Story
One can bear anything if one can put it in a story. - Isak Dinesen
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Love Wins
Love Wins. That’s what a bumper sticker on the back of our Suburban says. In black and white. There are some topics about which I really don’t care to write. Like this one. Because when I throw this stuff out there into the blogosphere I become accountable. If I keep these ideas in my mind then no one can judge me when I blow it. (Which I will.) But, the thing is I don’t always let Love win. But I want to. I want Love to be victorious. In my relationships. In my actions. In my attitudes. In my thoughts. In my heart. So I’ve been repeating the words of…
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Story
I have read so much about story lately. And I like it all. Mostly. I remember reading a quote by Eudora Welty and she said, “Most really good stories are about the interiors of our lives.” (I think she’s right – which is how that woman who seldom left her own state and who rarely even left her hometown could still write Pulitzer Prize winning novels.) With all this talk about story, and being a person suffering from tunnel vision, I naturally turned my thoughts on myself. I thought about story in general and my story specifically. And I thought . . . What if you are in the middle…
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On My Plate
I like to eat words. Particularly my own. You think I would learn by now. But I have not. I just keep saying things. Making crazy stands on both important and non-important issues. I don’t want any children. I would never want to teach high school English. No more dogs for the Keigley family. I don’t want to live any farther south than Virginia. Taking young children to Disney is ridiculous. Like so many other times I have found myself dining on my own litany of “never” and “I won’t” and “That’s crazy”. And now I have to dish up another plate. At one point I thought they were over…
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confessions of a bad soccer mom
I am a bad soccer mom. I purposely park the stroller at the end of the field where no one else is. I usually don’t stroll right up to the line of canvas foldable chairs and picnic blankets placed down the sidelines. I’m not that mom that the whole team knows and who hugs and high-fives all the little players as they exit the field. That’s not me. I don’t know why exactly. I don’t dislike those people. Shoot, I don’t even know those people. I think maybe I feel inadequate. I am usually late. Soccer uniform-clad kids rushing down the hill before Kevin and I wheel the double stroller down…
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My First
This weekend I ran my first-ever race. It wasn’t a marathon or anything – it was a 5k. In my “training” (laugh. laugh. cough.) I had never run more than two miles at a time. Friday night was balmy, but pleasant. The race started at 6:30 p.m. I placed myself toward the back of the crowd of over 3000 runners. (Call me realistic.) For fun, and because I want to and I can, I am going to walk/run you through my thought process. Here we go. This is cool. I’m really excited. I’m pretty nervous. This skirt is pretty cute. At least I can wear a cute running skirt. That’s…
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worship.
I went running today. (You know, my once a week if Riley is cool with hanging out with the wee ones in the afternoon“habit”.) Before I hit the trail, still in my closet putting on my shoes, I decided again (for the bazillionth time) that I did not like my body after all. It wasn’t really beautiful. No matter what I said or what I typed or what I tried to think about true beauty and all that internal beauty stuff. My shorts seemed silly. My legs were winter-pale. (And I am not foolish enough to believe that summer will actually change that. That’s just not the way my skin…
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believes.
My day is filled (and I mean filled) with requests to “look at this”. Bergen loves to call my attention to important matters. Such as “Mom, I found Sparks (a much-loved, frequently-misplaced-because-he-is-rather-small stuffed puppy that was once Riley’s).” “Hey, Mom – check this out. One scab on my knee is gone and just pink but the other is still big and puffy.” “Look at this truck – can you believe how high it jumps? Look at it again. It does it every time.” (All twenty-seven times. Yes. It certainly does, son.) “Mommy – watch Flapjack’s eyes in this cartoon. London, can you rewind that? Mommy has to see his eyes.…
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simple.
Tell me this isn’t beautiful. It’s the Real Deal. And it’s one of my favorite types of beauty – the practical kind. Oh, how I love when Function meets Beauty. A fresh strawberry smoothie. As in – these strawberries were picked only hours before they were blended harmoniously together in my lame Black & Decker blender. And as if fresh, in season, local strawberries were not beauty enough on their own . . . there’s the glass. Isn’t it cute? It, too, is another pleasing little example of Beauty. The beauty of finding a great deal on a tiny treasure. This glass was purchased at the almost-giving-it-away price of $0.68.…
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Change
As far as our circumstances go, change is the only constant. The world in which I fall asleep is not the world in which I wake. And this is true every day. In good seasons and in bad. Which is endlessly depressing and eternally hopeful.
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Community
I am taking a crash course in community right now. Call it Community 101. Or something like that. And it’s beautiful. I don’t mean virtual community. (Although I think that’s pretty fun and actually, more helpful than I imagined it could be.) But I mean – flesh and bones, hands and feet, I will meet your needs – community. It might just be the first time in my life I am seeing what it looks like to let someone other than my family (or framily) rally around me and carry me when my legs are broken. (Not literally, alright guys?) And there’s a power in that weakness. And a peace…
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Fear
I have allowed fear to rule my heart for most of my life. I don’t mean that “most of my life” in a cliche way. Or even in a “most of my adult life” way. I mean most of my life. As in since I was eight years old. Around the time I was eight I developed some hyper-fear that my mother was going to die. I became obsessed. Obsessed. As in every night I crept down to my parent’s bedroom. I hovered beside my mother’s bed. And I watched her. Two sleepy eight-year-old eyes peering just over the bed covers at my resting mother. I just stared at her.…
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The 3 R’s
It’s elementary, right? My favorite three r’s are not reading, writing or arithmetic. (Besides, I think it says something about American education that we ever even used the phrase “the three r’s” to describe three words of which only one correctly begins with an “r”. But maybe I’ll blog about that later.) And, despite my green efforts, I’m not even talking about reduce, reuse and recycle. Nah. There are three other r’s that have been changing and shaping and altering the life I know. Redemption. Reconciliation Restoration. Those are my favorite “r” words. I love them. And every day I feel as if my life is more defined by them…
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Stride
I’m not a runner. But I try to get outside and pretend to be one every now and again. If you’ve had the misfortune of seeing me out there, you know I don’t exactly look like a runner. (More like a sweaty-toothed madman.) But today I actually had a moment. While I was running. Not my standard why-am-I-doing-this type of moment. Like an epiphany kind of moment. I reached a hill. (What felt like a crazy-steep, insurmountable hill that seemed to want to claim my very life.) And so I started to walk. And for the first time in my limited running experience walking felt slow. It was weird. I…
