Beginning Again

It's always hard to start writing again, especially publicly. I've been jotting things down on paper for my own eyes (Mad Libs before bed, anyone?), but how do I step back into this space? I keep asking myself, "What's so hard about slapping up a recent picture and a few words?" I've thought about this a lot as our days return to routine and ordinary (except now we live at the beach! that will never be ordinary!), and I feel the pull to write again. I have a list of things I'd like to tell you and everywhere I look there are pictures just waiting to be translated through my camera lens, so it isn't the lack of material at all.

It's more this, I think...

Our little family has changed. The past two months have shaken us up and poured us out. We're essentially who we were before, but also a little mixed up and a bit different. And the girl who wrote to you on a Wednesday in June, isn't the same one sitting in front of the computer today. It feels strange to have "left out" the story of the past two months, but I'll never write here again unless I just sit down and give you what I've got today.

This is my portulaca. Nothing makes my heart fill up more than to walk down our front steps and see its bright flowers opening their little faces to the hot sun. It's a plant I remember from my childhood, growing in pots and then volunteering itself straight up out of the rocky garden path off my parents' porch. It's tough and it's JOYful, even in it's delicateness. We're renting this house and repurposing this broken planter that was left behind by the last family. I was ready to toss the whole thing, but my mom thought parts of it were still interesting and useful. She was right! When my dad cleared the large broken sides away, I was left with a tall cylindrical planter and a cute (if a bit rough around the edges) footed pedestal for it to stand on.

My mom saved it from my decluttering tendencies, my dad cleared away the broken pieces, and I planted it with flowers from my childhood. I love its story, grounding me in my past and my present.