Live Free

Family trip to North Carolina

Last week, my husband, daughter, mom, and I took a road trip to western North Carolina. From Texas, the drive takes about 18 hours. We broke the drive up into two days coming and going, stopping in Louisiana. 

What a special trip! With the leaves changing, those beautiful old mountains craddling us, and my family to explore and dream with, my heart was brimming with peace and joy. 

There is something about fall. And the gentle rolling mountains of Appalachia. If reincarnation is true, then my soul must have spent a lifetime or two somewhere in her damp forests.

We all had such a wonderful time. Byron and I got to squeeze in two morning hikes, just the two of us. Quiet, brisk, and then slow, and quiet, listening, pausing, sitting, watching, breathing. There is no better date for the two us. Mom and Beatrix got to bond while being back seat passenger buddies. They enjoyed each other so much, playing all sorts of imaginary games, and sharing plenty of cute conversations for Byron and I to eavesdrop on, which made us grin and chuckle quietly.

Sleepy dreams were nudged awake.  The three of us were pretty much sold (again) on cabin life in the woods. One day, maybe, we'll find our way back to four seasons, tall trees, and mountains. 

 

 

And as if a family road trip and the mountains weren't enough to feed the soul, I had the wonderful pleasure of spending time with Amanda! We've been reading each other's blogs for a couple of years now and I've long thought it would be so great to meet her and her sweet family in real life. The first time Byron and I drove to her house, I knew immediately which one was hers without even looking at the address because it just looked like her (and the glimpses I'd seen from her photos). Quaint, homey, and oh so lovely...

And let me tell you, Amanda went far and beyond to make us feel welcomed - all while juggling work, a visit with her grandma, and a poor, sick little one.  I'm so glad we got to meet in person. Blog land is such a peculiar venue for creating friendships. Meeting her was all at once exciting, comfortable, and awkward. But mostly...it was just awesome.

On one morning, both our families went apple picking together. It was a perfect, fall day -- rolling hills, apple trees for acres and acres, two families, little girls and big girls giggling and getting to know each other.

Now we are settled back into life in Texas though a piece of my heart stayed in Appalachia, tucked beneath the mossy patches and the damp fallen leaves in those beautiful, misty mountains. 

the beat goes on.

 

I started to write this post on Saturday morning when Byron and Bea were out having breakfast with his parents and I had a couple of hours alone to indulge by myself. During those couple of hours, I mopped and swept the floor. Yes, that's intirely typical of me. Then, my mom called and put me on speaker phone with my grandmother and I heard grandma's voice over the phone. It's been four years since the last time we spoke. Her simple one word responses to my questions were magic. A second chance. A resurrection. I thought those moments were gone forever. 

Next, I wrote a letter to Bea's birthmother and included recent photos and tidbits describing this wonderful being that connects us to each other. 

The beat goes on.

Inside my grandmother's mind exists a whole lifetime of memories...family, friends, vacations, inside jokes, scents, seasons, meals, laughter, hard work, sorrow, disappointment, reflection, youth, pets, small moments, tickle spots, coffee, phone calls...

I know bits and pieces but we can never know the whole.

In one hand I hold hers and in the other hand I hold my daughter's. She who has almost an entire lifetime ahead of her. With memories so few in comparison...What moments will her memory fill up with?

During those couple of hours alone, I was overwhelmed with deep love for my story. Which is my grandmother's story. Which is my mother's story. Which is my daughter's story and her birthmother's story. 

An invisible thread binds our hearts together. 

I thought about the suffering we have all experienced in one manner or another. And our choices to love because it's the only true path to travel. Patched, bruised, broken, healed...beauty rests in us all. 

The beat goes on. 

I spent the rest of the weekend living lightly and enjoying the blissful fall weather that graced our parts just in time for my birthday. I always think to myself that one of the greatest gifts my mother has bestowed upon me was birthing me on October 6. Hardly a year goes by without the much anticipated and welcomed cool front that manages to blow through just in time...

It was a beautiful weekend. My in-laws had a sleep over with Bea at their hotel room so Byron and I got to have a date night AND a next morning sleep in! I finally felt inspired to do some yard work and gardening. We are still what I would consider a hardscrabble mini-homestead, but we are trying nonetheless. 

This morning, Bea and I scurried out the door as fast as we could go to enjoy every second of the brisk weather. We ended up walking down to the river and spending the entire morning at our little small town swimming hole.

