Sometimes, I click into my flickr account and I'm struck with disbelief and awe that this is my life that I get to document. I don't mean this statement in a pompous or self-righteous way, just in a grateful and humble one. You see, I didn't have a childhood of sunflowers and gardens. I've come a long way from the poor, little girl in rural Louisiana, journaling away in five subject notebooks. There, I dreamed with my back against the foot of the bottom bunk bed that I shared with my younger brother, and my feet propped up onto the windowsill. Lanky, uncertain, and awkward, I had a whole soul's worth of curiosity and wonder-lust. And I was hungry for a connection to a life that resonnated with me.
Now, here I am. That childhood dream I had of sunflowers came true. And so did so many of the quiet, sleeping ones I never knew rested within me. Really, can this, these moments, this life, be real? Are they mine? It's hard to tell at times.
Let's be real. None of the good stuff could be appreciated, noticed, or captured if it weren't for the gunk that comes attached to it. We are so full of grumpiness, sarcasm, exhaustion, and every other hard feeling that every other family deals with. But in between all that hardness - and I like to hope that the "between" part makes up a nice, lofty, buffer zone, there's a dream being lived out in our little land.
Life is so strange. So full of hurt and fleetingness. Aching with an overflow of treausreable moments one can never truly contain, like raindrops sliding down a windowsill. Dreams of youth, the realities of mid - life, the yearnings of what never became and the absorbtion of everything real, here and now. Like these photos of our lives - this simple space where we spend our days. Of my dearest, sweet daughter. Of my ever-devoted, kind and good husband.
This one life is a beautiful one and I must always remember to savor it all.