My Husband Says I Need A Hobby

Sundays are the God given day of rest.

I must say. In recent weeks I've had to take both days. I sleep a large portion of Saturday. I've put my health in jeopardy for so long that I find it difficult to manage most days.

I love the day of rest. I love going to church. I love the feeling of refreshing that I feel there. I love that I am always inspired to write on Sundays.

Here I sit. In my living room. Watching the sun pour it's intensely not-Septemberish-rays through yellowing trees. Wearing my awesome not-old-lady reading glasses.

I love stories. I love that every person you meet has a story. I've said it numerous times - I am addicted to the written word. I love words spilling off pages and soaking into my heart. I love reading your heart in your eyes; yes, but I also love seeing your story in print. I can read between those lines and quickly, voraciously, devour all that you would speak. This is why I love writing. It removes that which hinders and leaves behind the beautiful remnant of the tale which will be the longevity.

I love being a story teller. I am not really blessed with the ability to be short winded, because I get so wrapped up in the telling. I am certain you, as a reader, want to know every detail of what it is like attempting to get clean whilst at the campground.

I find it is the personal stories that mean the most. I have tried to write fiction, to pull characters from the sky, and create. But I'm not sure I'm that type of writer. I get the most joy out of sharing the trove of treasures that have been my journey. Some of the goodies are delightful; and some seem better left in the dark, but it is the bringing out that allows those items to lose their hold. It's so therapeutic. Perhaps I can encourage you to be a writer. Get some thoughts down on paper... Even if no one else reads it.

One day I'll be the writer of many stories. I have no doubt that it will be a book that will run the emotional gamut. It will be the truest expression of my life as told best by the person who has lived it.

If you know how to read me, straight up or through the tear blurred lines, it will likely be like visiting an old friend on a rainy day in November. Comforting through the chill. Laughter through the tears. Memories wafting from the tea cups.

I believe this will be my pursuit in the months to come.

My hobby for distraction.

A compilation of my greatest hits.

I'll print it out upon completion and if you desire a copy...

The Long Road

The floor is cold today.

A sure sign of the coming of Autumn.

I'm curled up on the couch, drinking coffee, watching a beloved Julia Roberts movie that matches my pensive mood. I don't care what critics say about her. I think she is iconic. I adore her. When I see her perform. I relate.

I've recently spent a great deal of time rereading my earlier posts. I'm pretty amazing I must say. (Just kidding.) Much that I read though, still resonates.

I see uncertainty. I see fear. I see triumph. I see growth. I see life.

My life has been ever changing. Anything but stagnant.

The direction seemed linear, sequential; but, what if the direction, the daily orchestral movement, is actually circular?

These lyrics play through my mind this week...

If I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me for to ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you.
I would swim the sea for to ease your pain..

Few things are more valuable on the rocky pathway of life than a person meeting you on the journey with a hiking stick, a mug of tea, and companionship for the next ten miles or so. It's my nature to come. I don't want you to be alone. No one should ever journey alone. Feeling uncared for. If I can honor you that way, I will come.

The bittersweet beauty of travel is the detours. The ways that wind and weave through back roads, suburbs, and through breathtaking cities with a million and one twinkling lights. Maybe you do not reach your destination on time. Maybe you never actually reach the place you intended. Maybe you turn back. Maybe you look far down that road. Maybe you see the precious people who have journeyed with you. Maybe you see the fading rays of sun filled years. Maybe you see the achingly beautiful moments that are frozen in time. Like your first house. Like your tiny, sweet baby with cords attached everywhere. Like the day your first child went to school. Like the days you said "goodbye" and walked away. Like the days you reached out and said "hello" to a new friend.

Maybe you look far down that road.

Maybe you see the place you started.

Maybe you turn around.