We did nothing. Tossed pebbles into the water. Gathered leaves and wildflowers. Listened to the sounds. She climbed up and down the limestone bank. Stripped herself of her layers. Dipped her toes and her hands.

Created a scoop from a piece of litter. Fed her stick pony. Watered her stick pony. I sat and watched and regretted not having a book. I passed my time by taking plenty of pictures. And I also reminded myself to do nothing. To just be in the moment. With her. She played and played for hours with nothing but the elements.

On our way home we treked through a patch of woods that run parallel with the hike and bike trail. She perched herself atop a boulder and looked down upon her surroundings.

She delighted in carrying pieces of litter to the trash can in the distance all by herself. She loves little doses of independence which require her to venture off all by herself. It was a perfect little morning void of conflicts and struggles. It was just the two of us at peace and together. I hope when I'm my grandmother's age, this morning exists somewhere in my memory. 

And that was my 36th birthday weekend wrap up!! 

baby steps

"Every quiet step is thunder to beetle life underfoot, a tug of impalpable thread on the web pulling mate to mate and predator to prey, a beginning or an end. Every choice is a world made new for the chosen." Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer. 

I just finished this book last night. It was a summer re-read that I took in slowly and deliciously. The first time I read it was the summer of 2005. Byron and I had just completed a road trip move from Annapolis, Maryland to Austin, Texas. We didn't quite know how to process the Texas heat (even though we both grew up in the Deep South). We were living in the saddest, darkest, cave-like apartment in a complex on a major street in town. It was surrounded by gas stations and pawn shops and pay-day loan centers. I remember my heart feeling so heavy with regret for the life we left behind...a land full of summertime abundance of echniacea, black-eyed susans, yarrow, the brackish waters of the Chesapeake Bay, sweet colonial row houses, window boxes overflowing with petunias and pansies, and brick-paved streets.

What I remember most as being the highlight of my summer was Prodigal Summer and the apartment complex pool. Those two saved my sanity that summer. 

That was 8 years ago. Things - life - improved. The memory has a way of dulling our past. For better or worse. We adapted to our new life and even discovered endearing qualities to love about our new home. 

Fast forward to the present.

The grasses in the lot across the street from our house are seeding. Their unassuming whispy seed heads are just magical to me - especially in the morning light. I don't know enough about grasses to determine if these are native and beneficial or invasive and threatening. Whatever they are, they inspired me to dust off my camera, which has sat on my desk all summer, to try to capture their brave attempt at procreating during the most brutally hot and dry time of the year.    

Remember my post from a few weeks back? About how tired I was of trying to get it all right? I don't know what is going on with me? Maybe my whole being is leaning forward, forging through some sort of growth spurt. I can't really put it into words but my heart feels so tender and raw these days. Like I'm starting a brand new journey that I know nothing about. In order to survive, I must trim the fat of everything that leaves me scattered and distracted. Which means, I can't seem to surround myself with enough unconditional love and simple, yet meaningful interactions. 

A couple of weeks ago, I did something I've wanted to do for a really long time. I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm off. I know it sounds trivial... you know, getting off of Facebook. But it was an area of my life which did not serve me. Yes, on a superficial level, I love that I was able to keep in touch with friends near and far through quick and easy messages or updates. But for a while now, I've felt completely drained by the habit of being in contact so frequently with so many. And if I didn't respond quick enough or articulately enough, guilt and paranoia set in over how I was perceived by others (selfish, unappreciative, lazy, not witty enough -- nothing positive). Not to mention the constant bombardment of links to articles and studies to read. All of which left me so distracted, and at times, hardly in touch with myself and my own intution. 

So now, I am getting use to NOT KNOWING what the many people that I love and treasure are doing on a daily basis. I'm getting use to just wondering how they are ~ imagining what their own daily experiences may be like. And it feels good. Somehow, a lot more intimate and sincere. As if I am giving my heart a real opportunity to conciously think good thoughts about them. Instead of instantly knowing.  Sometimes I think what my spirit truly needs is an open and free opportunity to just wonder and not to know, to not seek the answer.   

I hope my disconnect eventually translates into more good ole fashion emails sent to friends. And who knows, I don't want to get too ambitious too quickly, but wow, wouldn't it be nice to get into a habit of writing an honest to goodness letter from time to time. Once upon a time, I use to love to write letters. As a child, my best friend and I would write letters to each in the summertime (even though we only lived 5 minutes away from each other). In college I'd write letters to my mom and grandma often and they did the same to me. One of my most treasured possessions is a rubbermaid storage container full of handwritten mementos from my past. 

