A strong man blowing delicate bubbles for his young daughters is a beautiful thing.
Round and iridescent, delicate and weightless, bubbles blown from the lips of my strapping husband danced on the light breeze. We’d secured a particularly good bubble-blowing kit as a birthday gift for my youngest, and the results were no less than magic. The temperature outside was perfect, and the relentless Kansas wind had finally decided to take a time-out. Beauty stacked upon beauty until a permanent memory of that evening was etched in my mind. Bubbles and giggles and family and love.
Sometimes, pictures can’t capture the beauty of the moment. And sometimes they can.
But bubbles, much like memories, are fragile. If you try to contain them, they break. If you try to preserve them, they lose their value, no longer free …
I see him as a whole, real person, with a whole, real family.
As I brought my car to a stop, pressing my foot down on the brake pad, I looked up to the opposite corner of the intersection, and my heart began to race. There stood what appeared to be a young man, in a flowing black cape with a hood over his head. My left turn signal indicator kept a steady rhythm while my mind raced with possibilities. What was he doing there? Promoting some local store? Just a pedestrian with a unique style? Something about his presence unnerved me, and I wasn’t immediately sure why.
With a swift motion, he began pacing back and forth, pivoting quickly to produce a Batman-like silhouette with his cape. Then, he crouched down and let the wind whip …
Yes. Yes, I have felt this way before. (image from anxiety.net
Oh. My. God. OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!
My hands were shaking and my heart bulging from every artery when I saw what was on the screen. A picture of me. Well, half of me. From the waist down. Pants around my ankles. Sitting on the toilet. On Instagram.
Did it post? Did it post? I didn’t know. My phone was frozen. I clicked, nothing would work. I was unable to delete, rewind, go back. My life was ruined. Ruined.
“I take your picture Mommy! Yaaaaay! I did it! Yaaaay! You like it?” My round-faced toddler hovered at my feet, right near where my pants were not yet pulled up. “I take your picture Mommy! I did it! See?”
I had to move to Mexico. I have to delete the Internet. All …
I came across an article on Relevant today (Stop Instramming Your Perfect Life), and while I agree with its premise, it made me pause and think about my own online life.
For many of us, walking away from the Internet isn’t an option. But using it to connect instead of compare is an option, and a life-changing one. Using technology to build community instead of building carefully-curated images of ourselves is an option, and a worthwhile one.
Am I one of those moms who’s putting up a fake front of perfect-looking Instagram shots and Miss Sunny Sunshine status updates? Sometimes, I am. But it’s not because I’m afraid to show my real life. It’s not because I want others to think I’m perfect, or that just-real-enough perfection that is Jennifer Lawrence’s Oscar interview. I take …
I came across this image the week before I left my job. I didn’t know where those horses were going, but I wanted to find out. I wanted…this.
One year ago, I had a vision, although I couldn’t see it clearly at the time. I really couldn’t see anything clearly at that time…except the exit sign. I was beyond my capacity, and when something had to give, I chose my career. Faced with either watching my life slip away while I kept pace on the treadmill, or pulling the safety key and watching my career come to a grinding halt, I chose to take my life off autopilot. And you know what? It was really scary at first. While the 8-5 (+) keeps you going at a rapid speed, it also gives you structure. For …
Sprigs of green wheat push up through dry Kansas soil.
Puffs of fine dust swirl where our feet meet with dry Kansas farm ground. “Mom, it’s like we’re living in the desert.” She’s right. This drought has left our land crackly, where it was once lush. I shake my head in amazement, that such a young child would make such an observation. Then again, the land is really all there is to observe out here. No mature trees, just a house, a red metal shop, and an old, rusty round grain bin turned chicken coop affectionately called “The Tin Man.”
Our homestead juts out of the corner of the field, an odd mixture of old and new. Old house, new foundation, old walls, new siding, old land, new family. On a bright, unseasonably warm February afternoon, the …