I’m now a contributing writer at Crosswalk.com! I’m thankful to all who’ve encouraged my craft and built me up and urged me to work up the bravery to share my stuff. I’d say I owe you, but you taught me that I don’t, so this first one’s for you:
(Here’s number two.)
It was sort of an interesting exercise — a perfectionist writing a piece on perfectionism. When I sent it to my husband Josh for a panicked last-minute proofread, his encouraging e-mail response read, “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Needlepoint that one on a cushion.
In other news, things are all right over here. Changes are brewing. The house is plugging along, taunting us with new problems like it does, and this very full summer has left me thinking I’ve been neglecting an appointment with a glass of sweet tea.
2014 has featured not one, not two, but five wedding invitations — including my little sister Alicia’s — and most of my wedding energies have been funneled into not thinking about how she’s moving fourteen hours away.
In making the most of our summer together at home, I took that “it doesn’t have to be perfect” thing to heart and Alicia and I raced in a mud run. I’m sure there’s a right way to do these kinds of things, but we had a splendid time flailing over walls and generally discovering the wrong way. Our parents came to watch us — my sweet, dear mother who signed her children up for (and then let us quit) every respectable ladylike class, from studio art to ice skating. I’m fairly sure that I failed out of gymnastics. Mom was a trooper. Other girls were having tea parties and we were falling out of trees, and she was like, “Oh . . . you know, girls. . . ?”
I think she’s slightly concerned that we’ll carry that barbarian look into her daughter’s wedding festivities in two (!) weeks, but we’ve sworn to behave ourselves.
The recent dip in temperatures has me looking excitedly toward fall and ordering premature ciders at restaurants. I just can’t help myself. The kids are trudging onto buses like they’re being marched toward certain death and I’m nestling into old sweaters like a squirrel preparing for the polar vortex.
Like a very, very happy squirrel. With grilled cheese.
Life is good.
I sincerely hope you’ve found that you’ve found rest and renewal this summer, and that you don’t hate me for using the word polar in a post in August. Let’s reconnect, rescue the stuff we love to do from the backburner where creative projects go to die, and live a little more on purpose. And when the time is right, we’ll swap grilled cheese recipes. And maybe I’ll even make some in my house.