more time I'll need a straight jacket, but usually there is more happy than sad.
Caleb and Dylan hold up traffic every morning at the drop off at school. They have to give me a kiss and tell me they love me before they will exit the van. I love how they always ask me to have prayer with them, just the two of them, before they go to sleep.
I think if, hopefully many, many years from now, when it is my time to leave this earth, if I have my boys there, once again to “hold up traffic,” to tell me they love me and kiss my cheek I will have had a successful life. And, if in my last breaths, my sweet daughter slips her hand in mine once again, I know I will have lived my life to the fullest. My children will be my accomplishment and the reason for being on this earth.

The Crooked Tree

I wrote this a few years ago for a scrapbook page that I did. I've always loved to write - I guess I have an English degree for some reason! I was cleaning up MS Word and stumbled upon it...thought I'd share.

There is was; a bare, crooked tree that had stood on my grandmother’s land for as long as I could remember. It looked like something Mother Nature had thrown out - a “mess up” maybe. It’s gnarled branches and bent trunk had always looked a bit scary to me as a child, and I remember wondering what happened to give this tree such an appearance. My mother said it had always looked that way, even when she was a child. This was the only explanation I had ever received, and it satisfied me at the time.
My brother, Dale, and his wife made a home on this land and now the crooked tree lives in their front yard. My five year old son, Caleb, became quite interested in the tree on a walk with his uncle. He, however, was not satisfied with a simple explanation.
“Uncle Dale, you have lots of tall trees in your yard.”
“Yes, Caleb, they have been here growing for a very long time. Even before I was born.”
“Did someone plant the seeds to make the trees?”
“Seeds get blown around in the wind and they plant themselves, but people can plant tree seeds too.”
“Uncle Dale, how did this tree get so crooked? It doesn’t look like the rest of the trees.”
“I don’t know Caleb, it’s been a crooked tree for a very long time. Nobody quite remembers how it got that way.”
So, the conversation went this way for a while, my brother trying to explain away the curiosities of a precocious five year old. As they ambled through the woods, they continued their commentary on the natural world around them. Even as Uncle Dale pointed out squirrel nests and deer tracks, Caleb still seemed preoccupied. As it was time for the walk to come to an end, Caleb was ready to announce his grand conclusions to the mystery of the crooked tree, his mind still churning with information.
“Uncle Dale, I know why it is that your tree is so crooked.”
“Please tell me, Caleb, I’d love to know,” replied Uncle Dale, anxiously awaiting Caleb’s explanation.
“It’s really simple: someone wasn’t paying attention and they planted the seed crooked. A crooked planted seed, gives you a crooked growing tree.”
So, it was that simple. I wondered why, as an adult, I hadn’t thought of this before. Maybe Caleb’s conclusions weren’t exactly correct, but we do know that the example we set for our children when they are growing and impressionable will have a profound effect on their lives as adults. They are watching and learning from every move we make, every word we speak. I often think of Caleb and this crooked tree before I make decisions, before I lose my patience. I have to be very careful, as a mother, not to plant any “crooked seeds.” I want my children to grow into tall and mighty oaks. Many lessons were learned on that afternoon walk. I will never look at the “crooked tree” in quite the same way.
The inspiration received from this tree and this story will live in my scrapbook. Perhaps future generations will learn from the crooked tree, and from the innocent wisdom of a five year old. Perhaps Mother Nature didn’t “mess up” after all.