So these days, I just find myself so desperate for alone time. Not from my family, per se, but from the outside world and things that don't feel me up. And yes, I know this blog is an outlet to the outside world, but it's different from the instant, constant noise of social media and iPhones. Blog posts can't happen unless I make an intentional effort to sit at my desk, put my fingers to the keyboard and write. And writing (even in my "dear diary" sort of way) always helps to restore some balance to my days. 

There you have it. Growing is all about taking baby steps, right? 

xo,

Nichole

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. 

Tell me my story.

 

Beatrix has been asking a bunch for Byron and I to retell her birth/adoption story. "Tell me again my story, Mama." It's sweet. Tonight, she asked me to tell it because she says, "yesterday, Daddy forgot some parts." Well not really, we explain. He just told the story from his perspective. We all have different perspectives. 

Regardless, she LOVES hearing it. The part where I answer the phone on the day she was born. "A healthy, beautiful baby girl is waiting for you," said the social worker. The part where we get our neighbors to watch Sandy, our dog. The part where we finally all come together in the hospital nursery. The three of us, forever from that moment on. The way we became a family. In her mind, at this point in her life, it's such a happy ending. She finds us. We find her. And we all fall in love and live happily ever after. 

I expect that one day, her perspective will evolve. The black and white story of how we became a family will be seen in it's truer shades of gray. Our simple love story will include the bittersweet curves and bumps of it all - of love and loss. If and when that time of contemplation arrives, we hope she always feels it deep in the center of her heart, how much her daddy and I have adored being her mama and daddy and how natural it has always felt to us. This family. Curating our days to be full of love and beauty and freedom and exploration so that when she is grown up and travels beyond this safe, cozy nest of a home, she'll intuitively know the direction in which to seek - the one in which her life if full of meaning and joy.

I hope that no matter the journey we travel, no matter the complexities of love and family, she'll always, always know that here with us, she'll always belongs. We are a tribe. Unconditionally. And there's no reversing that. We can't be undone. 

Oh, this growing up stuff is big and beautiful and tender and sweet. 

 

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined."   --Henry David Thoreau

 

day 1 of 2013

 

We all woke up grumpy. Can you believe? That's not a nice way to start the new year. We figured the best way to restart the day was to ditch the to-do list (yes, even on New Year Day, we had one), and go outside. 

It was a blustery, cold, morning. We saw a flock of bluebirds, which was terribly beautiful. By the end of our walk, we all felt better and (mostly) ready to take on 2013. 

Time is the greatest gift. I'm here. We are here. All together.

I often wonder what it is I will remember about my life when I'm older.

I'm so afraid I will remember very little. Which is probably why I'm the crazy lady always snapping photos. Believe it or not, I want to slow down in that department, at least just a little bit. I want to try harder this year to just live in the moments, without the need to prove they happened.  

 

a drive out to hill country

A couple of weekends ago, we took a drive out to the hill country. We got a late start, so by the time we made some distance west, the afternoon sun was upon us. The landscape was glorious and literally glowed in an autumn halo of gold. The heavenly hues inspired Byron and I to let ourselves daydream about buying a bit o'land out there and creating our own little homestead - one day.

Living quietly on the prairie with the big Texas sky above us. There's an unexpected beauty out there that I never, ever dreamed of (or knew existed) as a child. God's country, they say...

However, neither one of us is sure that we would want to leave our sweet little town and our cozy house for that dream, though. Which says a lot about our contentedness right now, I think. We may not have acres of rolling hills, but we do live a pretty sweet existence right in the middle of town - white picket fence, swimming holes, chicken, gardens, and all.  

We stopped off at one of my favorite spots on earth. We walked around the grounds and for the short time we were there, we pretended it was our own slice of pastoral heaven. Beatrix and I got super excited at the sight of a baby calf named Daisy. Turns out, we met her mama, Buttercup, a year and half before when she was just born, as well. Cows sure do grow up fast. While I was moseying about the property, checking out the gardens and the kitchen, Byron and Beatrix ended up back near Daisy.

Byron said that Beatrix called her name and Daisy came running up to Beatrix. She rubbed and rubbed her little head and Daisy licked Beatrix's hands and fingers. Daisy stumped her back hoof in a playful manner and wagged her tail like a puppy. The two played with each other for ten minutes or so.

When it was time to leave, we began to walk around her fenced area to return to our car.  Along the way, Beatrix would look back at Daisy and Daisy would then come running up to her looking to play and nudge Beatrix again.

