Winds of Change

I've spent cumulative hours writing in my head. Writing thoughts, describing scenes, scenes of my life and the lives that touch mine. I've thought of witty descriptions for photos we've taken and been startled by the length and breadth of emotion that I feel in certain situations which would do well to bleed on a page. I read other folks blogs and am inspired and encouraged by honesty and the grittiness of life, but I. Don't. Make. Time. To. Write. I'm wanting this to end. I realize the main problem with the way that I've blogged for the past few years is two-fold...1: I wait for events that are fun to write about and 2: I feel I have to be chronological in my posting...a.k.a...I don't write about the today if the hundred (or more) yesterdays haven't been covered. I'm freeing myself from these self-imposed and paralyzing shackles. And will now (hope) to write in a way that melds the past and present. Before my posts I'll be sure to explain the month and year in which the photos/stories took place, if I choose to visit the past, and if not I'll just explain, well, the today.

 

Today I'm longing for Spring. My family and I currently reside in Virginia Beach in a graduate student housing community while my brilliant husband works toward his MFA in film. It is "Spring Break", but Spring missed the memo. It is cold. It is damp. It is grey. I really have taken (too much) pride in trying to not complain about the weather, and I don't feel complaint within me...necessarily...I think the longing for a warmer wind beats out the complaint. There will be such a deep and true appreciation for when the sun arrives and really goes to work on this place. I'm looking forward to that. I'm also looking presently at the small hand of my 3 year old as she sleeps and I type on the bed opposite hers. Her hands aren't baby hands anymore and if I'm honest they haven't been for sometime. They don't dimple and puff at the knuckles anymore, but carry definition and have acquired some grand skills recently. My Sophie is quite a cook and can stir a mean pot of oatmeal or soup without getting burned. She can trace letters (when she wants to) and can use scissors with the greatest of ease. She fights me to collect her wispy hair out of her eyes, so she has perfected sweeping hair off her face and tucking it behind her ears. She can pour cream into her tea without spilling and punch out some mean playdough cookies and arrange them on color-coordinated plates. Sometimes we call hands "paws" in our house...a favorite hand-me-down term of endearment from my Mom's childhood. Sophie's little paws are the sweetest when she cups my face in them and turns my head to whisper a secret. I like little kid whispers.

 

 

Time for a cup of tea. Until next time...