It was so adorable. We didn't want to leave her. What a sweet, sweet calf she was. 

That Stubborn Thing



I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting. -- President Barack Obama

Over the last couple of months, which have perhaps, culminated from the last couple of years or the last decade and more that we've been together, we've been having these conversations with each other -- Byron and I. Not always particularly easy conversations, but necessary if we are to grow together in the ways we've always imaganined. The conversations have to do with purpose, service and duty. With striving to be more giving and forgiving to each other, to our daughter, and to the world at large. With contemplating the larger meaning beyond what serves our little family in this place and time. Stretching ourselves beyond our confort zones and knowing that the tight feeling of being stretched is probably a very necessary one if we are to evolve. Big wonderings. Big ambitions. There are pieces of us that crave to do big things. Big. Great. Things. 

We know this about ourselves: We are blessed and we are earnest. We are hardworking, honest and truthful, mostly. We are bountiful in flaws and mistakes. We try our best to live by the mantra of doing onto others as we have them do onto us. It's simple, but it's hard. And neither one of us wants to merely sit back and watch the wheels go around and around. In some manner, we want our hands to contribute to the momentum. We are ripe to give back and to make our days count.

The role of citizen in our democracy does not end with your vote. America's never been about what can be done for us. It's about what can be done by us together through the hard and frustrating, but necessary work of self-government. That's the principle we were founded on. -- President Barack Obama

We can do this important work in countless small ways each and every day. I can model my enthusiams for a seed sprouting to my young daughter. I can make sure that I always offer a warm smile to the cashier at the grocery store. I can wash and reuse my ziplock bags. I can vow to eat out less and instead nurture my family with the comfort of a home-cooked meal. I can delight in the sounds and scents of autumen. Leaves crunching below my feet coupled with the smokey, spicey aromas of nature's last hurrah before winter. All day, each day, we make little choices that have the power to stack one on top of the other. I want my stack high full of meaningful, helpful, choices so that when my daughter becomes old enough to go forth on her own, her foundation will be so strong and so certain. That etched in her bones and whispered into her soul she'll know decency, acceptance, tolerance, and hardwork. I can only hope that these virtues guide her in her decisions and her choices so that she too has the great opportunity to discover her own way to contribute to this great, big beautiful world.

Afterall, I'm convinced that there's a Miss Rumphius in all of us.  

"That is all very well, little Alice," said her grandfather, "but there is a third thing you must do." 

"What is that?" asked Alice.

"You must do something to make the world more beautiful," said her grandfather. 

 

 

 

four seasons since

On the eve of autumn a year ago, we did this. What a year it has been of building a home, and growing up our family. Four seasons have come and gone and we've travelled all the way around the sun since then. 

In the late evenings just as Beatrix nods off to sleep and the house has it's first chance of the day to fall quiet, Byron and I can both be found at rest, listening to the stillness. We don't always speak of it, but I know we both sense the future in our bones, and amongst these walls. That one day, our days will be filled with this sort of quietness. Day in and day out. Season after season.

Perhaps I'll be fortunate enough to still be dancing with the evening light as it peers through our living room leaving only blurry and soft shadows. And perhaps my thoughts will sway between the two worlds of past and present. Weaving in and out, amidst the whirling, twirling moments of the future's past and the steady, contemplative ones of the future's present. Who knows? None of us do.   

Just maybe, this first year in our home leads to many more, even decades, I can only dream of. In our little house with big windows, in a small Texas town, who would of thought this is where all that living just might happen? 

 

Just around the corner.

I admit that I lose my gusto to explore during the hot, dry, summer months. 

We still spend lots of time outside in our own backyard or at the pool during this time, but we tend to slack off from exploring much beyond the small, safe, radius that surrounds our home. 

It feels so good to venture out again. Out of our backyard. Out of our immediate neighborhood. These photos are from a few mornings ago at Berry Springs, a nature preserve a couple of miles from us. After a rainy weekend, the clouds had not quite disappeared. It was nice to have one more morning of subdued light. The spring was overflowing and grasshoppers were dancing about. We saw a red-tailed hawk and so many bees and butterflies. Bea stopped along the trail for what seemed like every single roly poly and snail. And of course, she (and I) love to visit with Pancho and Amigo, the two resident donkeys. 

My juices are flowing again. I'm swooning about the smells of autumn: the first gumbo, apples cooking, chicken roasting, wood burning, quiet evenings, windows open. It's all just around the corner.